Page 24 of Snow Bound (Odyssey #1)

T he days passed in a blur of sex, sleep and laughter.

He dragged her into the living room after lunch one day and dug out a deck of cards, telling her they were going to play poker for orgasms. He’d graciously explained the rules of five-card draw, and allowed a few practice hands, “until you get the rules straight”.

His smug smile was so adorable, she almost hated to wipe it off his face.

Almost.

“You owe me an awful lot of orgasms, Sir ,” she’d remarked an hour later, piling up the red poker chips they were using to keep score.

He’d sent her a wide, wicked grin, declared that he always paid his debts, and proceeded to make good on every single chip. He didn’t stop until she was limp with exhaustion, soaked with sweat, and begging for a reprieve.

Then he fucked her limp, exhausted body, came all over her tits, and insisted she leave it there until her nightly shower—where he fucked her again.

She’d slept really well that night. She was sleeping well every night, actually, and it was no wonder. The man couldn’t seem to get enough of her. And she liked it.

He’d called a friend in Chicago and had his toy bag overnighted.

She didn’t look inside it—he made it clear it was off-limits, and there were some things she wasn’t willing to risk—but every night some new instrument of torture came out of it.

She was convinced it was bottomless, like Mary Poppins ’ carpetbag, only much kinkier.

When she’d told him so, he’d laughed until tears ran down his face, and made her sing “ A Spoonful of Sugar ” while he flogged her.

They did a scene almost every day, though they varied in intensity and degree of kink.

Sometimes he hauled out the ropes and floggers and worked her over until they were both sweaty and limp, and other times he just held her down while he fucked her brains out, grunting out the dirty talk she loved so much.

They did almost everything on her Yes list and several things on the Maybe .

She discovered she did like face slapping, thank you very much, and shifted “clamped labia” firmly to the No side of the list. She’d been sore for two days after that, flinching whenever he touched her, so he’d had her masturbate for him while he jerked off, and that had been unexpectedly hot.

When they weren’t fucking or playing, Grant spent time working on his mother’s chore list. He’d tried to enlist her as an assistant, but she’d safeworded that quicker than Henry could snatch a slice of pizza.

She read, did yoga, and took the dog for walks when the weather permitted.

She finished the cross-stitch sampler for Lola and started another, and dug through the cookbooks in the kitchen for new recipe ideas.

She spoke to Lola nearly every day, her friend wanting constant updates not only to assure herself of Anna’s safety, but also to live vicariously through the dirty details.

“How’s the D /s going?” Lola asked one day.

“Not bad.” Anna was rolling out dough for a pie, her phone on speaker. “ It feels pretty natural, actually.”

“Interesting. How much control has he taken there?”

“It’s really just the naked thing, which I thought would feel weird—and did, at first. But I hardly notice it anymore.”

“If you don’t notice being naked, he’s doing something wrong,” Lola drawled.

Anna laughed and resumed rolling. “ I just mean it doesn’t feel weird anymore. It doesn’t feel at all like I expected, actually.”

“How did you expect it to feel?”

“Honestly? Oppressive .”

“And it doesn’t?”

“Not at all. It feels...sexy,” Anna decided. “ A little decadent. Hedonistic . He touches me all the time.”

“Well, I hope so.”

“No, I mean all the time .” Anna applied the rolling pin to her dough again.

“ Not just when he wants to fuck, or play. He’s always stroking my hair, or my waist, or my breast. Sometimes he just palms my pussy and it’s not even sexual.

It’s like...like he’s just saying hello to it, or reminding both of us that he can touch it any time he wants. ”

“Aw, that’s sweet.”

“I don’t know about sweet, but I like it,” Anna confessed.

“Then why are you all twisted up in your underwear about it?”

Anna frowned at her rolling pin. “ This was just supposed to be a vacation thing. I wasn’t supposed to like him.”

“Why not?” Lola asked.

“Because none of this is real.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“We’re in a bubble here, right?” Anna explained. “ What happens when we get back to the real world?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to happen?”

Anna sighed. “ I have no idea.”

“Probably you should figure that out.”

“Gee, what a novel idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Or,” Lola continued, ignoring the sarcasm, “you could try to stop overthinking everything, relax, and enjoy the great sex—it is great sex, right?”

Anna thought of the night before when he’d tied her to the coffee table, put a plug in her ass, and beat her with a flogger before fucking her brains out—without removing the plug. “ It’s great sex.”

“For which—if I was a lesser woman— I would hate you.”

