Descended (The Red Blindfold Book 2) (2 page)

The end of freedom. The
beginning of captivity.

That’s what I thought
of as I knelt on the floor and snapped the metal cuff around my
wrist. One lock down, one to go.

I
can do this.

The room filled with
the sudden glare of moonlight. Marc stood beside me, his shadow long
and still. I wouldn’t look at him, not until it was over. It was
enough to feel his gaze and the weight of his expectations. It was
enough that I was naked, and he was hard.

Teeth set, I slid the
other cuff around the steel leg of the bed and clicked it shut. No
hesitation, no second guesses. All in.

He’d been right,
after all: he hadn’t bound me. I’d imprisoned myself. But in the
end, it wasn’t from curiosity, fear, or even desire. It was pride.

He may have chosen me,
but he didn’t know me. He had no idea how strong I was.

I’d show him. I
wasn’t a scared girl anymore. The past didn’t control me.

I’d agreed to a week
of submission, and I’d keep my word if it killed me. Or worse,
humiliated me until I hated him and stopped recognizing myself.

I tested the handcuffs
by yanking my wrist hard. The metal bit into my skin, and held.
“There,” I said, raising my chin. “It’s done.”

“Good girl,” Marc
said, and bent down to kiss my lips tenderly. Looking into my
upturned gaze, he caressed my cheek. “You’ve pleased me so much.”

As I lay down on the
floor and closed my eyes, I told myself that pleasing him wasn’t
the point. Proving myself was.

But somewhere in the
dizzying confusion that spun me to sleep, I knew it was all a lie.

I woke the next morning
to find my wrist uncuffed and Marc gone.

Like a six-foot
two-inch specter, he’d managed to free me, dress, and leave for
work without making a sound. No kiss, no goodbye. No
how
was your first night as a slave?

I was almost glad.

I’d hate to have to
admit how well I’d slept on the floor. I’d hate to confess that
I’d awakened at dawn, felt a surge of pride in my resolve, and
drifted back into a deep sleep.

And I’d never, ever
tell him how it felt to be chosen. He’d never know how special it
made me feel.

The blanket fell from
my naked shoulders as I stood up, blinking. There was no sign of the
handcuffs, or the tension that had nearly ripped us apart last night.
The room looked exactly as it had when I’d first seen it yesterday.
Marc had even put away my dress and heels.

Nothing had changed in
the last twelve hours, except me.

I’d walked in one
person, and would walk out someone else. Someone who could convince
herself of anything, as long as it meant staying with Marc Brayden.

As I pulled a robe from
my suitcase in the closet, I finally saw a sign of him on the
dresser: a slim package of black tissue paper printed with a pink
dragon logo. I couldn’t wait to find out what was inside.

With impatient fingers,
I tore the paper open. There was no bra, only a pair of red silk
panties with a slit opening between the legs.

He’d said I’d have
new lingerie every day. The panties had been delivered stealthily
this morning, or he’d hidden them last night. Either way, he was a
man of his word.

Wear
these all day before showering for dinner, and then put them on
again,
said the hand-written note tucked inside the
package.
I want them to smell
like you when I remove them tonight
.
M.

I read the note once
more. There was no doubt it was an order. An order I’d signed up
for.

I stepped through the
smooth leg holes and pulled the panties over my hips. The quality of
the silk was exquisite and the fit was perfect, though
cheeky
was an understatement. Once I’d have been scandalized by panties so
skimpy, but after a night chained on the floor by the man who’d
lured me across the world, I didn’t think twice about them.

And Marc probably knew
it. Nothing he did was an accident.

I
need you
, he’d said, and timed it for maximum
devastation. He knew how my mind worked, and that made him dangerous.
It also made him very effective.

In the kitchen I found
a basket of still-warm croissants, a bowl of sliced fruit in the
refrigerator, and a sticky note on the warming drawer that led me to
a plate of perfectly-seared bacon.

Something
I learned to like in a certain country you know well.
It
was signed with a simple heart. A heart that grabbed me by my soul
and made me smile.

