“You have no idea how fucking hot you look like this. Your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are wild, trying not to show what’s going on inside. But I know. I’ll always know.” His grip pulled my hair taut with an edge of pain. “Go downstairs, pour a glass of wine, and bring it to me.”
My shoulders tensed.
His lips turned up in a cruel smile. “Make sure you ask Whitney for her recommendation.”
Chapter
Twenty
As my body grew accustomed to the plug, it became easier to move around, but every step down the staircase made my anxiety grow, just as Luka had intended. Would his personal chef know about the dirty secret in my body the second she laid eyes on me? I used to have a great poker face, but that was cards.
She stood at the kitchen island, a pair of tongs in her hand as she supervised dinner. A pot steamed on the sophisticated gas range, but her focus was on the grill top, where lamb chops were cooking.
“Hello,” I said over the grill’s ventilation fan. My cheeks were burning.
She glanced up and did a double-take. Whitney’s bright gaze scanned me and a smile stretched on her face. “Why, hello, Addison.”
Luka’s personal chef appeared to be in her late thirties. She had rich brown hair, cropped short and it swept across her forehead. I was instantly struck by how maintained she was. The exceptional organization of her meals should have shown me how organization extended into all aspects of her life. Even her apron was a perfect white.
“I was wondering when I was going to meet you,” she said, her eyes glittering. “Luka wouldn’t let me ask, so I’ve been making extra meals in case you have any dietary restrictions.”
“Oh,” I said. “No, I’m not allergic to anything.”
“Yay!” she joked. “Shellfish is back on the menu.” She picked up one of the chops and turned it. “I’m Whitney, by the way.” The tongs were set down and she extended her hand for a shake.
I’d swear I could feel the toy more the longer I remained in her presence. “Nice to meet you.” I didn’t want to seem rude and tried not to speak in a rush. “Luka asked for a glass of wine before dinner. What do you recommend?”
She thought for a moment. “There’s a California cabernet that’ll go nicely with this lamb.”
I stood in silence as she went to the wine fridge, checked labels, and pulled out the bottle she was looking for. Whitney moved with precision while she opened the wine, and thirty seconds later she handed me the poured glass.
“Thank you,” I squeaked out.
She noticed my hand trembling, but said nothing. Instead, she gave me a friendly, curious smile, and nodded.
I trudged up the stairs and down the hallway back to him, careful not to spill the red wine. I lingered with my hand on the door knob, drawing in a deep breath to calm my nerves before pushing it open.
Didn’t matter, I wasn’t prepared.
Luka must have moved the new piece of furniture in while I was downstairs. I wasn’t sure what it was exactly, and I stared at it with dread. The piece was black and similar to a construction sawhorse, only there was padding covered with vinyl at the top. Buckle cuffs decorated all four legs.
I almost spilled the glass, but Luka snatched it out of my hand just in time.
“Breathe,” he ordered, setting the wine down on the dresser and locking me in his arms, keeping me from bolting. “This is like the clock. It’s another tool to help us get to where we need to be.”
I couldn’t rip my gaze away from the damn thing. He was going to restrain me to it and do unspeakable things. That fear was paralyzing.
“Look at me.” It took an enormous amount of strength to comply. His expression was serious. “This experience can be as pleasurable as you want. I’d prefer that.” His eyes flooded with lust. “You sound so amazing when you come. I’ve watched the video you took, like, fifty fucking times.” He turned me in his arms, pressing me back against his chest so we were both looking at the thing and his lips were beside my ear. “It’s just a bench. There’s nothing to be scared of.”
Was he serious? “What about you?”
I couldn’t see his knowing, evil smile, but I sensed it. He brushed my hair off of my neck and out of his way, planting a slow, lingering kiss there. “When we’re doing this, you’re not scared of me, you’re scared of how you feel when you’re with me.”
“Nope,” I said. “Pretty sure I’m just terrified of you.” It was a lie and I was certain we both knew it.
He picked up the glass of wine, turned his head to the side, and drank. “Then, get over it during dinner.”