“For God’s sake, Mason,” she snaps. “Stop staring at me.”
She’s really asking for it.
I chuckle. Trial by fire it is.
I nod. Standing, I stroll over to her. Jaw set, gaze hard, I let her see every ounce of dominance I’ve kept hidden from her.
Eyes wide as saucers, she shrinks back, sucking in a lungful of air.
That’s more like it.I smirk. “All right, let’s go to the playroom.”
“The what?” Her voice is little more than a croak.
I lean down close to her ear and whisper, “The dungeon.”
4
Anna
Ifeel a bit disappointed.
It’s not that I wanted to be taken to an actual dungeon or anything, but I expected something a little more…ominous—like a medieval torture chamber.
Mason’s “dungeon” has the distinct ambiance of times gone by, but there’s nothing scary about it.
In fact, it’s quite beautiful.
The rich color of the walls and thick, plush carpet look warm and cozy instead of gloomy. An armoire of heavy wood with six planked doors—so massive it must be custom-built—take up one wall. Tucked in a corner, an ornate daybed with a wrought-iron frame and rich burgundy fabric seems the perfect place to take a luxurious nap. A couple of interesting chairs and benches are scattered about, but none look particularly menacing.
Nothing like the strange contraptions I dared glimpse on the internet before hurriedly clicking the image away.
What transforms the room from rich and cozy to outright gorgeous is the iron scrollwork dominating walls of deep gray. Arranged in complicated patterns of different shapes and sizes, some feature candles, and others are so large they go from floor to ceiling, each one unique and beautiful. Mason’s house is nice, albeit a bit masculine for my taste, but this room… This room is something special.
Just not particularly scary.
“Wow,” I tell him. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Mason places his big hands on my shoulders and starts to rub with a slow, methodical knead. “An artist friend of mine created them. He’s a sculptor. Maybe I’ll introduce you someday.”
“His work is stunning.” After weeks of missing Mason, I relax into his heated palms, more than happy to feel those hands working my tight muscles.
His thumb circles a tender spot on my back. The knot loosens and dissolves under his touch.
I moan, my chin dropping forward to give him better access as he sweeps my hair over my shoulder, exposing my neck.
My eyelids drift closed, and I breathe easy for the first time in weeks.
Mason’s hands are magic. He presses and prods, finding spots I hadn’t known were sore, and I turn into a boneless pile of mush. I only wish I was lying on that fabulous daybed so I could relax completely.
Is this how he plans to deal with my perceived infraction? If so, sign me up. I’m totally game to be slowly pleasured to death. Lazily, my mind wanders to the books I read. Why did I get myself so worked up? Of course Mason is like the gentle, guiding men I read about. They’d been like old-world gentlemen, and doesn’t that suit me best?
I can’t imagine him forcing violent screams of pain that somehow culminate into explosive climaxes, as in theotherreading I did.
Under his attention, my stress, confusion, and fear melt away. Mason will protect me. Love me. He’d never be cruel and ruthless. I’m not sure how he means to control me, but I’m suddenly certain that, like this room, there will be nothing scary about it.
“Do you want this?” Voice soft as velvet, he sounds both a stranger and achingly familiar.
Absently, I nod. Lashes fluttering open, I stare at the dove gray carpet, frowning. Again, I feel a flash of disappointment. Where’s my relief?