Love Beat (8 page)

* * * *

In our rooms, Cade is waiting. He’s in shirtsleeves and has a short, neatly folded satin garment slung over one shoulder.

He glances at his watch as I walk in, a little out of breath. “Past midnight. Time for our next session. Strip and kneel.”

Slowly I do as I’m told, and he tosses me a flimsy pair of panties made of black lace. “Put these on. We’ll do the rest when we get there.”

“Where are we going?”

He takes the satin garment off his shoulder and shakes it out. It’s a short black robe with a satin belt. I slip it on then kneel.

“We’re going to the dungeon. It’s fully booked all week, but it’s always free after midnight. We’ve got sole use of it then.”

His expression gives nothing away. “The paperwork you signed before coming here covers all this but we’ll go over a couple of things. Your safeword, for instance. I’ll try to be careful. If anything really hurts or gets too extreme just say
mercy
. Got that?”

“Can I just say stop?”

“If you like. But everybody says stop. All the time. If you do, I’ll stop for sure, but if you say
mercy,
we’ll call it a day. OK?”

Naturally the dungeon is in the basement. We travel down by service elevator. He explains it’s been installed where the servants’ back stairs used to be. When we arrive, he unlocks it with an ornate key and stands aside for me to enter.

I walk in and catch my breath as the lighting comes on, a soft glow from wall sconces shaped like regency candles. There seem to be several rooms. I guess they’re the original cellars, used to store wine, maybe, or cheese.

All around I see a bewildering array of gleaming equipment. It reminds me of the tack room at the stables where I had a few riding lessons once. The walls hang with harnesses, whips and paddles. I can smell leather. I almost miss the rosettes from gymkhanas pinned on the wall.

But these rooms have a very different purpose.

“You mean… We’re going to use some of this?” I sound husky.

Behind us the door closes with a soft click, a terrifying sound.

Dreams are one thing. This is reality. Ridged leather. Glittering steel.

Be careful what you dream about.

He’s standing with his back to the door—arms folded, legs apart, very much in control. Every inch a Dominant.

“We’re going to use all of it.”

Chapter Six

“First time in a dungeon?”

The gleam in his eyes warns me that he knows the answer but he wants me to say it. He wants me to be a blank page for him, all wide-eyed and innocent. And so I am in his strange world of whips, chains and strict, scary women.

I nod, too wary to speak.

“Nervous?”

Excited, going on terrified,
is closer. “Should I be?”

I raise my chin boldly but my quivering lip gives me away.

His nostrils flare slightly. Now he looks hungry.

He circles me slowly, holding me with his eyes. It’s like we’ve started to dance and I’m unsure of the moves. All I know is it involves ritual, discipline—maybe pain.

This is his domain. He’s at home here. I only know it from the dreams that wake me at night and make me
wet
.

He probably knows all this too. He knows what happens to women in here and what draws them in. And I thought I was special—more fool me.

He puts women through this all the time, maybe even men.
I don’t normally handle vanillas.

So I’ll be a big disappointment.

I can see this place affects him deeply. His eyes seem darker, more intense, like he draws energy from these implements of torture. They give him a strange, feral power.

But I have power too. It pools between my legs as my arousal begins to pulse. It ensures his pleasure as well as mine, should it come to that…

He’s considering my question. “Should you be nervous…? Let’s see… You’re due a punishment, so maybe you should be. Arms out straight. Spread your legs.”

He fastens sturdy leather cuffs on my wrists and ankles. The cuffs are soft inside but they have business-like clips attached to them that jingle as he clamps them into place.

Instantly I feel trapped, like an animal. I grow wetter. I can almost
smell
myself. This is really going to happen…

He strolls over to a polished wooden rack and beckons me over. It holds gleaming canes in various thicknesses. He runs his hand lightly over them, his touch lingering with the reverence of an expert.

He selects one, lifts it out of its compartment and slashes it through the air with a sudden terrifying swish. It quivers to a halt as he brings it expertly to rest in front of him, its tip pressed against the floor between his feet.

I swallow.

“This is our toughest punishment cane. Pure Malacca, very painful, very extreme. For the true connoisseur.” He slides it back and takes out another—a slimmer, whippier version of the cane in his room. He twirls it in his hands then runs the tip of it lightly down my breastbone to my navel.

The touch of it sends a flame straight to my groin.
And we haven’t even started…

“Turn around.”

My mouth goes dry. Slowly I turn and brace myself.

“Open your legs. Wider. Put your hands behind your head.”

Reluctantly I spread my legs, automatically assuming a dancer’s pose, keeping my knees straight. Without warning, the cane lands on first one thigh then the other in quick succession.

I was expecting it, but I gasp as I measure the sting. The taps were light but I’m already tense as a bowstring. Sweat trickles down my left temple while heat glows between my legs.

He flexes the cane close to my face, his voice low, amused. “This is lighter than the Malacca but it can give you quite a sharp shock. And it makes pretty stripes if you like that kind of thing.”

I glance at the mirrored wall opposite and see thin red marks appear on the backs of my thighs. I shiver as heat flares again.

His eyes gleam. “But you’ve tasted the cane already tonight, so now we’ll try something else. You can stand up.”

He leads me around the walls, casually pointing out the different sections like he’s a tour guide. “These are the floggers.” He runs his long fingers over the forest of leather strands that hang from the rail.

