To Love and Submit (21 page)

Finally, her body relaxed, sated and spent. She gradually became aware of Adam gently stroking her burning skin and the soft purr of an engine reminded her of the fact that she had just succumbed in the back of Adam’s car with Rob, if not watching, then certainly hearing everything. She buried her head in her hands with shame. “Oh God,” she groaned. How could she ever face him again?

Adam gently lifted her and watched her shift painfully as she tried to sit back down onto the soft leather seat. “I’ll ask again. Is your arse still sore?” His eyes were laughing and she could tell that he was just waiting for the slightest excuse to do it all over again.

“Yes, Sir, it’s very sore.” Her words were breathless as she fought to regain some equilibrium after losing control so completely.

“Good.” He kissed her again, this time softly, and she melted into his arms as contentment replaced the urgent desire from a few moments ago. “You’re home. I hope you enjoyed your ride.”

“It sure beats the Tube.” She grinned happily and kissed him again.

“See you tomorrow.” Adam playfully slapped her arse as she slid past him to step out of the car. Rob was holding the door open for her and nodded politely when she thanked him. Her face flushed again and she hurried up the steps to the front door to hide from her embarrassment. Rob waited until she was inside before driving off, and as she made her way upstairs to the flat she grinned as she imagined her face to be as red as her newly spanked bottom.

As she got ready for bed that night, Rachel’s head swam with excitement and fear. Her dreams had come true, beyond her wildest dreams, and yet there was something about Adam that scared her. Not him personally, she knew he’d never harm her. No, this was something deeper. He expected a level of trust from her that she wasn’t sure she was capable of giving.

But it was more than that. Why did she get the feeling that she was heading into something that was way beyond her inexperienced limits?

‘
She was my slave
.’ Adam’s words reverberated in her head. She remembered she’d been shocked, really shocked when he’d told her that. And she’d asked him if he was looking for another slave. His answer had shaken her to the core, something about accepting nothing short of her complete submission.

“Oh, my God,” she cried out in dismay. She sat down on her bed with a heavy thump and shook her head in disbelief. Adam stone wanted her to be his slave.

Despite the fact that she liked him more than she cared to admit, did she like him enough to give up her freedom for him? With a sinking feeling deep in her heart, she reluctantly acknowledged to herself that she wasn’t sure she would be prepared to do that. Even for Adam Stone.

Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

The Dark Side: Darkening

Ashe Barker

Excerpt

Chapter One

Don’t you just love Beethoven?

Well, I do. I always have, since I was tiny. I’m just drifting along nicely to his Symphony Number 3 in E-flat major and contemplating the heroic doings of Napoleon Bonaparte—apparently Beethoven’s inspiration for this particular symphony—as my mobile starts trilling. Definitely need to choose a new ringtone sometime soon—this din could be mistaken for a budgie caught in a car door. What could I have been thinking, choosing that? Napoleon never had ringtones to contend with. Neither did Ludwig van. And I don’t appreciate the interruption.

It’s not even seven o’clock in the evening yet, and I am curled up in bed. I am surrounded by archaeology textbooks although I’m not in the mood for serious reading, and I do have Ludwig for company. But still—in bed by seven and trying to teach myself about the mysteries of ancient Egypt out of sheer boredom is just pathetic. I so need to get a life.

The phone has somehow disappeared under the duvet. I know it’s there somewhere because the budgie’s still screaming its silly head off. It gets louder after a few rings. God, what overpaid nerdy whiz-kid thought that little gimmick up? A pushy phone—that’s all I need. I get enough nagging from my mother. ‘
I just want what’s best for you, dear…’

“Sod ringtones.” Now I know I’m losing it, because I’m actually talking to myself. I suppose the real danger sign is if I start answering. An uncomfortable thought. I shudder as I shove it brutally aside.
I’m fine, absolutely fine. Now
.

On that thought, I finally get my hands on the screeching HTC spawn of Lucifer and drag it out to face the light, punch the passcode into the keypad and answer.

