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He snaps his fingers and points to the floor beside his chair. “Now,” he barks.
I should hate this. I should despise being degraded. I should refuse to be treated like a slave.
But I rise from my chair.
I cross to his desk.
I sink to my knees, and I reach for his zipper, and something deep inside me sings.
8
TRAP
* * *
Jesus fucking Christ.
It’s one thing to have Alix here, 24/7, ready, willing, and able to accommodate my slightest need. Did I say ready? Beyond ready—she’s got the stamina of an Olympic marathoner. I’ve created a submissive little monster.
It’s another thing, though, to miss out on a full night’s sleep, three night’s running. We both head upstairs with good intentions. We both vow we’re going to keep our hands to ourselves. We both swear we’re going to catch up on shut-eye, just this once, one fucking night to prove we’re responsible adults.
And then I leave my belt on the bedroom floor. Or Alix looks toward the dresser drawer. Or I take her panties and twist them around her wrists, binding her hands together so I can pin them overhead with one hand while I use the other to tease her ready clit…
I’m a goddamn zombie.
But I’m absolutely not complaining.
After three years apart, I have a catalog of fantasies it’ll take a while to work through. It doesn’t hurt that Alix takes to every fucking variation like she’s fighting for her place in the Sex Kinks Hall of Fame.
I’m sure she has some fancy psychological words for what’s going on. She’s owning what Herzog did to her. Claiming her sexuality for herself. Accepting her inner desires without giving a flying fuck for what society says she should want.
Something like that.
The reality is, I give her something Herzog never did. Control. She chooses what she wants, with an iron-clad option of tapping out. She’s got her safeword, and she knows I’ll honor it—havehonored it, the few times she’s said it out loud.
And I’ve learned. She’ll let me leave marks. She’s game for anything oral. She’ll edge for hours if that’s what I command; in fact, she won’t come unless I give her a specific order.
But get anywhere near the precious pucker of her ass, and she shuts down immediately. Nothing—no tools, no tongue, no finger, and absolutely, definitely, no way in fucking hell, no cock.
So if it helps her to kneel beside my desk and give me a blowjob? If she wants to feel my paddle across her naked ass? If she wants me to grab those fucking amazing tits while her hands are tied behind her back?
I can work with that.
Especially because she’s locked the goddamn Beast in a cage. For twenty years, that fucking animal owned my brain. It kept a stranglehold on everything I did—shaking hands in a business meeting, high-fiving at a football game, paying for a candy bar at the goddamn grocery store.
And fucking. The Beast had a field day every time I tied a woman to my bed.
Alix changed all that. Alix tamed the Beast.
If I wanted to, Alix and I could cuddle like a couple of moon-struck virgins, holding hands till the sun comes up over the trees in the backyard. I could lie beside her, prop myself on an elbow, and trace every line of her body with my glove-free palm. I could cover her with my body, chest to chest, belly to belly, and we could fuck like goddamn missionaries.
But I don’t want to.
I love tying her up. I love testing her limits. I love issuing orders. And I love being the one who has the power to release her with a single four-letter word.
All of which is a long way of saying I’m chafed and horny and I-don’t-know-how-many-hours-short-on-sleep when Harry Asher shuffles into my office. We’re in the freeport building. I don’t want to spook Alix with anything Asher says, even if shehaspromised she won’t run.
“What have you got?” I ask, before the funk of his cigar smoke reaches me.
