Chapter 142

Hmm…She smells so good.

She shivers and hums deep in her throat.

“Hush, now,” I caution, and taking the flogger from my pocket, I reach around her, my arms brushing hers, and show it to her.

I hear her catch her breath and see her fingers twitch.

“Touch it,” I whisper, knowing that’s what she wants. She raises her hand, pauses, then runs her fingers through the soft suede tails. It’s arousing. “I will use this. It will not hurt, but it will bring your blood to the surface of your skin and make you very sensitive. What are the safe words, Anastasia?”

“Um…‘yellow’ and ‘red,’ Sir,” she murmurs, transfixed by the flogger.

“Good girl. Remember, most of your fear is in your mind.” I drop the flogger on the bed and brush my fingers down her sides, past the soft swell of her hips, and slip them into her panties. “You won’t be needing these.” I drag them down her legs and kneel behind her. She grabs hold of the pillar to shuffle awkwardly out of her underwear.

“Stand still,” I command, and kiss her behind, gently nipping each cheek. “Now lie down. Faceup.” I spank her once, and she jumps, startled, and scurries onto the bed. She lies down facing me, her eyes on mine, glowing with excitement—and a little trepidation, I think.

“Hands above your head.”

She does as she’s told. I retrieve the earbuds, blindfold, iPod, and the remote from atop the chest of drawers. Sitting beside her on the bed, I show her the iPod with the transmitter. Her look darts from my face to the devices and back again.

“This sends what’s playing on the iPod to the system in the room. I can hear what you’re hearing, and I have a remote control unit for it.”

Once she’s seen everything, I insert the earbuds into her ears and place the iPod on the pillow. “Lift your head.” She obeys, and I slip the blindfold over her eyes. Rising, I take her left hand and cuff her wrist to the leather shackle at the top corner of the bed. I let my fingers linger down her outstretched arm and she wriggles in response. As I walk slowly around the bed, her head follows the sound of my footsteps; I repeat the process with her right hand, cuffing her wrist.

Ana’s breathing alters, becoming erratic and fast through parted lips. A flush creeps up her chest, and she squirms and lifts her hips in anticipation.

Good.

At the bottom of the bed I grab both her ankles. “Lift your head again,” I order. She does so immediately, and I drag her down the bed so that her arms are fully extended.

She lets out a quiet moan and lifts her hips once more.

I cuff each of her ankles to the corresponding corner of the bed so that she’s spread-eagled before me and I step back to admire the view.

Fuck.

Has she ever looked this hot?

She’s totally and willingly at my mercy. The knowledge is intoxicating, and I stand for a moment to marvel at her generosity and courage.

I drag myself away from the spellbinding sight and from the chest of drawers collect the rabbit-fur glove. Before I put it on I press play on the remote; there’s a brief hiss, and then the forty-part motet begins, the singer’s angelic voice ringing through the playroom and over the delectable Miss Steele.

She stills as she listens.

And I walk around the bed, drinking her in.

Reaching out, I caress her neck with the glove. She inhales sharply and pulls at her shackles, but she doesn’t cry out or tell me to stop. Slowly I run my gloved hand down her throat, over her sternum, then over her breasts, enjoying her restrained squirm. Circling her breasts, I gently tug on each of her nipples, and her moan of appreciation encourages me to head south. At a leisurely, deliberate pace I explore her body: her belly, her hips, the apex of her thighs, and down each leg. The music swells, more voices joining the choir in perfect counterpoint to my moving hand. I watch her mouth to determine how she’s feeling; now she gapes in pleasure, now she bites her lip. When I run my hand over her sex she clenches her behind, pushing herself into my hand.

Though I normally like her to keep still, the movement pleases me.

Miss Steele is enjoying this. She’s greedy.

When I brush her breasts again her nipples harden in the wake of the glove.

Yes.

Now that her skin is sensitized I remove the glove and pick up the flogger. With great care I trail the beaded ends over her skin, following the same pattern: over her chest, her breasts, her belly, through her pubic hair, and down her legs. As more choristers lend their voices to the motet I lift the handle of the flogger and flick the tresses across her belly. She cries out, I think in surprise, but she doesn’t safe-word. I give her a moment to absorb the sensation, then do it again—a little harder this time.

She pulls at her shackles and calls out once more, a garbled cry—but it’s not the safe word. I lash the flogger over her breasts, and she tilts her head back and lets out a soundless cry, her mouth slack as she writhes on the red satin.

Still no safe word. Ana is embracing her inner freak.

I feel giddy with delight as I rain the tails up and down her body, watching her skin warm under their bite. When the choristers pause, so do I.

Christ. She looks stunning.

I begin again as the music crescendoes, all the voices singing together; I flick the flogger over her, again and again, and she writhes beneath each blow.

When the last note rings through the room I stop, dropping the flogger on the floor. I’m breathless, panting with want and need.

Fuck.

She lays on the bed, helpless, her skin pretty in pink, and she’s panting, too.

Oh, baby.