“I was married. Young. At eighteen. I didn’t know any better. We divorced.”
Each statement is spoken quietly, carefully.
I already knew she’d been married, but I assumed it was done and over. It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d tainted my little pet with reactions I can’t control.
“And he hit you?” It’s not so much a question as it is a statement.
Maneuvering in my lap, she sits up straighter, not a tear in sight. Her dark eyes search mine and I give her nothing. My expression is impassive.
She whispers, “A couple of times.”
“His name?” I question, needing to make sure I’m certain of the man who put his hands on her in a way that left fear where all I crave is desire.
“Travis.” With a short nod, I end the conversation.
Resting my nose against her hair, I take a moment breathing her in, staring ahead to calm myself. With even and steady breaths, I force my body to relax until my little pet rests easily against me once again, absolve of the heavy weight of her confession.
“Do you enjoy what we do?” I whisper the question and her answer is immediate. “I do.”
It’s a soothing balm, but only so much as it can cover.
When I kiss her temple, she relaxes further. I can’t be sure she’s already aware, so I tell her simply, “Any pain I give you will be heightened by pleasure tenfold and never out of anger, never to harm you.”
My gaze is still straight ahead, her head nestled against my chest. She offers me a murmur of understanding, her warm breath tickling my throat.
Although it would seem as if the situation is settled, that statement can’t be further from the truth.
My tone is firmer as I tell her, “I must punish you when you misbehave. Do I make myself clear?”
Her body stiffens slightly but she acknowledges what I’ve said quickly enough. “Yes.”
“I didn’t tell you to move and you did.”
“I know,” she answers, easier now, more accepting.
“I’ll let you choose your punishment,” I offer her in an attempt to assuage her worry.
“I’m sorry,” she says as I help her up and onto her feet.
“Don’t be sorry, I rather enjoy punishing you—” I begin to tell her, but she cuts me off.
“No. No,” she says and glances up at me but she’s quick to look away, biting her lower lip to silence herself. I don’t miss how her fingers nervously intertwine around each other, or how she doesn’t look at me in the least as I take her to the hidden door in the bookshelf. It opens with a single push.
Braelynn
Holy fuck. Whips and all manner of implements for fucking hang in front of me. The door in the bookshelf hides so many toys and tools I don’t know where to look first. The light shines off of metal handles and the muted black leather brings a scent of sin to engulf me.
There are at least a dozen whips. A fucking dozen. Some are longer, some have thinner strips of leather, and others aren’t leather at all. I’d reach out and touch them, but it’s all too shocking.
A shiver runs down my spine. Some of these are intimidating. More than intimidating—they honestly look like weapons intended to do severe damage.
“Do you like any of them?” Declan asks. His deep baritone startles me and I take a step back, my hand over my chest.
I turn to face him, my heart in my throat. “Have you used all these before?”
He narrows his gaze, dropping down to my chest before answering. “They’re new.”
“No, like … have you …” I correct myself. “You know how to use them.”
“Yes.”
Tension remains between us. It’s awkward, and not at all like it normally is. Or maybe it’s just me. I don’t know. I can’t get out of my head. I genuinely thought he might hit me for a moment, not that he would. Not that Declan would … but when I was lying down Travis used to hit me; he always waited until I was lying down. I can’t shake the feeling. It was too much like the memory.
“Do you like any of them?” Declan questions again. Staring up at him, I wish I could tell him, but I don’t want to go backward. Instead I focus on the collection of toys … if you could even call them that.
I hug my arms to my chest and warm myself, running my hands up and down my exposed skin. It’s a little cold. Or maybe it’s my nerves. “Some of them scare me,” I admit. There’s a belt with studs hanging right at eye level. “This would hurt.”
“Very much,” Declan agrees, “but it wouldn’t break your skin.” Is he always so matter-of-fact like this? It feels different.
“You want to use it on me.”
He nods. “I will use it on you, and you’re going to fucking love it.”