“Hello, Eva Byrne…?” Always that expectant little pause, my name turned into a question as though I might not after all be me. Wishful thinking.

“Eva…? Evangelica, is it…? Ange, is that you? It’s Natasha…” A little pause, no doubt to give me time to remember who Natasha might be. It doesn’t work—my mind’s a complete blank. And no one I know calls me Ange. Or Evangelica—unless it’s my mother in a very bad mood.

“…from the agency.”

Right,
that
Natasha. The snooty bitch with fuck-me heels and killer red talons glued onto her fingernails who looked at me like I was a lesser life form when I called in at the Little Maestros musical tuition agency a couple of weeks ago. I was looking for some alternative way of making a living, and if I could find something I actually liked doing, so much the better. I love music, and I quite like teaching, so I dropped off my CV and qualifications with a few agencies, just in case they might have some temp work going somewhere. Natasha looked a fraction more respectful when she spotted my first class honours degree in music from King’s College, London, but rather spoilt the effect by asking me for proof of identity. Obviously she thought I’d stolen the degree certificate.

On reflection, I think her suspicions were aroused by my skinny black jeans, No Fear grey hoodie and psychedelic Converse trainers, topped off by a mop of wavy—or should that just be plain frizzy—red hair falling to the middle of my back. I’m not your archetypal music teacher.

My unruly hair is a constant nuisance, the bane of my life. It bounces, frizzes and waves everywhere, and short of shaving it off I have never found a way of controlling it. When I was a child my mother tried everything to get it into some semblance of order, and brushing it every morning became a war of attrition. The hair was winning, hands down, until eventually my mother had one of her Hiroshima moments where she takes decisive, drastic and usually disproportionate action. She marched me along to The Cutting Shop down on Stamford Hill High Street and had the lot chopped off. It curled more than ever in defiance after the vicious assault, but at least it would fit under a hat.

At five-four in heels and looking about sixteen—I am twenty-two, but like to tell myself I have worn well—I guess I didn’t fit the image of a serious violin teacher as I perched in a trendy little black leather bucket chair in front of Natasha’s pristine white desk, while she sneered down her aristocratic nose at me and suggested I was an impostor.

I wasn’t especially desperate to impress Natasha the super-bitch—other agencies are available—so she was treated to my scruffy, sullen teenager look. Maybe my unpromising first impression was why it took her so long to get back to me. Oh, well—I need the work so I’d better make an effort now. If humble and well-mannered is called for, that’s what I’ll do.

“Ah—hello, Natasha, how are you?” Always polite, that’s me, whatever the provocation. It’s my mother’s influence.

“There’s a job come up you might be interested in.” She pauses to let this sink in, make sure I’m listening. “Music tutor to an eight-year-old girl. She’s learning the violin.”

I am listening, and suddenly I’m very interested. I need to get a life, we’ve already established that, and here’s one that might just do. I really want a job as a musician if possible, at least for now. I’m not bothered about earning much, and I know that private tuition is hardly going to keep me in shampoo and tampons, especially with the agency creaming off most of the fee. But with my somewhat unique talents I can earn enough in a single evening to cover pretty much anything I might need. This job sounds just right, just what I’m looking for. I can play a mean violin—shouldn’t be too difficult to teach a little girl the basics. I put Ludwig on pause for a few minutes and resolve to be very polite indeed to Natasha.

Natasha rushes on with her explanations, obviously in a hurry and clearly desperate, which is probably why she’s ringing me. “Valerie was doing it.”

Valerie—do I know a Valerie?

“She’s been teaching her for the last three months, but she busted her leg skiing and she’s laid up somewhere in the French Alps.”

French Alps—all right for some… But still, she’s got a broken leg and now I’ve got her job, so I guess life sort of levels itself out.

Natasha is still gushing on. “Our contract with the client says we’ll provide a replacement, and you’re it. If you want to, of course… I need to know now, though, because we’ve already blobbed for two days and the client is not best pleased.”