“And I wouldn’t blame you,” Anna said soberly.

“Just enjoy it, Anna ,” Lola urged. “ For once don’t wonder what’s next, or what could go wrong,” Lola said. “ Just enjoy it, okay?”

“Not exactly my strong suit.” Anna sighed. “ I am trying, Lo . It’s just hard.”

“I know, honey.”

Anna glanced at the clock on the stove. “ Listen , I have to go. I have to get this pie in the oven, then I want to call the girls again. Today’s their birthday.”

“Again?”

“I tried to reach them this morning, but I had to leave a message.”

“Okay, honey.” Lola’s voice had softened with sympathy. “ Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” Anna paused. “ Lola ?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for listening.”

“Anytime, babe. Anytime .”

She disconnected the call, then went back to the pie crust, singing along with the music playing on her phone.

When she slid the pie into the oven and set the timer, she knelt down to feed Henry , who’d wandered over from his customary spot at the end of the counter, the last bit of dough.

“ Thanks for keeping me company, handsome,” she told him solemnly, then laughed when he licked her face.

She cleaned the counters and loaded her dishes into the dishwasher, then pulled up her mother’s number.

Listening to the rings, she paced into the dining room, then the living room.

When it clicked over to voicemail, her mother’s polished voice inviting her to leave a message, she closed her eyes and leaned her forehead on the fireplace mantle.

She waited for the beep, then forced some joy into her voice.

“ Hey , Mom . It’s Anna . I’m just calling to wish the girls a happy birthday again.

I was hoping to talk to them, but I guess you’re busy.

Give them a hug from me, okay? And tell them I hope they’re having an amazing day, and I’ll send their gifts once I get back to Chicago .

Love you. And …that’s it, I guess. Bye . ”

She fumbled to disconnect the call, then just stood there, forehead pressed against the rough wood, and tried not to cry.

When she heard footsteps on the stairs she took a hasty step back. She swiped at her cheeks, relieved to find them dry, and worked up a smile for Grant .

“Something smells good,” he said, bending down to give Henry a scrubbing pat. Then he looked up, and his brows drew together.

“I’ve got chicken and dumplings in the crockpot,” she said cheerfully. “ And cherry pie for desert.”

“That’s nice,” he said, still frowning. “ But why are you wearing an apron?”

She glanced down, then back up. She’d been so focused on her phone call she’d completely forgot. “ Oh , shit.”

One eyebrow went up. “ Oh , shit. Go put it away, then come back.”

Shit, shit, shit. Eyes down, Anna turned and walked toward the kitchen, feeling his eyes burning into her back the whole way. She hung the apron on its hook by the door—she’d walked right past it, for God’s sake!—then turned to walk back to the living room.

Dismay flooded in when she saw him sitting in the chair by the fireplace, feet braced on the floor.

His eyes were cool, his face impassive. “ Over my knee.”

She didn’t like this Grant . She was used to fun, playtime Grant and sweet, aftercare Grant —she barely recognized him like this. Detached and aloof, uncaring, and for the first time in nearly two weeks, she felt truly cold.

Moving carefully, she draped herself over his thighs. She felt none of the anticipation, the excitement she normally felt in this position, her belly instead filled with dread, heavy and nauseating. When his broad palm landed on her bare bottom, she couldn’t control a flinch.

“You’re getting ten,” he said in a voice like granite. “ I want you to count them.”

“Yes, Sir ,” she whispered.

“Tell me why you’re being punished, Anna .”

“Because…” She had to swallow the ball of tears in her throat. His hand was so heavy on her bottom, crushing. “ Because I wore my apron out of the kitchen, and that’s against the rules.”

“Very good,” he said and raised his hand. “ Count .”

She tried not to brace herself, knowing it would only make it worse. But instinct made her tense, and pain exploded. “ One ,” she choked out, and the first tear fell.

She hadn’t counted the times he’d hit her bottom over the last several days, but though it had hurt, it had never felt like this.

This was a different kind of pain—it reached deep, digging past skin and muscle and bone to the very core of her, and it cracked something open deep inside, some well of hurt and grief, letting it all spill out along with the tears.

At four, tears were streaming down her face. At seven, she was weeping uncontrollably. And by the time she got to ten, she was crying in great, gulping sobs that seemed as though they’d never end.

He turned her with gentle hands, lifting and shifting her to cradle her in his lap. “ Shhh , Anna , shhh. It’s all right, you’re all right. It’s over, baby. It’s all over. Shhh .”