Page 168 of Bad Attitude
“Did you cut my leathers off too, you bastard?” I can’t see my jacket clearly enough to be sure.
“Of course not.” He looks offended. “I’m no barbarian.”
“Says the man who’s tied me up and is busy slicingthrough my clothing.”
“Artistry, sweetheart,” he mutters, pulling away the side of my panties. There’s a snip and the material sags, cohesion gone.
“I’m not your goddamn sweetheart.”
“You know,” he says, cutting the other side. “Most people in your predicament would be genuinely afraid. You appear to be genuinely irate.” He peels my panties away. “And genuinely naked.”
Despite my anger, I shiver. Declan always seems a little dark, a little scary, but despite his calm, it’s like something within him has snapped. Or worse, it’s always been there, and he’s giving it free rein. For the first time, I do feel genuine fear. Stripping away the last remnants of my clothing has only enforced my vulnerability.
It doesn’t make any sense. I was tied up already, completely helpless. But my clothing—such as it was—gave me a barrier I now no longer have.
And he’s still holding that knife.
But even as it draws my gaze, he spins, arm coming back and snapping forward, and the knife turns through the air, burying itself in the dartboard fifteen feet away.
Declan’s full of surprises.
“Let’s get to it,” he says, like we have some cleaning to do, and walks to the vaulting horse. He’s put his box down on there, and I can’t see what’s in it. But what he pulls out is something I instantly recognize.
“That’s a flogger.”
“It is indeed.” He gives it a practice swish through the air.
“Why the hell do you need a flogger?”
“For flogging.”
I swallow hard, struggling against the ropes in reflex, even though it’s pointless. I’m naked, stretched out, on my toes, and Declan has a flogger.
“I don’t agree to this,” I say quickly.
He smiles as he prowls towards me, steps deliberate, the flogger twirling aimlessly at his side. Saying nothing.
“Declan, please…”
“What’s the package?”
“I don’tknow, okay?”
“Would you tell me if you did?”
Not in a million years.
“That’s what I thought,” he says to my silence. I should’ve lied and said yes; I hesitated for too long. “Then we’ll do it my way.”
I lick my lips, eyeing the flogger. It has a thick leather handle, a good eighteen inches long, with a dozen suede strands coming off it. “Where the hell did you get that thing?”
“This?” He lifts it up. “I made a stop while you were asleep in the pickup.”
“I wasn’tasleep. Youdruggedme.”
He shrugs. “Same difference.” He walks past me, beginning to spin the flogger in the air as he goes. There’s a practiced rhythm to the movement.
I turn on my toes, not wanting him where I can’t see him. “I told you, I don’twantthis.”