No need to ask me twice—I’m sold. “I’ll do it. When do they want me, and where is it?”

“Ah, well, that’s the thing. You start tomorrow, at nine—the client is very definite about that. Doesn’t want little…whatever her name is…ah, yes, Rosie, little Rosie, missing any more of her lessons just because of a broken femur.”

Sounds reasonable.
“Okay, give me the address.”

“Black Combe, Oakworth.”

“Where?” Quick flick through my mental A–Z of London—nope, no Black Combe that I know of. Probably one of the new high-rises in the Docklands. Can’t place Oakworth either, come to think. But not to worry, that’s what satnavs are for.

“Oakworth. It’s in Yorkshire. It’s near Haworth. Where the Brontës lived. They wrote books.”

“Haworth!” I know where the bloody Brontës lived, and what they got up to. I’ve read all their novels God knows how many times, and I know Yorkshire is up in the north of England somewhere. How far up north?

Not too far, actually. I dump the London A–Z and start rifling through my mental UK atlas. I have a photographic memory for maps, as well as pretty much everything else I see or read, so I can visualise it perfectly and I know exactly where Haworth is. And what it’s like—I have a mental image of a
Wuthering Heights
rolling moorland scene. Windswept, dramatic wilderness. These images rush through my head as all goes quiet on the other end. Natasha wisely gives me a moment to collect my scattered wits.

“But I’m in London.” Stating the obvious is one of my many talents. I’m in North London, admittedly, but Yorkshire, Haworth, is still two hundred miles away. “How am I supposed to get there ready to start work tomorrow at nine? Which station do the trains to Haworth go from?”

“King’s Cross, change at Leeds, then again probably, not really sure…” Always helpful and well-informed, our Natasha. “But the job’s not in Haworth. It’s in Oakworth and that’s another train ride on top, assuming there’s a station there. These places up north can be a bit cut off, you know. The train’s no good—you’ll have to drive up. You could be there in four hours. Five tops.”

No station? What sort of place is this? And I happen to know she’s wrong. Haworth does have a station, and so does Oakworth. I must have read about this once, because I know that they are on the Worth Valley line and that quaint little steam trains run along there every weekend, full of Thomas the Tank Engine groupies and railway enthusiasts, no doubt. Not much good to me now, though. I need a high-speed rail link or, better still, a helicopter, not the timeless magic of steam.

I glance at my bedside clock. It’s just turned seven now, so even if I can set off within half an hour that means arriving in a strange mainline-stationless town after midnight, finding a hotel—if they have one—getting checked in and settled, and up in the morning in time to find this Black Combe place before nine in the morning. Bloody hell.

Even while I’m panicking quietly to myself, though, I know I’m going.

“No need for a hotel.” Is Natasha a mind reader now, or did I say all that out loud? “The job is live-in. You’d get all expenses and accommodation, and a tuition fee on top. Shall I tell them you’re on your way?”

Pushing all unhelpful irrelevancies out of my head—for example, if I felt like being really picky, I could ask Natasha why anybody would need a live-in music tutor—I jump into action. Too right, I’m on my way. Natasha promises to make the call and I leap out of bed to chuck a few clothes in my holdall and grab my violin. I’m going to Yorkshire.

* * * *

Since my hasty exit from the dreaming spires of Oxford six weeks ago, I’m going out of my mind with boredom. I can’t stand it. The last few weeks of bunking up with my mother have been just barely bearable. She means well, I know she loves me, but she always worries about me and my future. She desperately wants me to be safe and settled, but can’t for the life of her understand what mental aberration made me dump a distinctly promising career in academia—at one of the most prestigious colleges in the world—and show up on her doorstep without warning, rhyme or reason.

I tried to pass it all off as something fairly casual, told her that I’d seen enough pomposity and pretentiousness at St Hilda’s venerable College to last me as many lifetimes as I might be blessed with, and I am desperately longing for a slice of real life. I appreciated it didn’t sound convincing, even to me, though I happen to know it’s true. Well, some of it. As far as that story goes.