Page 92 of Mr. Romantic (Mister 2)

He’s playing a part, Ivy. He’s playing a part.

Does he want me to play the part back?

Duh.

I hang my head a little to try to hide my smile. Because yes, this is the whole point of the fantasy. We play the parts perfectly and it all feels real. If I let him do everything he wants, that’s not a rape fantasy. That’s just submission.

He doesn’t want submission, I realize. He wants a struggle. A fight. He wants me to resist him so he can overpower me.

I try to run but he grabs my upper arm and twists it behind my back. “Try that again and I’ll make you suck my cock so hard—”

I try again, writhing and ducking as he reaches for me. I get a few paces this time, but Nolan tackles me onto the soft lawn. We land together with a thump, his body pressing down on mine, my face turning sideways to be able to breathe. His mouth is in my ear. “I’m going to make you pay for that.”

He lifts up his body and flips me over so I have to look at him.

The anger on his face makes me gasp. “You fucking bitch,” he growls as his hands wrap my wrists together. I look down at the rope—yellow, soft, doubled-braided—and recognize it. Once my wrists are bound he stand up, yanks me to my feet by my hair, and pushes me so I have to walk forward. I stop at the pool’s edge, but he pushes me again and I fall over the side and into the water. I am unable to swim for the surface because of my bound hands. I struggle, then panic, as I sink. But I realize that my feet can touch the bottom. I have one shoe left, the other floating by as I stand, trying to maintain my balance as the waves of the pool splash into my face when I break through the water.

I gasp for air. My lungs feel like they can’t get enough, my throat burning with the effort.

Nolan is standing over me on the side of the pool. I see his leather shoes first, then lift my head up and take in his legs in the perfectly tailored suit. I stop at the yellow silk tie and remind myself what this is.

A fantasy.

“Walk,” he commands. He’s pointing to the other end of the pool where steps lead the way out of the water.

My head and neck are exposed to the cool sea air, but the rest of my body is under the heated water.

“How deep is it?” I ask, eyeing the middle of the pool that I must cross.

“It doesn’t matter, Ivy. You’re going to walk or I’ll let you freeze to death out here all night long. I’ll tie you to the steps and let you freeze.”

I turn away from him, but in that moment he’s kneeling down and he’s got a hold of my hair again. “Don’t fuck with me, bitch,” he says. “I’m deadly serious.”

I pull away and reach for his leg, trying to pull him in with me. He swings his hand, barely missing my head with a closed fist, and I panic.

He said no punching!

I struggle again, make him lose his grip, and then scoot away to the center of the pool where it suddenly becomes deep and I go under. I kick my other shoe off and tread water, my tied hands in front of me, desperately trying to paddle.

“Do what you’re told, Ivy, and you’ll make it through this night. Wander off the path I’ve set for you and bad things will happen.”

Is that a warning?

I spit out some water and struggle my way across the pool until I’m on the opposite side of him, but my feet can touch again.

“Walk to the end of the pool and get out,” Nolan barks, his shout echoing off the walls of the monstrous mansion.

I keep my eyes on him as I walk. He follows me on the other side, step for step. And when I get to the end of the pool safely I climb the steps. The cold air hits me immediately, making my nipples peak and the tight silky dress cling to my body. He’s waiting for me, just a few paces off, when I exit, dragging water with me that pools at my feet as I stand on the cold concrete.

I begin to shiver uncontrollably and Nolan smiles. “You’re as pretty as a picture, Miss Rockwell.”

The first picture, I realize. I’m the image in the first picture he drew. Standing in the drenched dress, nipples pressing against the fabric, everything clinging and wet.

He walks towards me, reaching between my legs to rub my clit in small, slow circles. I press against his chest, wanting to be warm so badly. Want to hate the way this makes me feel so badly.

But it all feels… good.

“Are you cold?” he croons in my ear.