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He’d set up a punishment beam of polished wood near the cross. It had been hung by chains on a retractable winch from the ceiling, so it could be raised or lowered to suit the Master’s whim. Cleo immediately imagined herself straddling the beam, struggling to remain upright as it cut into her tender bits, her legs trembling with the effort.
Hurry home, Master Jack, she thought. I want to play.
She moved toward the window and opened the blinds. She couldn’t help but notice the equipment and surfaces could use a bit of dusting. She made a mental note to retrieve the cleaning things from the bathroom, once she was done checking out the toys.
The cross was made of wood, polished smooth with adjustable cuffs along the X. She visualized herself strapped in, Master Jack moving around her in a slow circle as he snapped his whip. There was a countertop with cabinets above and below, filled with neatly organized whips, paddles, floggers, ball gags, blindfolds, cuffs, chains and coils of rope.
It was then she noticed what looked like a picture frame, face down on the countertop. Curious, she moved toward it and picked it up. As she looked at the photograph, she drew in a sharp breath, nearly dropping the thing.
Jack and Annette stood side-by-side in their wedding finery, smiling at each other with such unbridled joy it brought tears to Cleo’s eyes. It was then she noticed the folded piece of paper on the counter that must have been under the framed photo.
Setting down the framed photo, with trembling fingers, she opened and smoothed the single page. Even as she knew whatever might be written there was none of her business, she couldn’t stop herself from looking. It was written by hand in blue ink, some of it smeared as if something had splashed on it. Tears?
Don’t read it, a voice in her head cautioned, but she could barely hear it over the beating of her heart.
May 25
Dearest Annette,
Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you, dream of you, long for you. You are gone, but I still wake up each morning, expecting you in my bed, in my arms…
I still want to comfort you, take care of you, to let you comfort and take care of me. I want to tell you about the bastard at work who did this or that. I want to hear about your day. I want to do little projects with you and argue about the fabric choice for the sofa or which pots and pans are better.
I want to whip every inch of your beautiful flesh, and then kiss away every welt. I want to make love to you until we both collapse from exhaustion. I want to share you with the other Doms and subs at the club, secure in the knowledge none of them could ever hold a candle to you, my darling, my Annette, my only love.
I want to kill the man who so thoughtlessly took your life. As awful as it is to admit it, I’m glad he’s dead too. He didn’t deserve to live.
I have lost my way, sweetheart. Without you, I have forgotten how to eat, to sleep, to breathe, to live. I can’t imagine finding a different life with someone new. You are the only one who will ever occupy my heart. There is no space for another.
My darling wife, my sweet slave girl, how I adore you. I love you. I will always love you.
Your Jack.
The room tilted unpleasantly, dizziness and rising nausea affecting Cleo’s balance. The letter fluttered from her fingers as she sank to the floor beside the counter. Her mind was both numb and on fire at the same time, a sense of unreality taking over.
May 25. That was only a month ago!
Cleo let out a strangled sound that was half laugh, half sob.
Why, oh why, why, why was she always the last to know?
First Nigel, then Harrison, now Jack. And just like before, she had been blindsided, utterly clueless that anything was amiss.
“You stupid, stupid girl,” she whispered furiously, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You bought the bastard’s bullshit. You took the bait, hook, line and sinker.”
But why?
Why would Jack go to all that trouble to woo her, to bring her across the world, when his heart so clearly still belonged to another? Was he just on some kind of Dom power kick? Did he plan to claim her, just so he could say he did it? Was this part of his fucking grief therapy? Distract himself with someone new? Pretend he had feelings with the hope that maybe one day he actually would?
Cleo angrily brushed her tears away. She grabbed the letter from the floor and crunched it into a ball, which she hurled away from her. Getting to her feet, she fled from the playroom.
