Unraveled by Her (12 page)

Afterward, when we're showered and back in our armchairs again, he catches me squirming in my seat.

“Normally a punishable offense, Miranda,” he says.

“I'm sorry, Master.”

“You should be. Apart from anything else, you are making a big deal about absolutely nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I could make it hurt much, much worse,” he says, and I get wet again.

“More punishment, Robert?”

He shakes his head.

“Not the kind you are thinking of,” he says.

I stare at him with bated breath.

“Imagine spending the next ten hours of the flight forced to wear rubber panties under your dress, the inside of which I've spread with a liberal amount of Tiger Balm. After a short while, the pressure inside the panties would build and build, and it would feel as if you were sitting in a vat of boiling water. Not just for a moment, but for hours and hours,” he says, and I go white with fear and sexual arousal.

He gives me a sidelong glance, kisses me passionately, and presses a buzzer, and one of the butlers serves us supper.

Before I expect it, we land at JFK.

I'm happy to be coming home to Hartwell Castle and to start my life there with Robert, but the moment we set foot on New York ground, my first thought is of her, and I feel nauseous.

My nausea increases when I remember that I'll soon be confronted by the sight of Hartwell Lake and the ruins of Hartwell Island, so at first I don't notice that instead of leaving the airport, Robert is guiding me toward the heliport.

So that rather than traveling to Hartwell Castle in a limo, and driving up the driveway, from where Hartwell Lake and Hartwell Island will both be in full view, he flies us there himself by helicopter, approaches the castle from the side opposite the lake, and lands the helicopter in the castle forecourt with the expertise of a professional pilot.

Consequently, just as he intended, I am not immediately faced with the view of Hartwell Lake, the island, and the ruins of the mausoleum.

But kind and thoughtful though his gesture is, there is no way he can erase the horrific memories from my mind. And not the guilt. Definitely not the guilt.

Chapter Thirteen

Back at the castle, we have drinks by the roaring fire in the library. I'm feeling drowsy from the long flight (and afterward, when I replay the conversation in my mind, I wonder whether that's why Robert picked this moment to have it) when he leans close to my face as if he were committing it to memory.

Then he takes my hands in his and holds them tight.

“I didn't want to ask you this till more time had passed since your ordeal, my darling, but I'm tormented by not knowing what really happened to you during those terrible three days in the mausoleum . . .”

I'm cornered, captured, on the rack with no hope of a reprieve.

I look down at my engagement ring—I've chosen the pink diamond for tonight—as if I'll find inspiration or salvation in it.

But there isn't any.

So do I tell him the truth at last?

But how can I, after keeping my silence for so long?

And if I do tell him, how will he ever forgive me for my deception?

I take a deep breath. “What exactly do you want to know?” I say.

He gets up, pours himself a brandy, offers me one, and because my heart is thumping as if it will burst, because I need something, anything to calm me down before the sky falls down on me, I take it.

“But if it's still too painful for you to remember, sweetheart, let's just forget it. Only, when you were in hospital and delirious . . .”

Delirious! I was delirious! Did I give it away? Does he know already?

“I don't remember,” I say truthfully.

“Then let's not talk about it anymore,” he says.

Better to regret discovering the worst about something than not discovering it at all

“Please, Robert, tell me what I said. A lot of what happened to me is still a blur, so maybe you telling me will help me remember.”

“Would you like me to hypnotize you? That might bring everything back,” he offers, and my stomach turns over.

I shake my head.

“If you tell me, I might remember,” I say.

“Nothing definitive, darling, just ravings about Tammy, Mrs. Hatch, her poodle, and then Georgiana, always Georgiana. Clearly she dominated your thoughts because you were imprisoned in the mausoleum alongside her casket,” he says.

I nod, transfixed by horror.

“But you never have to think about her or the mausoleum again, as the mausoleum is now burned to the ground, and not even a trace of her DNA exists anywhere.”

He is silent for a terrible moment.

