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“Can I get you a drink?”
“A double.”
I go back into the house and fetch a glass from the cabinet above the dishwasher. I add two cubes of ice from the freezer. As I pad into the dining room to retrieve the Whistlepig, I smile to myself.
I love knowing where Trap keeps the glasses. That he drinks rye. That he wants it on the rocks. They’re little things, nothing that will change the world in any significant way, but they make me feel like I belong here.
Back outside, I hand him the glass, and he rallies enough to ask, “How was your day?”
“Busy.” Sinking back into my chair, I pass him the cheese knife and my apple. He helps himself to a slice of both as I tell him about making the final decisions for the freeport’s Labor Day family picnic. He pretends like he’s interested in barbecue and local craft beers, in a carnival for the kids and a raffle for the entire staff.
His glass is empty.
“Another?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I try again. “I think I’ve identified another one of Herzog’s paintings. It’s a Monet, a view of Waterloo Bridge. I’m pretty sure it was reported stolen from a museum in Rotterdam. The art world assumed it was burned years ago, along with six others from the same theft.”
I wait for him to tell me I’ve done good work. That he’s impressed with my sleuthing skills. That there’s something good coming out of Herzog’s time as a freeport client.
Silence.
I can tell him how Susan helped me with a personnel matter this morning, how we worked out a more efficient schedule for the receptionists at the front desk. I can tell him the painters are coming to spruce up the freeport garage next week, that we’ve already sent notices to all the clients so they can either trust us to move their collections or do it themselves. I can tell him there’s a conference on cybersecurity and museums in Paris in December, and I secured a spot so I can see what might affect the freeport.
But from the haunted look on his face, I know he won’t care.
He didn’t tell me where he went today. There was nothing entered on his calendar. In my heart of hearts, I know what that means.
He’s trying to figure out a way to keep Jonas and Ansel Herzog from releasing their video. A billion dollars, the freeport’s reputation—it’s all on the line because of me.
If I could just go back in time…
But there isn’t a good end to that sentence. Because if I didn’t kill Herzog, I’d still be his slave. I wouldn’t know what it’s like to live with Trap. To love Trap.
And while there’s a part of me that says I’m selfish, that I’m bad, that I should have found another solution during my three endless years of captivity, I know Trap would never say that. He wants me here. He needs me.
So I do the only thing I can think of, the thing that always brings us closer together, the thing that heals all the broken places inside both of us.
I sink to my knees in the lush green grass in front of Trap’s chair. I reach for the buckle on his belt.
“Alix…” he says, my name starting as a refusal but ending on a sigh.
I tug on the buckle, sliding the leather easily through the loops on his trousers. I start to toss it aside, more interested in the button, in the zipper, but at the last moment, I loop the belt around my neck. I feed the end through the buckle, pulling it tight, like a choker. I press the long end of the leash into Trap’s hand.
At first, I think he won’t take it, that he’s too tired or too depressed or too out of sorts to play. But then his fingers tighten, and he uses the belt to pull me toward him, forcing my spine to straighten as I stay on my knees. My neck is stretched, my head at an angle. The leather bites into my voice box, and I catch my lip between my teeth to keep from crying out.
He plants his free thumb on my chin, applying enough pressure to force me to open my lips. When my mouth is open, he slips his thumb inside, sliding it slowly over my tongue.
I moan. I want more than his thumb. I want my mouth full. My lips stretched. I want my throat working, fighting to take all of him.
He leans forward and drops the belt. His fingers reach for my breast, and I know he’s going to tease the nipple. He’ll pinch it, hard enough to make me gasp. He’ll palm it, rubbing the sensitive tip until it aches.
He’ll work to give me pleasure. I always long for Trap’s touch. But now, tonight, when he’s beaten and exhausted, I want to be the one to give something to him.
I push his fingers away with the back of my hand. I reach for his fly before he can stop me, slipping the zipper and reaching inside. His cock springs to attention like a time-lapse film of some exotic flower blooming.
He’s hard and he’s hot and a bead of moisture already waits for my attention. I wrap my fingers around the length of him, squeezing hard. My thumb slips through his precum, making him grit his teeth as I smooth the slickness over his rounded tip.