I had to admire him. He
was so damn clever.

This was the kiss that
followed the torment. The caress that followed the slap. Lure me into
the unspeakable, then lavish me with praise. Hook me, tempt me, give
me the delicious rush I was feeling now.

It was all part of his plan, and I
was reacting right on cue.

As it turned out, silk
panties and bacon were just the foreplay.

A huge vase of white
calla lilies arrived as I was finishing breakfast, and then Marc’s
stout, unsmiling housekeeper came to clean, showing no surprise at my
presence.

After she left I
discovered she’d unpacked my suitcase and arranged my toiletries on
the marble counter in the bathroom. My lingerie was folded in one of
Marc’s unused dresser drawers, my shoes lined up in the closet
under my dresses, which dangled from evenly-spaced hangers.

We were still in the
first hours of our agreement, but I was learning quickly. Being with
Marc involved much more than sex. It was a whipsawing of emotions,
from lust, to degradation, to the kind of pampering every girl
dreamed of.

It was seduction,
impure and not at all simple.

I’d just settled on
the sofa to work when I got a text from Julia, the last person I
wanted to hear from besides the asshole she’d set me up with.

Trevor
wants to see you before he leaves Paris.

I rolled my eyes at the
high ceiling.
Why, so he can
break in and go crazy again?

He
didn’t exactly break in.

Close
enough.

He
just wants to talk. He knows he could be handling this better but it
kills him to see you with somebody else.

Then
hooking up with an intern was a bad idea, wasn’t it? Not that I
care anymore.

Please,
Sophie. You were together 2 years. Give him 5 minutes.

Ugh. Five minutes with
Trevor versus an earful of guilt.
Ok,
but
it won’t change
anything. I hope he knows that.

Reluctantly, I gave her
Marc’s address and a time for Trevor to meet me out front. Eleven
a.m. on the day he flew home.

He’s
just worried about you. We both are.

No
reason to be. I know what I’m doing.

As I typed out the words and sent
them, I hoped to hell they were true.

Later, after a slew of
discreet deliveries that included a black silk wrap dress, seamed
stockings, and a box of tiny, liquor-filled chocolates, the buzzer
rang again. Though I waited in the foyer, a knock never came.

Opening the door
cautiously, I discovered in the hallway a small box addressed to me.
There was no return address on the packaging.

I brought the box to
the dining room table and, after a moment of hesitation, tore off the
plain wrapping.

It contained a smaller
box covered in pale green fabric and wrapped in cream-colored ribbon.
I opened the lid with trembling fingers. Inside was a cut crystal
perfume bottle filled with an amber liquid. The note was written in
Marc’s slashing, business-like hand.

I
had this made for you
.
Wear
it tonight and every day from now on.
M.

I pulled out the heavy
glass stopper and dabbed the liquid on my wrist. Taking a long
breath, I smelled Marc’s gift. The scent was luscious – musk and
gardenia, with a hint of something I’d smelled before but couldn’t
name. Rose? Lavender? It was potent in the bottle but subtle on my
skin, almost as if it were my natural smell.

All afternoon as I
worked, I kept bringing my wrist to my nose, wondering how a scent
could be so new and so familiar. To create this, he had to know me
better than I realized.

He’d thought about
the kind of woman I was. He’d wanted to understand and seduce me.
It took effort and time. It took care.

If he were nothing but
cruel, it would be easy. But he was courting me with risk and
excitement, making me crave the next soaring high.

Suddenly, I didn’t
care how our relationship looked to Julia or anyone else. He’d
picked me from across an ocean and brought me to him. This was
romance like I’d never experienced, dark, twisted, and deep. Or
maybe it was all a beautiful illusion, a cunning way to assure my
absolute obedience.

Either way, I was falling for it, so
fast and hard I didn’t have a prayer of stopping myself.

Just when I thought I
wouldn’t hear from Marc all day, he sent me a text.

Do
you like it?

I had no doubt what he
was referring to. I smelled my wrist again and let the heady scent
fill my senses.

