Unholy Promises

Unholy Promises

A Chronicle of Surrender

Roxy Harte

“Ama me fideliter! Fidem meam noto: De corde totaliter Et ex mente tota, Sum presentialiter. Absens in remota.”

Translated:

“Love me faithfully! See how I am faithful: With all my heart and all my soul, I am with you. Though I am far away.”

~ Carmina Burana, Omnia Sol Temperat

December 21

The Ritz-Carlton, San Francisco, California

My eyes open to the solid darkness of a pitch-black room. I don’t move, barely breathing. I listen, still and silent, searching the room for threat of danger. From the other side of the door comes the sound of men—soft talk and even softer laughter, and a television playing, almost indistinguishable from the other noises. I rest easier, knowing the tickle that awakened me was merely the press of a hard nipple against the tip of my nose. Shifting between cool sheets, I awaken just enough to discern that the warm, soft weight pressing into my chest is a woman. Glorianna. Her name drifts through my mind, and I remember my purpose for being in this bed in this moment. I will never forget the day we met. I was well hidden from my enemies on U.S. soil. Every agency in every country that I had ever worked for thought me dead, but I had underestimated the cunningness of the clandestine agencies of the United States. It was this woman who found me. This woman who would have made my life a living hell had I not accepted her proposal. By becoming a guardian of U.S. interests, a safe-keeper of her interests; I would have her protection.

In the years since, I have had many instances to protect her, and she has honored her promise to protect me.

The Guardians aren’t recognized as a world power, their existence is the stuff of urban legends, but exist they do, and this woman controls their every move. She controls me. It isn’t something I like to dwell on, especially when I know she has an assignment for me … as tonight. She will wait until she has amused herself enough on my flesh and then I will go to work.

Thank God, she sleeps still. Exhausted, I close my eyes for a second time…

“Eva, Eva, Eva.” Bound and gagged, her back and shoulders glistened with a light sheen of sweat in the rosy glow of candlelight. Even cast in shadow, his mark stood in stark relief against the paleness of her skin in a crisscross of stripes blazoned across her shoulders and back. Drawing his finger down the length of a soft, pink welt, pride welled inside him as her shoulders trembled beneath his touch. That alone excited him. Her soft sigh drove him beyond madness.

He smirked at the foresight of her parents, naming her for the original temptress, Eve, because she embodied his every sinful fantasy.

Her ice blue eyes glowed savagely in the candlelight, watching his every move. Her defiant will called to his baser need to tame and he more than willingly answered the call.

Leaning toward her, he caressed her cheek with his gloved hand, absorbing her shivered response. Tenderly, he pushed a sweat-soaked tendril away from her eyes. Her growl, feral and wild, shot straight to his groin.

God, how he needed her like that—a wild animal restrained. Pushed to her mental and physical limits, she was mad with primal need. A need he knew she couldn’t have fathomed only hours before.

He saw her as a lioness prowling the lone savanna seeking a mate, she sought the one who would be bigger, stronger, faster. The one she could find rest in—the one worthy of her submission—the one worthy enough to unveil her inner self to. He knew all too well that in her very real world of intrigue and espionage, there was no room for emotion, only survival of the fittest, by any means necessary and few men were even up to her speed—

physically, mentally, emotionally—and it was his belief that only here, with him, because he was her equal, could she find the peace within herself to face her fears; tear down the illusions; bare the fierceness of her passion. Only here, with him, in their sanctuary of noir erotica, could she face her weaknesses without shame.

The air was heavy with the sensual smoke of burning sandalwood, which he inhaled deeply, savoring the acrid woodsy scent that called to his deeper subconscious, need older than time fighting to the surface. His primitive ancestor may have been content proving his dominance by clobbering his intended over the skull with a club then dragging her to his cave by the hair on her head, but he needed more.

His leather-covered palm slid over her bare bottom, stopping in its tender caress to cruelly pinch a welt here and there. He laughed at her involuntary jerks, her uncontrollable primitive response to escape the pain. Slowly, very slowly, he spread her ass cheeks, savoring the screamed protests muffled by the ball-gag.

She knew his intention, even before she was bound, and agreed to his terms. Yes, she needed his attention in that way as badly as he needed her to submit to him. However, she would fight the restraints securing her wrists and ankles in a final act of rebellion. She would buck and fight him, cleaving to Protestant notions that what he asked of her was morally wrong, deviant, evil. But her protests would be to no avail. It was too late to back out and she knew going in—no second thoughts, no safe-word, no outs. And she needed the security of knowing that he would keep his end of the bargain, to prove he was strong enough to Master her.

Keeping faithful to his side of the agreement, he was utterly ruthless until finally, exhausted, she submitted. It was nothing she did, not even the slightest detectable change in her repose, but a change in the air around them. Before that moment, the electric charge in the room was touchable, feeding between them as hungrily as two live wires colliding. Then suddenly, the flow of energy shifted—she absorbing his and he giving her energy in return, freely.

Kneeling behind her, he inhaled her scent. Loudly, so there would be no doubt in her mind just what he was doing. Then, as slowly as he could, he exhaled, spreading a warm breeze over her tender exposed flesh. A small smile played on his lips as her entire body shivered in delightful response. Teasing her, he dipped his tongue against her—just a soft lick—enough to send her into a raging panic. Then he held her thighs, crushing her muscles to pull her ass back onto his face so that he could lick her fully from front to back, rimming her tight anus long and hard until her struggles ceased, until she was too tired to fight any more.

Only then did he stand and release the ball gag.

“Tell me, Eva,” he demanded in a low gravelly whisper.

“No!” She spat, covering his cheek with saliva.

His laugh startled her and she jumped in her bonds. He felt a compulsion to take her, but didn’t, even though his blood pulsed wildly through his veins. Her anger excited him.

