Chapter Fourteen
Evie
Frederic hasn’t told me where we’re going, only that I should be ready at six thirty even though our booking isn’t till eight because he wants to do something special first. I’m in the bedroom when he comes in from rehearsals, and he calls through the door. “Evie?”
I look at the clock by the bed: six fifteen. “Nearly ready! Do you need to change?”
“No, I’m fine. Take your time.”
Strange. He went to rehearsals in a striped shirt and jeans, not a suit. Frederic owns more clothes than I do and takes pains over being well dressed. Well, perhaps he’s going to change later, after whatever we’re doing now. I look at my reflection in the mirror and smooth the silk dress over my hips. It’s bias cut, clingy and falls to my knees, modest enough at the front but open to my waist at the back. I bought it with some of my advance, as a treat, and it’s the most expensive, frivolous piece of clothing I’ve ever owned. It’s been hanging in the wardrobe in Frederic’s flat for two weeks waiting for a chance to be worn. I feel very sexy and slinky in it and I can’t wait to see Frederic’s face when I go out into the lounge. And then whisper to him that I’m not wearing any underwear as we head out the door.
I give my reflection a wicked grin. That should inspire him to be particularly severe with me when we get back from dinner. I’ve been craving his sadistic side all week. I want some marks to take back to Oxford, and I crave the emotional release of tears, his rough, cruel words and the pounding he gives me.
When I come out into the living room I stop short. The room is dark and the curtains are drawn. The only light is coming behind me from the open bedroom door, and it falls in a long yellow line over the sofa.
“Frederic?”
I step forward into the darkness—and someone grabs me from behind. I let out a high, thin shriek, my heart pounding. A gloved hand clamps over my mouth and pulls me against a large male body. I recognize Frederic’s scent, the feel of him, and melt back against him. So this is what he wanted to do before dinner.
Then he holds something up before my eyes that makes my pulse start to race again. It glints as he twists it in the dim light: a long, silver hunting knife, wickedly pointed at one end and so sharp I can practically hear it singing on the air. The voice that whispers in my ear is low and harsh. “If you scream I will make you bleed.”
I have no trouble believing that he means every word.
“I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth, and you’re going to do exactly what I say. Aren’t you?” Arousal is roughening his voice and he’s pressed so close to me that I feel the thickness of him pressing against my behind. I nod my head rapidly. I’ll do anything for Frederic, knife or no, but something about the menacing glint of the blade is making me slick between my legs and very, very pliant.
He releases me and I stand where I am, shivering slightly, waiting for my next instruction. He turns me, plants a hand in the center of my back, and shoves. “Into the bedroom and get down on the floor on your knees. Do not make a sound.”
I do as I’m told, the slickness between my legs becoming an ache. He must sheath the knife because a moment later his gloved hands are winding a length of rope around my body, over my dress. He’s changed, I realize, into a black sweater, black jeans and a balaclava that conceals everything but his burning eyes. My breath catches when I see this. He’s the intruder that I confessed to fantasizing about. Are we role-playing, like when he was dressed as the priest, or is this him with a few accessories? When my arms are tied behind my back and a rope harness is crisscrossing my chest he stands back and admires his handiwork. I look up at him, mouth parted, and watch as he unsheathes the knife again.
“Pretty dress. Shame I have to ruin it.” Crouching down he uses the blade to cut the dress open all the way down my front, and I can’t help a cry of dismay. I really did like that dress. He grabs a fistful of my hair, forcing my head up to look at him. “What did I say?”
I lick my lips, realizing that I’ve disobeyed one of his instructions. “Not to make a sound.”
He slaps me across the face, hard enough to make my eyes water. “Then fucking don’t, baby.”
Baby. So we’re not playing. I look back up at him and lick my lips again, and something about knowing this is him, not an act, ratchets up the sensations. I can feel how much he’s enjoying me being utterly at his mercy. The pain he’s going to inflict on me doesn’t make me afraid of him, it makes me burn for him.
His rough hands yank the tattered dress open beneath the rope, exposing my breasts, small and pale against the black leather of his gloves. He pinches my nipples, pulling them up, making me breathe hard in response, though I don’t dare whimper. The swollen feeling between my legs is growing as we head into this together, deeper and deeper. The supplication is surely clear on my face. Let me show you how good I can be for you, daddy. I can take anything you want me to.
He drinks me in, the first glint of satisfaction showing in his eyes. He takes his time now, sauntering over to the bed and pulling a box out from beneath it. From within he takes a riding crop, short and flexible with a leather loop on one end. Coming back, he trails the loop over one of my puckered nipples.
“Look at me.”
I do as I’m told, though I can barely see his eyes in the narrow slit of the balaclava. With an expert flick of his wrist he cracks the leather over my nipple. Pain blazes through me and I squeeze my eyes shut, breath hissing in over my teeth. He’s going hard right from the start.
“No. Look at me.” He waits until I’ve blinked several times and cleared my eyes and I’m looking up at him again. The leather circles my other nipple, for longer this time, making me wait, making me guess. Then he strikes. This time I don’t move, don’t look away from him, but my eyes swim with tears and they trickle down my cheeks. My mascara must be running, too. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat and cracks the crop over the same nipple again. I breathe hard and wiggle a little on my knees, but keep my gaze locked on his.
“Better. But keep still. I’m going to keep doing this until you do what I say. Look at me. Keep looking at me. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move.”
Risking his ire, I point out in a small whisper, “But I can’t even see you properly with that mask on.”
He trails the crop over my jaw, against my lips. “Pretty baby, my instructions aren’t for you, they’re for me. Go ahead and cry if you want, you know how I like it. But you have to keep looking at me.”
I do cry, silent tears slipping down my cheeks, and though I can’t see his face I can tell he’s smirking. I do know how he likes it.
His breath hitches. “Aren’t you just a fucking picture. Do you know how perfect you are?” The crop cracks again over my reddened and sore nipple, and though it hurts I keep very still, watching what I can see of his eyes. Two more tears slide down my face.
His voice becomes a caress. “There, that’s it. Good girl, good baby.” The back of his gloved hand brushes my wet cheek, and I lean into his touch, craving it. How I love crying for him, bit fat tears of pain and need, when I hated myself for crying in front of Adam. Two very different men, two very different reasons for crying. Frederic isn’t afraid of my vulnerability, he craves it.