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With my hair worn up and the absence of a robe today, I feel exposed as I walk through the dark corridor and enter the foyer of Q’s wing. I wonder if this is a clever ploy to put me at a disadvantage. I snort beneath my breath.
Was I ever at an advantage?
I pause between the sweeping stairs, same as I did yesterday.
“Right staircase. Turn left at the top.”
That voice haunted my dreams last night. It made me do things that drew emotions so strong, I woke up covered in sweat and shame. Which led to worse dreams. About Clayton. About Ridge. My Father. Ma. Death. Destruction.
My mind and body are far from rested as I climb the stairs. But thoughts of respite evaporate from my mind, when halfway up the stairs a camera swings into view.
It’s suspended on a pulley, the lens trained on me.
Without the robe I know it can pick up every inch of my exposed skin. The combination of cool air and blatant focus ripens my sensitive nipples. They peak to attention beneath the lace and with each moment, chafe with a shamefully delicious friction that makes me bite the inside of my lip.
I’ve barely made it to the top of the stairs and I’m aroused. My fingers curl around the wooden bannister to steady myself.
“Pick up the pace, firecracker.”
I’m not sure how I feel about that nickname. On the one hand, it has a hint of take-no-prisoners that appeals to me, but on the other, I can’t help but think he’s mocking me, toying with me the way a cat toys with a mouse.
I reach the top and turn left. Sunlight pours through tall cathedral-like windows on either side of me. I want to stop and look through them, get my bearings. But I know he won’t like that. I content myself with a quick peek out the right window, but all I see is water. Frustration trickles into the cocktail mix of emotions. And then I arrive in front of another set of doors, and two emotions reign supreme.
Trepidation.
Excitement.
I enter. Unlike the one we used last night, this room has no windows. But the decor is equally bold and masculine, stripes of navy and ochre dominating the large space. Again, the focal point is the bed, with cameras trained around the four posts bracing its king-size majesty.
There’s no seat at the end of the waist-high bed, only the blindfold and the pair of gold-colored ropes.
He’s going to tie me up again.
The thought should fill me with strong misgivings. Perhaps even a flat refusal. But even though I know he’s watching, listening, I don’t speak.
I walk to the middle of the room and rest my hands on the bed.
“Good afternoon, Lucky.”
I shiver at the formal greeting. We both know his civility is a guise. But guise or not, now that I know the savagely demanding male attached to it, that voice is extremely effective in setting my pulse alight. “Hi.”
“The blindfold, please. Then place your hands back on the bed.”
I pick it up with shaky fingers and secure it around my head. The clasps click into place and my world turns black.
He doesn’t mess around this time. I hear him enter almost immediately. The whine of the camera follows, drawing closer with each passing second. The moment the door snicks shut, strong, shackling arms imprison me.
My breath leaves my lungs when his hot, hard body imprints against mine. He’s naked, and the erection he’s sporting is monumental against my back, the hands that find my breasts, rough and demanding.
“Missed these.” He teases urgent thumbs over the stiff lace-covered peaks, then catches them between his fingers and squeezes. The continuous tug at my nipples sends arrows of lust straight between my legs. In under a minute, liquid heat floods me. It scents the air and he growls deep in his throat.
One hand leaves my breast, pulls up the slip and slides into my panties. “Missed this beautiful pussy more. So fucking wet.” His finger finds my clit, and mercilessly flicks.
I hear the camera track his movement. The shame the mechanical sound induces is ever-present, but the blanket of arousal is growing thicker. My moan, when he slips one finger inside me, is raw and unguarded.
“Are you sore?” he demands, his voice a charged vibration above me. “Don’t lie.”
“Yes, I am.”