And he desperately wanted to tame her. He desperately wanted to harness her wildness.

Though, he knew there was no hope of ever doing so, not completely. She was too strong-willed, too proud.

“Eva,” he whispered her name against her cheek, her name prayerful on his tongue.

“Eva, Eva, Eva. You need me this way. Tell me. Tell me you bow to me.”

“Never!”

He silenced her with his mouth, closing it over her and taking what he wanted from her, possessing her through her mouth. He knew her scent lingered in his beard, knew that her nostrils flared with every breath of sweet muskiness. He wasn’t sure what that scent did to her mind, but knew it never failed to break a barrier within her.

“Bow to me, Eva,” he whispered softly, commandingly, still teasing her lips with his teeth, gentle nips, stingy bites, until her resistance gave way and her strung-out body melted into his, their sweat mingling.

Smoldering heat surrounded them, binding them in an invisible inferno of lust and unholy desires.

“Please don’t make me do this, Lord Fyre,” she sobbed against his teeth. He caressed her cheek, accepting what he knew to be imminent, and pushed her—just a nudge.

“Yes,” he hissed back, licking the rim of her mouth with his tongue, the same way he had rimmed her ass so sweetly moments before. He held her as she broke down, catching her sobs in his throat.

“Bow to me,” he growled into her mouth.

Frantic kisses over his face were his answer, silent begging for him to understand how difficult it was for her. She strained her body trying to get nearer. For every action, he backed away, just out of reach, not even a bare inch between them. Teasing space, unbearable space. Space sealed as his gaze met and held hers. Pathetic silence filled the void, sending the liquid fire of need speeding through his veins. He knew her blood had to be boiling out of control.

“Bow to me!” he demanded loudly.

“Yes, oh yes,” she sobbed. Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks.

He nipped her cheek, holding her gaze, demanding more with his tease. “Yes?”

“I bow to you, Lord Fyre.” She moaned, her need reaching deep inside his heart to speak directly to that primitive man within him. He closed his eyes, mentally dragging her into his dark, safe cave, promising to protect her and keep her safe.

“I need you to Master me.”

“Yes-s-s,” he hissed, licking away her tears.

Moving behind her, slowly enough not to break the newly tenuous bond between them, he comforted her with gentle kisses over her neck and shoulders before he claimed her gift of submission. He didn’t take her roughly, as he longed to, but eased into her slowly, allowing her the time to dwell on her admission.

She was sobbing by the time he buried himself to the hilt—anguish, need, hate, desire. All of it mashed together into an incognizant emotion that only he could understand. And, in that instant, he cherished her above all others.

“Don’t hurt me,” she begged.

“Never,” he promised. The caveman within roared loudly enough for her to hear,

“You are mine now. Mine.”

It was an unholy promise that would haunt him all the years to follow, because he knew then—even as he promised it—she’d trusted him with her heart, her soul. And he had no intention of keeping that promise.

Fingers digging into her shoulders, he rode her hard, pushing her higher and higher, until she could climb no more, and all that was left was the freefall of her orgasm. Only then did he take his own release in her.

“Eva!”

I awaken, sitting straight up, the scream of her name still on my lips. Unbalanced, I fight the sink of the luxurious featherbed, the cloying bonds of Egyptian cotton Frette linen sheets, and the heavy down comforter for stability. It was a dream. Just a dream. I close my eyes, disappointed that I am not at The Dungeon in Paris. The dream so real, I can still smell her scent. No, I realize, not Eva’s scent, another’s. And then the memory of who I am and what I am doing here as a rather willing prisoner of fate on Nob Hill comes to me. It also enters my realization that she, the owner of my soul for at least this night, is also awake. Stiff as a board next to me and pissed as hell, but awake.

“Thomas?”

God, how I hate that name.

Prisoner to that name for the better part of six years, it still seems foreign to my ears, even when pronounced properly as Tomas, I have to think before I answer. Of all the names I have used in this lifetime, it remains the most foreign. It seems a cruel twist of fate that I have been shackled with it so long.

The tone in her voice dispels any notion that I will save this moment gracefully, and yet I will try.

“Thomas?” she hisses at me again, using the same aristocratic high-pitched voice that makes grown men—Congressmen and Senators alike—tremble in the wake of her famous tirades; but it does little to scare me. Perhaps because there is really very little she could threaten me with, no leverage, or perhaps because, when compared to the atrocities and very real evil I have faced in this world, hers is just a child’s game.

She chose me because I can do for her what none of her men in suits can. Of course, they mill in the adjoining room and outside in the hallway, guaranteeing her safety, though I take her safety as seriously as any one of them and feel better equipped to protect her than they would ever think to. Best they were not privy to our earlier game.

Better it is our little secret that she enjoys being tied, gagged, blindfolded, and spanked.

Despite my scream, we are left undisturbed. Madam’s armed guards are well trained, they wouldn’t dare disturb her … unless she were the one to call out.

The bedside light suddenly flashes on and I am left blinking into the artificial brightness, seeking her eyes. She fares little better, but she manages a decent scowl.

The shaded lamp is not kind at three a.m. and the lines around her eyes appear deeper, cavernous when compared to the heavily made-up eyes that crinkled with laughter over the candlelit table earlier. Eyes not filled with hurt. Sighing, I close my eyes.

She thinks I regret hurting her and pats my hand, asking in a motherly tone, “Perhaps you should begin by explaining who Eva is, dear.”

I am never emotional … short-circuited, unfeeling, hard—yes; but emotional? If I ever was, it was so long ago it feels less real than a fairy tale. So why does my throat feel like it is closing up and my lungs are ready to collapse? I know for a fact that Eva is not the cause, though the dream perhaps was the presage of regret.