“Given her past, and her true and evil nature, did Tamara . . .” He hesitates, “Did she do anything to you?” he says.

“She was hardly ever there,” is all I can think of saying.

“Probably spent most of her time at Le Château, instead. A real cash cow, even after Murray left it to her,” he says thoughtfully.

I take a big gulp of brandy.

“We need to put all this behind us, my darling,” he says. “Tamara was obsessed with Georgiana, became riddled with jealousy of you and me, and was obviously planning to kill you. But she's dead and you are completely safe now. Soon the kidnapping will just be a distant memory, like an old nightmare you've long forgotten. I promise.” He gives me a smile so warm and loving that my heart almost splinters with guilt.

We sleep the night in each other's arms, but although he kisses me, he makes no attempt to have sex with me, and throughout the night and into the morning treats me as if I were a piece of priceless Ming china.

I understand exactly why he is being so kind, but if he carries on being a vanilla gentleman for longer, I think I'll go crazy. As far as I'm concerned, the only thing that will erase the specter of Georgiana from my mind is to escape into another world, to our secret world where dominance and submission, eroticism and sexual pleasure are paramount and next to that everything else is rendered meaningless.

In the morning, Robert tells me he has meetings for most of the day, and not for the first time I wish Lindy weren't in Honolulu visiting mom right now.

“Robert, I'd love to go back to the dungeons,” I finally blurt out, when we are having supper together in the evening.

He stares at me openmouthed, as if I had suddenly announced that I wanted to become an astronaut.

“Not Dungeon Five,” he says. It is a statement, not a question, and I love that he is so sensitive, and so aware of my feelings and understands that I'm still shell-shocked over what Tamara subjected me to in there.

“You're right, Robert. Not Dungeon Five,” I say, then add, “But definitely all the rest.”

He squares his shoulders.

“Very well, Miranda, in this particular case, it's your choice to go back down into the dungeons again, or not. But it's mine regarding what I do to you once we get there,” he says, and his words thrill through me.

Much later, I struggle to keep up with him as he strides toward Dungeon 3, the mirrored dungeon where he tested my capacity for obedience. I am eager to be in the dungeon with him again, not to be tested but purely for his pleasure—and, I hope, mine.

Robert's pleasure, of course, is paramount to me. And I know that my pain is his pleasure, and his pleasure is mine, as well. A strange conundrum, but one that makes me happy, no matter how strongly my shameful secret burns within me.

On his instructions, I enter the dungeon dressed in a white corset with white stockings and white patent heels, very clichéd for a submissive, but I still feel extremely sexy dressed like that.

He orders me to the middle of the dungeon, and I stand there, eyes down.

“Remind me of the significance of this particular dungeon?” he demands, in a low rumble.

“This is one of the dungeons in which you tested me, Master, and I hope very much that now that I've passed all your tests, you will take your pleasure with me here anyway,” I say, although I am so aroused by the thought of what he might do to me that I don't find the words easy to articulate.

“And to what tests were you subjected here?”

“Tests of obedience, Master,” I say, and blush at the thought of detailing them to him.

Right now he towers over me, and as always, I experience a second's frisson of fear.

Then he reaches out and cups my face.

“So rare, so beautiful, Miranda, so in need of training, restraint, discipline, domination, so in need of everything I need so much to give you,” he says, then takes me by the hand and leads me over to the large four-poster bed in the middle of the room.

I quickly check to see what kinds of cuffs or restraints are already attached to the poster bed, but to my surprise there aren't any.

“You see, domination isn't necessarily a matter of pain, punishment, or restraint,” he says.

He leads me over to the bed, then stops and, instead of ordering me to lie down on it, strips off his robe to reveal that he is stark naked underneath.

But before I can drink in the magnificent sight of his spectacular Greek-god body, his perfect pecs, his rock-hard ass, he lies down on the bed, flat on his back.

In that position, his chest looks bigger than ever, his chest hair dark and curly, his thighs bulge, and his legs seem impossibly long and incredibly muscular.

