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“Do you feel like a good girl now?”
“No,” she whispered.
“How do you feel?”
Her heart was hammering in her chest. Her palms were sweaty. She could feel her clit tingling, her nipples rock hard. There was only one word that could fully encapsulate her emotions now.
“Alive.”
He let out a low chuckle. “Yes. You are, aren’t you. Quite uniquely alive, really. I expected more tears.”
“Do you want tears?”
“If I wanted your tears, darling, I would have them.”
Another cold chill ran through her flesh. She believed him. She believed him more deeply and completely than she had ever believed anyone. This man she did not know and could not see had become the nexus of her world. He was the definition of truth.
It stunned her how quickly it had happened. One moment, life was normal. The next, all had gone dark and she was no longer the person she had been.
He continued to pet her, marking his claim with gentle strokes which continued to make her spiral toward climax. She was used to clumsy handling by inept boyfriends. This man understood her body, and what it wanted.
Now there was no fabric between them, no physical barrier keeping the warmth and intimacy of his fingers from the bare skin of her sex. Her moans became more intense, and her physical form writhed against the bonds which held her fast until her pleasure overwhelmed her and she was left squirming and wriggling, drooling from both ends as she bucked out an orgasm of pure shame.
“Very pretty,” he said as she laid there, her cheek against his thigh, her every nerve singing in the aftermath of that illicit climax. “I will enjoy you.”
She was surprised he hadn’t fucked her. Surely any man capable of abducting a woman, tying her up, and making her come until her eyes rolled back in her head was also capable of violating her with his cock. But he hadn’t done that. He’d given her pleasure, and nothing more.
“Can I see you?”
There was a moment of silent hesitation. She had caught him off guard, apparently.
“Why not.”
She felt warm fingers tugging at the blindfold, and then she was looking into the dark eyes of a very handsome man. He was younger than she had expected him to be, maybe somewhere in his thirties. He had an older, more mature, presence.
“Why do you look familiar? Are you on television?”
He smiled. “I just have one of those faces.”
“Like Zoey Deschanel and Katy Perry, or Natalie Portman and Keira Knightley, or…”
“Like that,” he agreed amiably. He was watching her with an intensity which she found flattering even though it should have just been creepy.
“There’s a girl in my class who looks a lot like me,” she babbled, wanting to fill the silence. “You're not going to cut me up with a chainsaw, are you? This isn’t one of those movies where the hole fills up with water…”
“You’ve got quite an imagination,” her captor noted. “That’s good. It will help.”
“Help with what? Actually, don't tell me. I don’t want to know. Just let me go. Please.”
“That’s not an option. You don't know who you are, or how important you are.”
“I’m nobody.”
“That’s absolutely not true.”
“Who am I, then?”
“You’re the long lost, estranged, disavowed daughter of one of the richest men in America.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed. Hysterically. The way you laugh when the handsome maniac who has you captured in his lair tells you that you’re secretly rich and famous, but you never knew it.
“That can’t be true.”
“It can be. It is. Your father is Christo Monteverdi.”
She drew a blank. “Christo who?”
“It’s no surprise you haven’t heard of him. The truly rich know better than to allow themselves to become famous.”
“I thought all the rich celebrities were secretly part of a big conspiracy of powerfulness… that’s what the internet says?”
Indigo laughed. “Why, on earth, would anybody with any power or wealth sufficient to fund an agenda want to involve a celebrity of all people? The most vapid attention seekers literally on the planet’s surface, the people who were better at seeking attention than anybody else was… they are not the people you want around when you are trying to enact a shadow revolution. They're not the kind of people who keep their mouths shut, especially not when opening them would garner even more of that precious attention they crave.”
“Oh. I guess. Now you say that… it kind of makes sense. So. Who is Christo Monteverdi?”
Chapter 2
“Is Christo Monteverdi New York’s most eligible bachelor? Nine out of ten women voting in our recent online poll said yes!”
Natalia Ivanka Porsche, a woman who had once been a supermodel and now pretended to eat food on a nationally televised show about cooking, looked radiant in a dress designed by a person who would never receive credit for it and made by another person who counted themselves fortunate to earn what broke down to three dollars an hour.
