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“You areallmy concern, Peyton,” he said huskily, forcing her to look into his grayish-blue eyes.
She was the first to break contact. She couldn’t let him get under her skin. She had to be on her guard. Keep her wits around her. The truth was, she was no match for Declan Foster—not physically, not mentally—and he knew that.
With him secured and the keys tightly in her hand, she quickly cleared the table and washed the dishes they had used. She then scoped out the rest of the cabin. No expense seemed to have been spared, and the result was a beautiful mixture of hardwood floors, thick, fluffy rugs, leather, and soft lighting that created an ambiance of style and intimacy.
A fire had already been kindled in the spacious open-plan living, dining, and kitchen area, and the warmth started to penetrate her bones a little.
An artfully decorated Christmas tree graced a corner. The dark, heavy, but comfortable-looking furniture and thick drapes enveloped her in a blanket of coziness… for one moment at least.
She was sharing a cabin with a trained killer in case she forgot.
But now that her senses were alerted to what kind of place Red Hills Resort was, she couldn’t ignore the subtle, tasteful, though unmistakable, aura of kink surrounding her.
An array of sculpted female busts were lined alongside each other on a stunning handcrafted console table. Each bust was adorned with a pair of vintage blindfolds, a leather choker, and jeweled nipple clamps.
Antique-styled floggers and hand-carved paddles added to the ethereal, soft, erotic-framed images of women in submissive positions gracing the walls. A low, mulberry-red coffee table housed a selection of literature. Not just any literature.Emmanuelle. The Story of O. Delta of Venus.
Peyton gave herself a mental shake and looked away. What the room portrayed had nothing to do with her. Or Declan calling himself a Dom. She was there to do a job, one of national security. She had to get practical about her situation despite the circumstances.
She looked down at her clothes, and the realization dawned that what she wore was all she had. Her red sheath dress.
She had no idea why that made her want to bawl her eyes out so badly. She quickly pivoted and went in search of the bathroom before she started crying in front of him, then stopped dead in her tracks when she entered the bedroom.
Against one wall of the very spacious bedroom stood a huge four-poster bed adorned with a thick velvet comforter and draped with chenille throws and bolster cushions.
Peyton couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her mouth. The bed also served as a bondage apparatus. Silk rope draped the wood, and chains hung elegantly from the ceiling and looped into each other to create a pattern of waves.
Besides a dresser, there was a stunning hand-crafted armoire and a long leather bench with cuff restraints for both wrists and ankles. It was a spanking bench.
Oh god, help her.
Canes and crops peeked out from the top of a large standing vase. She didn’t think they were just ornamental.
Heat crept down her spine and created pockets of sparks against her skin.
Her gaze then locked on a standing wooden structure toward one side of the room. Two planks of immaculately varnished deep red wood formed the frame of a closed X and balanced against another plank of wood away from the wall.
She knew what kind of apparatus she was staring at.
It was a St. Andrew’s Cross, and it was furnished with restraints for both wrists and ankles. Arousal dipped into her belly and spread to her clitoral area, leaving her hot and bothered. She never thought she would find that kind of paraphernalia exquisite to look at.
But suddenly, she did.
Again, she shook her head. This was temporary. This was their only option. Her surroundings were not going to get in the way of her job.
But then she shrieked out loud at the sight of her suitcase next to his expensive, hand-stitched, pure leather duffel bag on the luggage rack in the corner of the room.
She had been flabbergasted when he retrieved his luggage from the rental when she had no idea how it had gotten there in the first place, but this… stunned her. She picked up her suitcase and dragged it to the living room.
“How did you get this?” she asked. She may have appeared calm, but on the inside, she was burning up.
“I picked it up on the way to the bar. I thought you might need your clothes.”
Why was she pretending to be in control? This situation demanded a gigantic, very loud meltdown.
He certainly didn’t walk up to the front door, tell her parents who he was, and then ask for her bag of clothes.
“How?” She gritted her teeth.
