Recessed lighting traces the curve of a staircase that leads to a lower level. Wolf gestures for me to precede him.
My fingers skim the polished wood of the banister. My feet automatically find the steps. I try to ignore the fact that Wolf is right behind me, that I feel him on the stairs, the heat of his body radiating onto mine.
The staircase opens onto a large room. The lighting is soft down here, pooling across a smooth black floor. The first thing I notice is the bed—sleek black sheets draped over a high mattress, a heavy iron frame with four sturdy posts, each studded with solid grips. The second thing I notice is the full-height, X-shaped cross in the far corner, brutal iron bars splayed like a torture device. The third thing I notice is the cabinet, doors open, shelves full of leather and vinyl and steel.
I’m standing in Cole Wolf’s BDSM dungeon.
25
COLE
When I bring a pro down here, I’m transacting a business arrangement. We negotiate a price. She signs a non-disclosure agreement. I exploit my power, testing my control.
But everything’s different with Kate.
This isn’t the proper way to bring her into my home. I should take her to the kitchen and make her a cup of tea. Give her a tour of the entire house—the wine cellar and the sunroom and the library, the parlor and our offices and the music room. I should take her to the second floor with its four guest rooms and its master bedroom suite.
We have all the time in the world—till death do us part, if either of us actually believes the priest who pronounced us married.
But my marriage to Kate is hardly the thing of romance novels—heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, dozens of red roses, undying professions of love. She’s here because this marriagewas arranged. That, and because I tied her up in Boston, because she got off becoming my sub.
And I didn’t become the billionaire CEO of Lone Wolf Enterprises by taking my time or by following anyone else’s rules. I gauge my competitors, and I pounce when I can gain the greatest advantage.
So Kate’s tour of my home begins in the dungeon.
I watch her closely. She’s no blushing virgin. She likely recognizes all the equipment in this room, even if she hasn’t played with it before.
But measuring her reaction gives me a chance to decide how I’ll use her first. I watch the set of her shoulders as she takes in my domain. I study her face in the smoked mirrors that fill one long wall.
She nods, just a little, as she studies the padded wall to our left, the one studded with anchors for chains or ropes. I know she’s imagining herself spread-eagle, or suspended between floor and ceiling, bound at her neck, her waist, and her ankles. She glances at the spanking table, swallowing hard as she recognizes the spikes on its collar, the shiny steel buckles built into its stirrups.
She barely acknowledges the bed, with its waist-high mattress covering a cage underneath, its iron bars echoing four posts, a headboard, a footboard. She pays even less attention to the black leather couch with its matching armchair, and the stocks, and the stark iron hook hanging from the ceiling, strong enough to support a few hundred pounds.
She’s more intrigued by the armoire, with its shelves and drawers filled with tools for impact play, with vibrators and knives and dildos built for pleasure and for pain.
And she’s fascinated by the St. Andrew’s cross. It fills one corner of the room—six feet tall, its iron bars forged into a solid X. There’s enough room around it to crack a whip.
Her eyes flare wide as she studies the black leather cuffs waiting for her hands and feet. She licks her lips, the tip of hertongue betraying her nerves. She finishes her survey of the room with deceptive calm, lingering on the display of canes in the armoire.
It takes her a moment to find my eyes in the mirror, but when she does she drawls, “My, what a big dungeon you have.”
I take my time studying the words scrawled across her chest. The letters are backwards in the mirror. I wonder how long it took her to create her Fuck You protest. Closing the distance between us, I spread my right hand across her belly. Pulling her close so she can feel my hard-on against her ass, I give her the answer she deserves: “The better to fuck you with, my dear.”
Driving her home from Baltimore, I almost considered letting her go. I can live without her father’s money. I can rebuild my reputation from the client hit list without her Irish mob. Lone Wolf is bigger than Red Cap; I have better business connections.
But I don’t want to set Kate free.
I don’t want to miss learning how much pressure it takes to bruise the tender flesh on the inside of her elbows. I don’t want to give up hearing her gasp and swear and fight as she accepts the submissive role she discovered in Boston. I don’t want to miss calculating how many times she can come in a single session, then going one better.
First things first.
“You remember your safeword?”
Defiance flares in her grass-green eyes. “I won’t need it.”
I reach around and catch her chin, forcing her to turn and face me. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I know my own limits and they’re?—”