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Aunt Fucking Flo. Sometimes, my princess isn’t that far removed from the woman who sat in my kitchen three years ago, so shy and reserved I guessed she was a virgin.
But we’ve traveled a million miles since then. She takes my hand and raises my knuckles to her lips. “I’m clean,” she says. “Dr. Hanson saw to that. Do you need to see my records? I’ll give her permission to release everything to you.”
She’s so certain. So trusting. So calm and still and sure. My throat tightens. I feel pressure behind my eyes as I flip our hands around and brush my lips acrossherknuckles. “No,” I say. “I don’t need anything. Anything but you.”
Her laugh vibrates through me as I pull her close. I didn’t expect my cock to come back on duty any time tonight, but we both feel it stir.
“No more condoms,” Alix says, utterly content. And her fingers close around my dick to seal the deal.
7
ALIX
* * *
Iwake in Trap’s bed, alone. Sometime during the night, he pulled a sheet over us. A blanket, too. Now they’re tangled round my waist and tucked between my knees. I reach for his pillow, but I’m not surprised to find it’s cool. I have no idea how long he’s been gone.
Stretching as I climb out of bed, I’m greeted by the protest of overused muscles. My arms ache. My sides ache. My thighs feel like I’ve spent hours swimming through honey.
Looking down, I find my wrists are laced with bruises, the pattern of Trap’s ropes printed like rows of interlocking bracelets. I need the bathroom mirror to confirm that my ass is marked as well. I can make out purple-red blotches where the riding crop’s leather tab struck me squarely, along with a forest of thin imprints left by the shaft.
I can’t resist poking at the bruises with the pads of my fingers. The soft ache fills me with a secret shame. I still don’t understand how I flew apart so wildly beneath Trap’s punishment, how he knew exactly what I needed, how a part of me is so broken that it thrives on the type of abuse I was forced to endure in Herzog’s house.
I may not understand, but I can’t deny the thrill that turns lazy somersaults in my belly as I remember everything Trap did to me last night. I’m broken. Disgusting. Perverted. But still, he gave me exactly what I needed.
And now, I desperately need a shower. I don’t hesitate to use the one in the Trap’s bathroom. I use his soap, too. His shampoo. His razor. It feels right to stand beneath the rainfall shower head, to turn on the jets that shoot from the wall.
This is where Trap first claimed me. This is where I belong.
I wrap a towel around my body and cross the hall to the guest room. My clothes still hang in the closet where I left them when I fled two weeks ago. Then, I took only a handful of necessities—jeans, T-shirts, a shapeless pair of pajamas.
Now I stare at the closet, at the dresser, at the nightstand stacked high with catalogs from the art auctions I’ve attended on the freeport’s behalf. Do I move my things into Trap’s room? Do I wait for a formal invitation? Do I plan on staying as a guest until Trap takes me to bed again?
Because that’s one thing I know for sure. I may not be certain where to leave my things, but I know Trap and I have only begun to explore the pleasure our bodies can share. The punishment he can give me. The submission I’ll endure.
I pull on clean underwear and a sports bra, soft khakis, and a top that buttons up the front. I feel confident. Safe. At ease.
And ready to drop to my knees in a heartbeat, if that’s what Trap commands.
I’m nearly bowled over by a surge of lust. For just an instant, I’m back in Trap’s bedroom, calves aching, every muscle in my body dedicated to keeping the riding crop balanced on my back. The memory is so real my nipples peak. I’m soaked again, between my legs. If Trap were here, if he gave me his command, I’d come right now, without him touching me at all.
I shake my head because I have no idea where to find the sane part of me, the student part of me, the sister/daughter/friend part of me that I lost years ago.
I head downstairs.
I hear Trap before I see him. His voice thunders from his office, annoyance sharpening the words. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”
“Sorry, boss.” The man who answers doesn’t actually sound sorry at all. He sounds like he smokes ten packs a day and gargles with shattered glass.
I step into the doorway. Trap is behind his desk, thumbing his way through a ream of paper. A man sits across from him, hunched in the visitor chair. He looks like a washed-up boxer, or maybe the trainer who crouches over a stool in a corner of the ring, holding a sweat-soaked sponge and a bucket of filthy water. Trap waves me forward, and I’m struck with the stench of decades-old cigars.
“This is Alix Key,” Trap says by way of introduction. “Alix, Harry Asher’s been looking into the Herzog brothers for me.”
Trap makes the investigation sound like nothing special, like he ordered up a report on recipes for tuna salad, or changes in the corporate tax code, or federal standards for vehicle fuel consumption. I try to keep my face blank as I slip into the empty seat on the visitor’s side of the desk.
The investigator huffs a greeting and glances at me with apparent disinterest. I realize, though, that he notices my hair, shorter than most women choose to wear it. He takes in my bare feet, too. And his gaze lingers on my wrists for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. My bruises feel like they’ve been dipped in fluorescent paint.
“Ms. Key,” he says, his tone perfectly neutral.
