Pain And Pleasure 18+✓

Twelve

My hair tumbles all over the pillow as I rear my head back with decadence. To quel the treacherous heat searing through my female core, I slowly touch my breasts. An image of a man I've never seen claiming my body as though it belongs to him rivals my breath, and soundly my chest rises and falls.

But this is nuts.

I close my blindfolded eyes, trying to calm my hormones down. It's been twenty minutes now since I arrived in this hotel suite, waiting for him like a bride waiting for his groom on their first wedding night. But hell, this far from that romantic endeavour even if he's the guy infiltrating my nympho now.

Why can't he show up already?

My stomach twists from overweening nerves. And then that fragrance I could recognize in my deep slumber rolls in like a thin blanket of air in a country field. Rich and wild, just as before, his presence traps me in a strong riptide, unable to fully comprehend whether this is reality or yet another fantasy.

But alas, this time it's real.

"Mister Castle?" I prop on my elbows at the sound of his footsteps.

"You surprised me, Miss Lincoln," he exhorts.

Relief fills my heart with vigor at the sound of his voice. It's him, so I ought to relax, but because it's him, I also can't seem to relax at all.

"I apologize for my being late, but we had no prior appointment served at this time frame so I'm naturally dissolved from fault here."  I hear him drop some stuff onto the bedside table and coast himself to a halt.

I don't know what to say. Slowly I fall back on the bed, bracing myself, leaving everything to chance.

The silence stretches and I believe his eyes are on me... or my half-covered thighs that I bind together comprehensively.

"You look beautiful," he whispers, no sign of him moving from where he's stopped. I swallow tightly, my heart thrumming violently. "But for someone who acted all crazy last night, I truly wonder what made you change your mind. Care to explain, Miss Lincoln?"

Money.  It's all about your money.

"Um... No, Sir." The answer slides automatically, and I mean it. "I'd rather not talk about it, and I'm deeply sorry about last night."

At last, he moves and the sound of his shoes isn't as loud as the ones he wore yesterday. He sits on the bed and soon I feel my legs held up rather gently by him. I gather no time to think or ask anything, as he takes them onto his lap.

What is he doing now?

When I try to rise he says, "Don't move. Keep lying still."

It's an order.

I do as he says, and smoothly he takes one of my heels off. I focus on his touch, his hold, his expert hands grazing my skin at each move he makes until my feet are bare.

He carefully puts my shoes down; I can feel it as he bends over, but I can see absolutely nothing.

"Whatever your reasons may be," he mutters deeply and quietly, "I have to make it very clear that you're going to do as I say from now on. You're not allowed to contradict or raise your voice or change your mind without a proper reason. What you think, what you feel—I want communication. And if you have a question, ask."

My breath hitches stuck in my throat, and I realize I've been holding the sheets too tightly as though my existence depends on it, and maybe it does.

This is it, Ara. You're officially his property, whatever the name is.