Page 20 of Boneyard HEA

Tomás: Ok. Be there around 5.30

I flick on the indicator and spin the wheel, crossing the road to turn the car around and head for his place. It’ll be dusk when I get there, so I should keep an eye out for kangaroos straying onto the road.

Roos. One of those things you don’t get much in Venezuela. Or women who stay alive when they threaten to drop a powerful man into a pile of mierda.

The road hums under the tires. “No…no, Tomás. Mistake. Those are rare anywhere in the world.”

8

Juniper

The timber-and-glass table before me at eye-level has a great spread of dips, crackers, fresh fruit, and buttery pastries, along with two glasses of iced tea. I peer at those. Am betting he has that made by a housekeeper, daily. This is another living room, on the ground floor below his bedroom.

I shift on my knees and look around at my surroundings.

Metal sculptures of a pelican and a heron on plinths, impressionist paintings, with some bright blues and golds here and there that add up to a beach theme. Mostly white walls though, with thick gold threads weaving across the furniture fabric. He probably has ten bedrooms in this mansion. If this is where teaching math leads you to? Wow. I regret not paying attention to algebra.

On my wrists are marks from the metal. My chain leash runs over the sofa and underneath his butt where he’s sat on it, but he has removed the cuffs and taken that plug out of me. While I showered off the last bout of sex, he leaned on the glass and watched. Then, after I toweled dry, he casually held me against the glass by my throat and fingered me—stuffed them in and smiled, with them stuck up there, while I tried to remain calm.

I think I failed the calm test. Difficult not to.

Am I in way past my depth? Yes. I’m drowning.

The red collar is an ever-present reminder of, well, everything about my situation. I touch it. Run a finger under it.

When his leg rubs on my arm, I glance at where he sits above me on the gunmetal-gray sofa. I tug down the hem of the flimsy white dress he’s given me with a bodice that lifts and exposes my breasts. The one plus with this is I can sit on the material and not get his rug stuck to my butt, much.

“You okay?” He pops up one eyebrow.

“Why are we here?” I’m so horny after everything he did. The fucker. The world has flipped upside-down.

He shows me my phone. “Find that video so I can see what it shows.”

“Can I sit up there? The floor is hard and, well, too fluffy.” I indicate the rug.

“No. Your place is down there.” Though I twist my mouth at that, he gestures at the big screen. “I’ll cast the video. Come closer.”

He tugs sideways on the leash to make me move over, then holds me between his legs and runs his hands through my hair, before sliding one hand lower to leave his thumb absentmindedly playing with my mouth.

The warmth of him envelops me and is strangely comforting. I tongue at his thumb, am tempted to place my teeth around it.

“Do what I ask of you, miss. You are so fucking distracting,” he murmurs and hands down the phone.

It’s a softer command than his usual, that shivers into me and has this disconcerting effect on me. I’ve no panties on. I’m probably soaking through the dress fabric.

I attempt to concentrate on the phone. It’s already open. How the hell. I frown and decide not to ask how. He’s the perfect asshole and apparently able to open a phone with biometric locking.

I prop the phone on my knees. He’s being annoying on purpose. I could find the video in two seconds, but… As I click through the vids, I take my time scrolling so I can think, so I can think past that thumb caressing my mouth, dipping inside, and doing things.

Finally, I bite down on him, just a little. He slips his other hand to my neck and whispers into my hair. “Take care, Miss.” He uses both hands to drag my hair into a ponytail at the back before releasing it a moment later.

I open my teeth, sigh, and keep scrolling.

I’d given up on finding a dominant man who matched my kinks, but I’d never wanted a sadistic Dom. Mr. Loxland is definitely a sadist. FetLife had been a swamp of wannabes who hated being rejected. I know in my heart of hearts, whatever that is, I should be screaming and using this phone to do something. Something devious so I can get out from under his control.

And yet I cannot, for obvious reasons. That I’m not sure I want to is the crazy part. After one morning of barely consensual sex and sadistic holy crap things done to me, have I discovered a side of myself I’d be ashamed to tell, well…almost anyone?

I’m sore in all the wrong places, and I’ve never been fucked or sexually appraised or fingered, or been given so many incredible orgasms, in so short a time, ever, like ever before. Yet I don’t hate him. That he finds me distracting gives me joy? It’s a very sexy kind of maddening joy.