And dominating everything: his long, thick cock, the skin of it dark, the smooth, round head of it big and glistening with pre-cum.

What will he do if I suddenly bend down and lick it off for him?

Too active, and probably a bad idea, I guess.

“On top, Miranda,” he suddenly barks, and it dawns on me that he does want me to be active, after all.

But do I want to be? That's the question, particularly as I've never been on top before. My favorite and most frequent position is on all fours, ever since my first lover, Warren, initiated me into the world of domination and submission. But now Robert, a far, far more dominant man than Warren ever was or could be, Robert, the King of Dominants, wants me to take the superior position on top and be active in bed after all!

“Shall I take off my corset?” I say, suddenly feeling at a loss over what I should do next.

“Not yet. Just your shoes. Then sit astride me, and clasp your hands behind your neck,” he says.

And for a moment I relax, simply because I think I can guess what's going to happen next: nipple clamps. He is going to clamp my breasts with nipple clamps. I just hope that I'll be able to withstand the pain. But while I hate the idea of having to endure it, I also want to, more than I'd ever admit, even to myself.

So I sit astride him, my hands behind my neck, while quick as a flash, and with an expertise that dizzies me, he puts his cock inside me. Deep inside me. In fact, deeper than I've ever had it inside me.

For a second, stunned, I just sit there, his huge cock so deep that I feel it hit my cervix. We gaze at each other, and as I revel in the reflection of the white heat of his passion for me, and the iron hardness of his cock, a wave of ecstasy surges through me.

Then he grabs me by the waist, hard, so hard that for a second I cringe, and then he moves me backward and forward, only a fraction, while my arms are still behind my neck and my breasts are rammed against his chest.

Just when I feel that his cock has swollen even bigger inside me, he stops suddenly.

In a swift, abrupt movement, he pulls down the front of my corset so that my breasts are free.

“Look up, Miranda,” he says, and I see the reflection of myself in the mirror above me, and my breasts are engorged and enormous.

“Now fuck me, fuck me hard, fuck me so that you really feel it,” he says, and he grabs me around the waist and moves me up and down, down and up, deep and fast as if I were a jackhammer.

While all the time, reflected in the mirror, my breasts bounce from side to side and I blush scarlet with embarrassment.

“Ashamed of how beautiful they look?” he says, and I nod.

“Well, you shouldn't be,” he says, and pulls me forward so that my breasts are in his face. While he fucks me harder and faster than before, he sucks on each of my nipples as if the meaning of life itself flows from them.

Then he sits me up, wraps his arms around my ass, and moves me up and down on his cock again.

I revel in every thrust, every movement he makes, but as hard as he is fucking me, as deep and as fast, I still can't get accustomed to the control this position gives me over him.

And I'm not in the least bit sure that I really like it.

Just as I am in the process of admitting to myself that I don't, he pulls out of me, flips me over on my stomach, and then fucks me from behind, just the way I like it—no, love it. And as he does, I see his reflection in the mirror and watch his every movement, transfixed.

The power behind his thrusts, the flexing of the muscles in his thighs, the concentration in his dark green eyes as he judges each movement, each thrust, and monitors my reaction to each and every one of them, are mesmeric.

“Look at yourself in the mirror, Miranda, look how flushed your breasts are, how big your eyes are, how beautiful your body is,” he says.

But for once in my life, I find that I am unable to obey him, and I don't look at myself in the mirror.

Because as much as I want to obey him, all I really want to do, all that I will ever want to do when I'm in this position and he is behind me, fucking me as if his life depended on it, is gaze at his reflection in the mirror, and worship it with all my heart, soul, mind, and body, to thank God that I'm here, with him, and that he's fucking me with so much heart and power and passion.

“I only want to look at you, Robert, only you,” I say, and with a last and final thrust, he comes inside me with a roar so loud, so naked that I know at last that his passion for me is equal to mine for him, and I come, too, wildly, wantonly, moaning and in the throes of a world-class orgasm.