Page 170 of Eternal Surrender

“Ingrid, we’ve been over this.”

“I need a moment.” She sauntered off toward the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

Sunaria’s words ate away at me.

I wanted to forget them.

My attention was drawn to the fireplace and the reproduction hanging above it, an 1842 oil on canvas, Odalisque and Sklavin, painted by the French artist Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres. He’d mastered the art of hidden brush strokes, conveying perfectly the young female Turkish slave languishing upon a soft bed while soothed by a nearby musician’s lute. The Odalisque’s expression was so relaxed, revealing she’d accepted her fate, perhaps aspiring to one day rise to the dizzying heights of the Sultan’s Imperial Harem.

Art had softened it, shaped it into something almost lovely, but the reality behind it was deeply disturbing.

A different culture, a different time.

The way Ingres had captured the woman, conveying every curve, her soft blush, her delicate refrain, he could never be blamed for falling in love with her.

The bedroom door opened.

Ingrid was dressed in a daringly-revealing, low, tight, black corset emphasizing her waist, complemented perfectly by the thin garter attached to black silk stockings, over a lace trim thong. Perfecting this tour de force were her high stilettos, forcing her shoulders back and providing her with a proud, almost defiant gait.

I drank in her beauty.

All this time she’d been wearing this beneath her red dress.

Her expression changed as though realizing that which she desired most may just happen. “I need you to help me reach that part of me I can’t get to.”

“I’m inside your mind and all I’m hearing is bargaining.” I hoped my fierceness might dissuade her.

“I am ready.” She’d chosen her words carefully, and yet it had sounded more like a question. A soft blush arose on her chest. “You once told me you’d know when I was ready?”

“Ingrid—”

“Let me have this,” she said. “Have you.”

Ingrid’s eyes burned with a desire of which I’d never seen in her before, a yearning so intense that questioning she was ready seemed wrong, as though the responsibility fell on my shoulders to guide her along a pathway that would lead her to fulfillment.

In this moment, there came the true lure of forgetting.

With a tilt of my head I said, “You can promise me your complete submission?”

Her lips trembled. “Yes.”

Slipping out of my jacket, I threw it across the back of a chair and then rolled up each shirt sleeve, taking my time, exaggerating the quiet, giving her time to think her way out of this.

The stillness of the room reflected Ingrid’s thoughts and what she truly wanted won out.

“No going back,” I said.

She caressed her fingertips over her parted rouged lips, an unconscious, feminine gesture of readiness. “Free me, William,” her voice was a whisper.

And yet, she was the one freeing me.

The way she’d reapplied her makeup provided her with a Gothic air, tussled hair, teased curls spiraling downward. She raised her head high, perhaps in that moment realizing the effect her appearance was having on me.

With one look, I reminded her that this dark incantation would be led by me alone, forcing my expression to be that of determined master, driving out all empathy so I could take Ingrid as far as she needed to go, and further if necessary.

“Only with complete submission comes freedom,” I told her.

She lowered her gaze, letting me know she was ready with that one subtle gesture of obedience.