Page 52 of Lord of Pain
We're back on his bike, racing through the city streets with the rumble of trucks, the endless clamor of horns, and he skirts left to avoid two pedestrians who are jaywalking, their eyes trained on their phones. When we turn onto a wider stretch of road along the Parkway, he hits the throttle, sending us rocketing down the road as I bury my scream into his shoulder.
Finally, he pulls up in the back of Sinful Secrets, the huge, old mansion looming over us. He takes my helmet, handing it to a valet before wrapping his arm around me and walking in through a private entrance.
"You're beautiful like this," he says, his hand cupping the back of my head. "Your hair's wild, your cheeks pink."
"After that ride? More like, my hands shaking, teeth rattling together like castanets," I add, and he bursts into delighted laughter.
"Come on baby." Roman takes my hand. "I have something special for you tonight." He carefully slides a mask over the upper part of my face, a seductive satin one with feathers brushing my cheeks and trailing in my hair.
"Why don't you wear a mask?" I ask.
"Because this is my club," he says. A bare-chested attendant - who would be more suited to strutting the catwalk on Fashion Week - opens a black door for us. "I have nothing to hide and nothing is hidden from me. For you, though…" He raises myhand, kissing the inside of my wrist. "Your privacy I will always protect."
I didn't see this part of the club when I'd come looking for him that night. There are darker things that play here. A sharp-eyed Dominatrix toys with a portly older man who looks like he might be a banker, or a college professor. Right now, though, sagging in his bonds, he's just a slave. Another area shows a woman stretched in impossible positions; arms and legs spread wide and bound to wooden posts as a man and another woman run their hands over her, striking her with a crop every time her eyes close.
Even the rooms are darker here, painted a deep gray, with angular furniture and a shining black floor with nothing soft to redeem it. No cushions or rugs like I'd seen in other parts of the club. My sandals click on the marble and the trio turns to look at us, the man smiling as he strikes his bound partner across the thigh as she jumps and moans. Is it for our entertainment? I'm not sure, but I quickly avert my eyes.
Taking another set of stairs down, Roman leads me to a floor that's even more ominous. The walls are rough stone, with hooks in the ceiling and racks of equipment and toys. Some I don't recognize, the ones that I do make my mouth as dry as the Sahara.
What the hell did I say yes to?
Medieval-looking torches are lighting the stone hallway stretching in front of us, with doors made of oak with black iron fittings. Roman pauses in front of one, his hand on the knob.
"What is your safe word?"
I can't manage more than a whisper, but I say, "Amber."
He looks down at me with a smile so proud that I would doanythingto see that in his eyes again. Pride, and approval. It's been so long since I've felt that from someone who mattered.
When he opens the door though, I halt in the threshold, eyes wide and my little burst of confidence wavering. The room is… Sharp. There's no way to explain it. A spiky metal brazier burns in one corner; the heat is stifling. There's a platform, a wooden top built on a stone base like an altar, offering something dark and terrifying to whatever Gods rule this place. Gleaming steel catches the firelight, knives and other things that look like garden tools made of steel with polished ebony handles.
Roman lets me look at it all for a moment before he rasps, "Undress."
Hands shaking, I fumble with buttons and zippers, leaning down with one hand braced on the wooden table to take off my sandals. My last scrap of modesty is a pair of black satin undies that he'd left with the dress, his eyes drift down to them, and then meet mine again, raising a haughty eyebrow. I try to hold on to that confidence and slide them down my thighs, completely bare as he stands in front of me, fully dressed.
Damn him, he takes his time, looking me over with unnerving thoroughness. I stand with my hands at my sides as he circles me, brushing my hair over my shoulder and pulling it into a ponytail, wrapping it around his fist and he tugs it back sharply. The breath leaves me as I stare up into his face.
Roman is colder, predatory. Is this the face that his enemies see?
That makes me shudder for a moment, and he smiles briefly, kissing me on the lips. "So brave," he croons. "So courageous to step into hell, not knowing how you'll find your way back."
Sweat beads along my hairline, my breath is coming faster. When he helps me onto the platform, face down, the wood feels cool against my cheek. He fastens my hands in the manacles attached to the top and in seconds, my ankles are tied as well, leaving me spread open and helpless.
"Close your eyes." He removes my mask and slips a blindfold in its place, soft, comforting silk, but tight enough to hold. "Not a word now, sweet Violet," he says. "This is your time to feel."
I hear the rustle of fabric, and as he leans over I can feel the brush of his bare arm against my back, so he's taken off his shirt, at least. I remember the look of his tattoos, violently spreading across his chest. Snakes, writhing through skulls, more of the dragon that winds up his arm, the head with its vicious, red eyes glaring over his shoulder. Picturing how they'd be moving and twisting in the fire light, his smooth skin over sculpted muscle.
My hips shift, rising slightly.
One rough hand smooths over my ass. "What are you thinking about?"
"Your tattoos." I'm pressing my clit against the table, instantly turned on. "How they must look on your skin in the firelight."
His hand squeezes my ass. "Every time I think you can't be more delicious, you surprise me again." He's close to the table and I can feel the hard, hot length of him against my thigh.
There's silence, just the low snap of wood in the fire, and then, a clicking sound. Sharp, decisive clicks and I arch my neck, trying to guess the source.
"What-"
