Chapter 18
I ’d been on the brink of coming when Sinclair lifted himself off the bed.
In response, my entire body screamed silently.
Had I whimpered in disappointment or had it shown on my face, even underneath the mask?
Regardless, he knew.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Did you think your punishment was going to feel good , Annalise?”
Oh, but it had.
It still did—but in a different way.
But I knew better than to say a thing.
I’d known this man long enough to understand that anything I said could and would be used against me in his private court.
He made a sound, but I couldn’t tell if it was a hoarse chuckle or if he was clearing his throat to get my attention.
As I lay there, I tried my best to ensure my face was as neutral as possible.
Maybe if he didn’t know I was enjoying it, he’d bring me to satisfaction sooner rather than later.
Once more, he began stroking the feather over my skin—and as much as my back wanted to arch up in response, I forced myself to remain on the bed.
Although there wasn’t much play to be had because of the straps restraining my arms and legs, I could still move somewhat.
As I allowed my limbs to melt into the bed, I admitted to myself that even this position contributed to my feelings of desire.
I didn’t think I would tell that to Sinclair, but there was something about being unable to respond like I normally would…
and of being helpless to do anything that made me more desirous.
And something about it felt dirty…
which also fueled my need.
I wondered if he already knew this.
The feather was again followed by the ice and I had to bite my lip when he slurped up the melted water.
But he didn’t go back to the feather again.
This time he took another ice cube and slid it between my legs and all I wanted to do was close them so he couldn’t continue tormenting me with the cold.
But I couldn’t.
And, just as I grew used to it, he stopped.
Soon, his body took up residence between my legs again and he warmed everything up with his tongue, no doubt trying to bring me close to climax.
This time, though, I fought against arousal, not wanting him to win this game.
I kept telling myself in my head that I didn’t enjoy how it felt, and I tried to think of anything I could to keep my brain off the delicious sensations he was creating.
But when I reminded myself that he was my enemy, that we shouldn’t even be here doing this…
my body remembered that, oh, yes, it really loved his tongue.
What should have made me angry, upset, and able to fight him had the exact opposite effect.
And there was apparently no way I could hide it—because he stopped giving my clit the attention it wanted shortly after.
For hours, he tortured me this way.
He’d take the feather to my body; then he’d play with a couple of ice cubes or pour more champagne into my navel.
At one point, he actually poured a line of it from my collarbone down to my pussy, letting it drip between my legs, and he’d lapped it all up, starting at the hollow in my neck.
One moment, he’d have me panting, close to the brink, and then he’d literally cool me off with ice.
He even put a cube in my mouth one time.
Finally, I was exhausted—and, if he’d asked at that point, I would have told him he’d won.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized this had truly been punishment.
He’d brought me to the edge and back so many times, I lost count—and, rather than feeling fulfilled and satisfied, I felt so fatigued, I couldn’t even remain frustrated.
As if he could hear my brain talking out loud, he kissed me, and I tasted the champagne on his tongue.
“Do you want me to make you come?”
I couldn’t lie.
“More than anything.”
“Do you promise to stop disobeying me?” I was silent, knowing what he wanted to hear—but mustering up the anger below the surface despite the weariness that weighed me down, I resolved not to give him that satisfaction and clenched my teeth together.
But his index finger slid between my legs where he lightly tickled my clit, just enough to remind me that I truly was at his mercy.
“Yes.”
His voice was low, almost a growl, when he muttered, “I have to admit, though, I think I like you naughty.”
As he snaked his tongue back down my body, I doubted I’d even be able to orgasm, though, because I was so exhausted, I didn’t even feel like I could lift my head.
“The things I could do to you,” he said, his mouth drawing in my nipple as if it were a delicate bit of chocolate.
He circled it with his tongue, reminiscent of the feather.
My body tingled all over, letting me know that maybe, just maybe I had it in me.
Still, I was like a lump of jelly melting into the sheets.
Soon, he was licking his way down my torso and I offhandedly wondered if he could still taste the champagne on my skin.
As he lowered himself between my spread legs, he didn’t waste time giving my clit the attention it had been begging for all night.
At first, it all felt numb, like it had been teased too much and refused to respond.
But then it was as if it woke up.
It started with a little tingle, and my brain focused on that area as if it was all that existed.
It wasn’t long before he slid a finger inside me, something he hadn’t done before, causing an entirely new sensation, dividing my attention.
But as his tongue continued caressing my clit, my body tensed up again, willing to expend the last of its energy to take me to that place on a cloud where only extreme bliss existed.
