I was wrong. I nearly broke her. Nearly broke us.
But she came back to me. She trusted me enough to try again. I’ve never been given such a valuable gift before—so it feels likeI’m shoving a knife through my own flesh when I say, “Not today.”
“I need you,” she says, and I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by the admission.
“That bratva cocksucker beat you with his gun.”
“I’m fine,” she says, extending her hand to prove it’s not still shaking. She touches the side of her head where he struck her, then shows me her clean fingers. “See? He didn’t even break the skin.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t have a concu?—”
“I’m fine,” she repeats, interrupting, which I suspect is part of her plan to goad me into disciplining her. “I’m not dizzy,” she says defiantly. “Not seeing double.”
“Maybe not anymore. But I saw how stunned you were when he hit you.”
“He just caught me by surprise.”
I hear the pleading in her tone. Shaking my head, though, I say, “You must still be sore from last night.” Last night, when I used the cane she’d been longing for since her first trip downstairs. Last night, when she cried out her safeword in agony.
“Please.” She looks directly in my eyes. “I need it. I need you.”
The truth is, I need her too. Kate isn’t the only one learning how to trust another human being. I trusted her last night—enough to actually fuck my wife for the very first time.
When the cane was too much for her, she used her safeword. I can believe she’ll use it again if she needs to.
So I take her hand and lead her to the basement.
The room is large. The indirect lighting cost a fortune to install; the heated floor even more. All the equipment was purchased from master craftsmen, geniuses with a passion for leather and steel and wood.
The bed is still rumpled from last night’s play. Her clothes—jeans and a sweater—tangle with mine on the floor. Standing behind her, I catch her gaze in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. “Red,” I say. “If you need me to stop.”
She nods, just once. Her eyes look black in the dim light, the emerald of her irises thinned to narrow rims. “Green,” she says, as if I asked her a question.
I bend to kiss the pulse-point beneath her right ear, my lips curling as her heart starts to race. A quick lash of my tongue makes her catch her breath. I close my teeth over the spot, hard enough to make her flinch, and then I laugh close to her ear.
“Out of those clothes, my dear,” I say. “Fast, now. Or you won’t get to play.”
She mutters something in Irish, but she reaches for the hem of her gray hoodie. Trusting her to act in her own best interest, I turn to the massive armoire against the far wall.
I can’t bind her wrists. An hour ago, Tarasov had her in zipties. I saw the raw red lines where she strained against them, where she fought for freedom. Those are bruises I won’t add to.
Besides, I don’t want her thinking of that Russian motherfucker again until we’re back upstairs.
I collect a leather harness from a velvet-lined drawer. The steel buckles are cold against my fingertips, perfect for what I have in mind. I shove a short length of chain into one pocket.
She’s glaring at me when I turn back around. “Was that fast enough for you?” she asks, jutting her chin toward the fresh pile of clothes.
“Watch your mouth,” I warn.
She rolls her eyes, punctuating her response with a click of her tongue and an exasperated gasp.
“One,” I say coolly. It’s a joy to watch her squirm.
Just as it’s a joy to fasten my leather collar around her throat. I purposely make it tight; I want her feeling the pressure of everybreath she grabs. A single strip of leather traces her sternum, splaying her tits. Five separate buckles fasten across her rib cage, transforming the harness into a punishing corset. Before she can think to fight, I cinch bands around her biceps, pinning her arms to her ribs with short metal chains. She wrestles me for control over her forearms, but I snag them too.
“So you need to tie me up like a feckin’ Sunday roast? You thinkthatwill keep me under control?”
“No,” I say. “But this will.”