Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
It’s perfect.
“Good girl. Beautifully done,” he murmurs.
I wish he would touch me. I wish I could bear it.
If I weren’t broken, he could take me down himself and carry me across the room in his strong arms. He’d lay me down and tuck a blanket around me, then tuck himself around me. I’d let my head fall on his chest and fall asleep to the lullaby of his soft breathing.
I want that more than anything.
But I fear it more than anything, so I don’t dare risk it. If I could accept a normal human relationship, I wouldn’t be seeking anonymous partners to flog me raw. I wouldn’t need it to hurt on the outside so much to ease the pain throbbing in my veins.
With a harsh ripping sound and a gust of air at my ankles, I can tell that he’s undone the Velcro cuffs at my feet. Just the warmth of his hand hovering close to me is enough to unravel me further.
“You okay?”
I nod, still leaning against the cross. His presence is a giant warmth against my back, all-enveloping.
For a moment, I just relax into it, letting his nearness enfold me like a blanket.
He’s still behind me, hesitating.
My requested scene clearly states, “No aftercare,” but a good top won’t leave until he knows I’m okay. I can sense him wanting to help me. I want that too, but. . .
No. I’m in control. I’m good. I’ve got this. I can take care of myself.
I have to.
“Do you want my help getting out of the handcuffs?”
In answer, I strike the handcuff’s flimsy hinge at just the right angle against the padded leather. It takes me two tries for my left wrist, but eventually, both cuffs spring open.
I lower my arms and shake them out.
“Show me your wrists,” he orders. I don’t think to disobey. I turn, still blindfolded, and offer them up. It’s such a submissive posture my skin tingles. He’s so close. If I took a few steps forward, I could press against him.
Whatever he sees on my wrists makes him tsk. “No more handcuffs,” he says. “If we scene again, I’ll use rope to tie you.”
I nod, still not making a move to pull off my blindfold. It’s safe here, in the darkness.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. His voice is a sweet, potent whiskey that makes my senses swim. “You did well.”
Again, the sense of deja vu washes over me.
I sense him pacing to the opposite side of the room. The door opens but doesn’t close right away. He’s paused there.
“Goodnight, Inara,” he murmurs. Then the door clicks shut.
He’s gone.
I wait a few seconds and pull off the blindfold. The low light disorients me, and I lean back against the cross. That was the best scene I’ve ever had.
It’s not until I’m dressed, out of the club, and into a cab that I realize he called me by my real name.
3
Him
I sit in the darkness, surrounded by a million screens. Most nights, each screen shows a feed from the different cameras I have spread around the city.
Tonight, each one reflects her face.
Inara, who calls herself Swallow. Submissive. Little bird.
It’s late. She should be weary. But there’s a bemused twist to her lips—the ghost of a smile—as she moves around her townhouse.
In all the time I’ve been watching her, I’ve seen a range of emotions from her. Most days, she looks hardened and haunted, like she’s forcing herself to move forward.
But I’ve never seen her like this. Soft and wide-eyed. Almost. . . peaceful.
I take satisfaction in knowing I’m responsible for it. I gave her what she needed tonight.
My own body is tense and ready. The prize was within reach. I could’ve grasped it.
Her rules said “no touch,” but she wanted me to break them. I could sense it.
It took everything I had to let her go tonight. To let her walk out of the club and into a cab out of my reach. Only the knowledge that I could track and surveil her in the privacy of her home finally allowed me to let her leave.
I’m used to watching her at a distance. She’s beautiful enough to make people on the street stop and stare. In person, she is more intoxicating than I realized.
I must go slowly. Of all the people I’ve hunted, she’s the wariest. She presents a strong face to the world, but inside the thick walls she’s built, she’s fragile. A clever hunter knows how to proceed with care, to trap the bird before it knows it’s in a snare.
She disappears into the shower and emerges minutes later with her wet hair braided down her back. Her golden skin glows. She faces the mirror to brush her teeth, then turns, admiring the marks down her back.
I lean forward in my chair. My lungs pump like bellows working overtime.