My breathing deepened as I had to take in more air, and Sinclair continued delivering that delicious sensation to the one area my body craved.
And finally my brain let go, an explosion of fireworks in my head causing me to lose all control.
Sinclair didn’t let up, continuing to deliver stroke after stroke, each touch causing another shower of pleasure to explode in my brain.
When he stopped, I felt like I was going to die—or, at the very least, sleep until Monday morning.
I could barely feel him as he moved up the bed, grabbing a condom off the nightstand.
I heard him tear the packet and imagined him sliding it over his rigid, thick cock.
And, although I was overfatigued, I ached to feel him inside me.
“Would you take off my mask, Cory?”
Instead of answering, the warmth of his hands on my head gave me his response.
Soon, I could see him in my line of vision, and I marveled at how bright the light seemed…
and how beautiful he looked.
This man wasn’t just the man I loved; he was the ideal, perfect for me.
And, as he slid inside me, fitting like we were made for each other, I knew I would never love anyone else like I loved him right now.
When I woke up the next morning, I felt refreshed and oh, so happy.
And starving to death.
After making love face to face the night before, Sinclair had hopped out of bed and put on a robe, leaving the room for a few minutes.
When he returned, I’d been asleep but woke at the sound of the door—and the smell of Indian food.
I’d never eaten it before, but I was too tired to try.
Soon, I fell back asleep, even though Sinclair had gone to a lot of trouble to set up a table and chairs, complete with a lovely linen tablecloth and a single red rose in a simple vase.
But when I awoke, I was in Sinclair’s bed, so I knew he must have carried me here—and I was happy he had, even though I had no memory of it.
Although the ultimate outcome of last night’s “punishment” session had been amazing, it had also been quite trying, and I didn’t want to think about it.
Sitting up in bed, I stretched my arms and back.
Sinclair was probably already working out, something he did even on the weekends.
Saturdays were my day to do all the things I didn’t have time for during the week.
Like reading the last journal—and I was dying to do it.
As I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, I realized I was sore.
It was mostly in my arm and leg muscles but even a little bit in my pussy, making me think last night had been too much of a good thing…
bordering on punishment territory for sure.
But the rose in the vase was now on the nightstand next to my side of the bed, and I smiled.
It was such a simple gesture, but it told me so much.
He really did care for me.
I was afraid, though, that my feelings for him had grown out of control, like the weeds in the flowerbeds outside would do if Henry didn’t diligently tend to them.
And I really did equate my emotions to that very concept, because I was falling in love with the wrong man.
Although I didn’t have a “right” man in my life to choose instead, Sinclair was certainly not the person my father would want to walk me down the aisle toward with the intent of giving me away.
Oh, God, I hoped my father would be able to do just that one day.
Some days he could walk well while others found him bound to a chair and using a walker.
In fact, over the past year, he’d had to use that walker more and more.
Which was why I wanted him going to that appointment in October.
It offered hope when there was little of it available.
As I stood, I looked around for my clothes and couldn’t find them anywhere.
Maybe they were still in the other room.
So I took a t-shirt out of Sinclair’s dresser and slipped it on—and then I decided to head to my room to shower without locating my clothing.
And I wanted to take the rose with me.
I glanced at his bedside clock and realized I only had about a half an hour before breakfast—and I could hardly wait to see Sinclair, so I moved quickly, even while feeling tired and sore…
because I was fueled with the buoyancy of love.
When I headed down to breakfast, Sinclair was already there—but he wasn’t eating.
Instead, he was at the stove.
Cooking.
“There she is,” he said, using a long metal spatula to fold over one side of an omelet on the big flat grill next to the stove.
“Ooh…I’m impressed.” I made a beeline for the coffee pot, not far from him.
“Do you like Denver omelets?”
“I have no idea.” What I more than liked—and what I really wanted to do—was approach him and wrap my arms around him, but that would have been breaking our unwritten rules.
Although Edna was gone for the weekend, there was always a chance that Greg or his wife could appear at any moment.
I doubted that would happen, but I did know I’d be in trouble if I broke a rule, in the contract or not—and, after last night’s punishment, I didn’t know if I’d have the energy to do it again so soon.
“Then that’s breakfast—with toast and strawberries. And we’ll have leftover Indian for lunch.”
“Sounds great. What can I do to help?”
While I buttered the whole wheat toast, Sinclair finished up the second omelet, and it wasn’t long before we were sitting at the table.