I
love it.

I
thought you might. I spoke to Katherine and you’re going to
Provence with me. You’ll write a short article about buying foreign
real estate.

Will
I? I haven’t said yes yet.

I
won’t take no for an answer.

I’ve
noticed.

A minute later, he
texted again.
I’m very proud
of you.

Why?

You
know why.

That night, we met
outside Marc’s favorite neighborhood restaurant.

I walked the three
blocks from the apartment in the gray suede stilettos that had
arrived that afternoon, while Marc came directly from work. My breath
caught when I saw him, standing on the sidewalk scrolling through his
phone. He had the air of a man who’d been giving orders all day,
and had no intention of stopping.

He wore a charcoal gray
suit with a blue shirt open at the collar. I was dressed in the silk
dress he’d chosen for me, a leather obi belt tied tightly around my
waist. There was a faint chill in the air that made my braless
nipples hard.

When he glanced up, his
eyes radiated so much heat I blushed. “Did you follow my
instructions today?” he asked, dispensing with greetings.

“Yes,” I said. “I
put the panties on this morning and again after showering.”

He slid a hand over my
backside and between my legs, feeling for the open crotch through my
dress. As if he’d flipped a switch in my brain, I was instantly
wet, every nerve shimmering on high alert.

“And you wore the
stockings and garters?” he asked.

I took a step back so
he could see my silk-sheathed legs. “Do you like them?”

He pulled me against
him. His cock was a stiff spear against my stomach. “Everything’s
beautiful on you. You could wear burlap and turn heads.”

We kissed, a soft, wet
linking of our tongues that made my stomach swoop. Even in public, I
wanted him as if I were starving. Never had a man’s touch had such
a primal effect on me.

“No one would know
what’s under your dress,” he said, opening the door for me.
“That’s what I like most of all. Your elegance.”

“The clothes help,”
I said. “You have exceptional taste.”

“I have an
exceptional muse,” he said, patting my ass lightly.

The host led us to
Marc’s usual spot in the corner and pulled out my chair. Each
narrow table was covered with a simple white tablecloth. All over the
restaurant, red candles were wedged into bottles and candelabras that
overflowed with wax.

As soon as we’d
ordered, I held out my wrist to Marc. “Smell.”

He held my forearm and
lowered his nose to my bare skin. “Is it you or the perfume? I
can’t tell.”

“Exactly,” I said.
“That’s why I love it so much. Who made it?”

“A parfumier my
mother knew. He’s at least eighty now, and a master at what he
does.”

“He must be to have
created that. Thank you. It’s an amazing gift.”

I could feel the toe of
his monk strap shoe resting against my ankle. Just that was enough to
send tendrils of warmth trailing up my leg.

“I’m glad you like
it,” he said. “If you didn’t, I’d have to re-evaluate
everything I thought I knew about you.”

“But you captured who
I am on the first try.”

He raised an eyebrow at
the double meaning of my words. “You haven’t always made it easy
for me.”

“But hard is so much
more fun,” I said with a teasing smile.

He gave me a contagious
grin. “For both of us.”

Just then, one of the
waiters passed behind my chair, accidentally catching the handle of
my bag. The bag dropped with a hollow thud, spilling makeup, credit
cards, and loose change across the ancient stone floor.

Marc frowned and said
something to him in curt French.

“It’s okay,” I
said.

“I apologize,” Marc
said. “The service here is usually very good.”

The waiter dropped to
his knees and began to scoop up keys that had come loose from a key
ring. “Sorry, Madame,” he said, flushing crimson. “Very sorry.”

“That’s all right.
It was an accident.”

“Merci.” He held
out my bag, its jumbled contents jingling.

“Give it to me,”
Marc said. “I’ll put it here so it doesn’t happen again.”

Glossy black head an
inch from my leg, the waiter peered once more under the table. “One
moment…” he said, reaching toward Marc’s chair. He stood up and
set a small slip of cream-colored paper on the table beside the
pepper grinder.