Ian gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re not one of them, Jenna. He didn’t care about any of them.”
“He doesn’t care about me either.”
“It may not seem so, and he may not want to admit it, but he does. And that’s why I know he won’t cross a line.”
I just stare at the tabletop.
“Do you remember that day when you panicked? On the new piano bench.”
My stomach twists at the memory of that horrible bench, which I haven’t seen since. “Yes.”
“Killian was the one who got you out of the panic. Not me. He was the one who held you afterward.”
It’s like a strike of clarity through a blurry memory. I’ve been trying not to think much about that day, too ashamed of what they did to me—the way I broke down. But now I see Killian’s eyes before me, full of pleading urgency as he tells me to breathe. I remember his careful patience when he helped me off that horrible phallus, increment by slow increment. And then he held me.
Suddenly, I’m pining for that same attentiveness from Killian. I know I won’t get it, but the longing is so strong that I’lltake any kind of closeness I can get even if it’s cold and cruel. I just need to be near him.
I swallow back the thick knot of jealousy, shame, and fear, then lift my eyes to Ian. His expression is full of a promise to protect me. I might not get the care I crave from Killian, but once he’s done with me, I’ll come down here where there’s plenty of it.
Ian’s eyes light up as if he reads my growing determination. “Good girl. I’m so very proud of you.”
His words loosen some of the tension that has coiled tight in my stomach, and I manage to get through half the portion he placed in front of me. But once we leave the kitchen and I go to get ready, all the anxiety creeps straight back in and makes a mess of my stomach, making me dart into the bathroom several times, afraid I’ll spill the contents.
“I’ll be right here when you come down,” Ian tells me an hour later when we’re in the entryway.
I nod, heave a deep breath, and turn to face the stairs. The layered skirt of the peach dress Ian has bought for me sways around my hips as I grab the railing and start a slow ascent on quivery legs. The air caresses my bare skin above the thigh-high white stockings with pink ribbons, reminding me of how exposed I am down there. Only a thin layer of white lace covers my private parts, so flimsy it begs to be ripped. I feel like prey walking straight into the lion’s den.
The lion is waiting for me at the top of the stairs. I feel Killian’s presence in the very air, hungry and eager, and I don’t dare lift my gaze to meet his. On the last step, I stop, unable to go farther. His polished leather shoes come into view, clicking against the floor. I struggle to keep my breath flowing calmly, and I can barely draw in air at all when he stops in front of me, his hands tucked into the pockets of his suit pants. It’s so easy to forget that he’s the same age as me. His air of authority mightnot be as acute as his dad’s, but it’s there, sharp and buzzing, wrapping around me and making me shiver.
“Don’t be shy,” he taunts.
I close my eyes, draw a shuddery breath, then step onto the landing.
“Finally,” he says with a demonstrative sigh, “I have you all to myself.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear, and his touch awakens a whole slew of contradictory sensations. Twisty strings of tension and icy shivers of apprehension, but also heated surges of forbidden desire.
“Come.” He offers me his hand in a deceptively chivalrous gesture. Once again, I feel like I’m offering myself up to the hungry beast as I place my hand in his and let him lead me across the landing.
Instead of taking me to the piano room or his fully equipped BDSM room, he takes me in the opposite direction. The twisty knots tighten when he opens the door to the bathroom. I don’t know why, but something tells me this is not a good sign.
“I prefer my toys nice and clean,” he says with a foreboding edge, following me inside and closing the door.
“I just showered.”
“Oh no, that’s not what I mean.” He picks a huge syringe off the counter, and my whole system goes into a state of alarm.
“What the hell is that?”
“Don’t worry. There’s no needle.” He holds the tip my way, showing me a wide and long but needleless tip.
“What is it?” I repeat in a thin voice.
His smile remains as he nods toward my lower body. “To clean you. Back there.”
No, no, no, no, no.I start backing up. “I’m not letting you do that.” There’s no way.
“Good thing I don’t need your permission—and anticipated your reaction.” He sets the syringe down and grabs a pair of leather cuffs.