I couldn’t help but look at him smiling, hoping I wasn’t giving anything away.
This time I wasn’t worried about someone else figuring me out.
Instead, I wondered if Sinclair had determined how I really felt about him now.
Because I had no idea if the feeling was mutual.
I wanted to believe it, thinking the rose was a symbol of words he couldn’t say, but there was always that smidgen of doubt.
What if Sinclair had an ulterior motive, a plan I wasn’t privy to for obvious reasons?
What if his whole motivation had been nothing more than a ruse to make me fall for him?
And, once I was head over heels, I’d be even easier to manipulate.
And I wondered if that was already happening.
When I’d first arrived, Sinclair had offered to slash my service time in half if I slept with him—and I’d refused.
Now he got to sleep with me and have me working for him for the entire decade we’d agreed to.
As much as I didn’t want to believe he would do that, I knew it was a possibility.
But if that was his plan, he hadn’t revealed a bit of it yet.
I would observe—but there was no way I could keep my heart out of any of it.
I’d fallen hard and I didn’t see a way to stop that.
No, not true. I knew there were a couple of ways I could fall out of love with this man.
The first would be to find out that he was, in fact, only using me…
that he didn’t care for me at all, that he wasn’t irresistibly drawn to me as he’d indicated.
The second would be to neglect my father who needed help.
There was a third way—lying and deceiving—but I hadn’t thought of that yet.
Eager to fill my belly, I cut off a corner of the omelet he’d made me, putting it in my mouth and chewing.
I tasted cheese first, followed by sautéed bell pepper and onion and bits of ham.
“You said this is a Denver omelet?”
“Yep. Sometimes it’s made without cheese, but I had a hell of an appetite this morning—and I imagine you did too.”
Did I ever.
I probably could have eaten a dozen eggs, I was so hungry.
“It’s good—but I expected something fancier.”
Sinclair laughed.
“Does Denver feel fancy to you?”
Smiling, I shook my head—but I wasn’t about to tell him that Denver often felt foreign to me.
I had yet to experience the whole city, only being exposed in bits and pieces.
Here in the mansion—and even in our walks through the neighborhood, I was sheltered from much of the real urban experience.
So I carefully answered his question.
“Not really—but I guess I expected more. I think my dad accidentally made a Denver omelet once or twice.”
“So you’re not impressed.”
Shaking my head, I swallowed another bite.
“I didn’t say that!”
Nodding, Sinclair looked up from his plate, already half empty.
“Have you ever been to the ballet?”
His question threw me completely off until I realized it might simply be a response to my fancy comment moments ago.
“No,” I admitted. I’d only seen snippets of ballet—on television and YouTube—but it wasn’t like I’d sought it out.
“Would you like to?”
My answer was a knee-jerk response but completely honest. “Of course, I would. At least once.”
“I’m glad you said yes because I need a date a week from Friday.”
Wait.
Was I understanding this right?
He wanted me to be his date—publicly?
Swallowing, I didn’t say another word…
because surely I had misunderstood.
But he kept talking, probably unaware that I wasn’t keeping up.
“I’ll have my tailor over on Monday so he can fit you with something appropriate.”
Now my brain kicked in—and I had so many questions.
“None of my dresses would work?”
“They might—but I want you to look like a million bucks.”
“Where will it be? Should I study anything beforehand? What should I know about it before—”
His smile covered his face as he interrupted me.
“I know you’re excited, Lise—but maybe you should manage your expectations.”
“What do you mean?”
“The entire Whittier family will be there…and I suspect you’ll be even less thrilled than I’ll be.”
It felt like a cold, hard slap.
The entire Whittier family?
I didn’t know what exactly that meant or how many people his phrase encompassed…
but I imagined that included his father, the man who’d ruined my family’s entire life.
If exposed to that man, would I be able to bite my tongue?
Or would I be able to use that opportunity to exact the perfect revenge?
As my brain continued to process, I focused on the food I could no longer taste.
Sinclair, however, kept talking, not realizing my conundrum.
“But I hope you’ll like it. Edna’s told me more than once that the ballet was my mother’s favorite thing to do outside the house—other than tennis. She didn’t go to the movies or music concerts and she apparently wasn’t a fan of opera…but she went to every single ballet that came through Denver—with or without dear old dad.”
There was no way I could miss the sarcasm as he spoke about his father…
which led me to believe that maybe Sinclair and I weren’t so different.
Maybe we both despised his father.
But, of course, it was far more complicated than that.