Some are long and fierce-looking, others very fine, with sharp little strands that whisper as he moves them. They smell of well-used leather.

One is short and bushy, with little metal tips at the ends and colored glass beads along the strands. He unhooks it and holds it up for me to touch. The strands are soft but surprisingly springy. It has a strong animal smell.

“Moroccan. Made of camel skin. Freshly cured, by the smell of it. Looks quite tame, would you think?”

I nod, wide-eyed.

“It’s a scaled-down version of a flogger. Sometimes called a pussy-whip.”

I dart him a look of alarm.

He smiles calmly. “We use it other places too. Floggers are perfectly safe.”

He cups my breast with his hand, brushing my nipple with his thumb and two fingertips. “Look at me, Tunis.”

As I meet his gaze, I feel a sudden rush of air and the whip lands on my bottom with a snap. It feels extraordinary as the stings from the little tips and beads blend with the sensual caress of the soft strands.

“Keep looking at me.” His hand cradles my breast, his touch light and fiercely arousing. He lowers his voice with a smile. “I’m your Dom. I have to know how you feel.”

I could look at him forever but right at this minute, I want to look away, to work all this out in private.

As if he knows this, his eyes lock onto mine, his pitiless gaze holding me in thrall as his fingertips continue to explore my nipple. It stiffens and swells, sending shafts of pleasure through me.

It tells him all he needs to know.

His eyes flicker as he leans forward and touches his lips to mine, tasting my lips with soft, light kisses and the whip lands again. As the tiny stings flare once more, I gasp and his tongue plunges into my mouth in a glorious thrust and slowly withdraws, lingering on my lower lip.

Heat consumes me as I kiss him back, panting now, eager for more.

His assessment complete, he gives my nipple a final, familiar squeeze and narrows his eyes. “Shall we continue?”

We pause before a long, flat bench, covered with a thin layer of padding. It bristles with fearsome straps and buckles.

“Spanking bench—where you’ll spend some of your time. And on the far wall, the grown-up version.” He gestures to a huge contraption like a polished wooden cross. It’s fixed with strong-looking clips and restraints on each arm.

He smiles as I touch it then leans across me and gives it a shove. It rotates slowly then begins to tilt. “This can be fun for a change of scene. But tonight we’ll try you on the trapeze. Lift up your arms.”

With a swift movement he snatches at a rail suspended above where I’m standing. It’s festooned with chains. They clatter and clink as he rapidly unwinds two of them and clips them to the leather cuffs on my wrists.

“Now spread your legs.”

Delicately he lifts one of my feet, pulls it wide and clips my ankle cuff to a large steel ring bolted to the floor. “Stand on tiptoe.”

It’s hard to balance on my toes using only the chains for support. They swing and clank, making it awkward to stand still. He watches calmly while I strain to balance, tensing every muscle.

At last he reaches for my other ankle, pulls it wide and clips it to another ring. Arching my feet, I’m spread wide and helpless.

He walks slowly around me, eyeing me critically. “I think we’ll spice this up a little.”

He takes something out of his pocket—a soft black sleep mask. He slips it over my eyes, instantly blotting out the light. As my senses sharpen I become aware of the sounds of my own body, the rush of blood in my ears, the insistent private pulse of arousal deep between my legs that matches the drum of my heartbeat.

I’m making my own music. It’s strangely soothing.

But if this is music I’m just the rhythm section. The melody is all him—the heavenly scent of his skin, whisper of his fingers on mine, the warm sigh of his breath as he runs his hands lightly over me, his electric touch making me shiver.

He leans close, his breath hot on my neck. It sends tremors all down my spine. “Have you any idea how beautiful you look at this moment?”

He finds me beautiful?
Is this a good thing?

Moisture trickles down my back in a thin line. “Did you really try to give this up?”

He strokes my tense, quivering flank. “Yes.” His low murmur caresses me like velvet. “When I saw you on the replays your reaction intrigued me. From that moment I’ve wanted to see you like this. So yes, I gave it up. At first it was easy. Once I’d got you into my head nobody else came close. And guess what? Now you’re here of your own free will.”

He kisses my thigh then pulls away and slaps me hard, making me yelp.

My mind races. “I suppose you want revenge?”

Of course he does.
How stupid I’ve been.
And now he’s got me right where he wants me.

“Revenge?
The dish best served cold? Oh no. I want something much more interesting. I want something
hot.
”

“What’s that?”

He laughs softly. “If we do this right you’ll find out soon enough. And by then you’ll want it too.”

At that instant there’s a movement in the air around me, and I feel his head between my thighs, his breath on one leg and the faint brush of his hair against the other. His breath is hot on my skin as he leaves a trail of soft kisses along each side. Tiny flames sparkle all through me as he draws achingly close to my splayed slit.

The air around me cools like he’s stepped away then, without warning, a flogger lands on the back of my leg.

It’s not the springy beaded one. The strands of this are long and smooth. They curl lovingly around my leg before slithering away, their snap and their sensuous slide sounding the sweet, piercing top notes in the music we’re making.

I cry out in surprise and it lands again, this time on my belly. It falls again and again, sometimes soft, occasionally harsh—excruciating and exquisite. Each new touch is a shock as my sensitive skin tries to decide if it stings or soothes.

Soon it hardly matters. I’m twitching all over, fizzing with arousal from both its sting and its caress. I begin to tremble.

His fingers slide into me, sending steady, pulsing bolts of arousal all through me. A trickle of juice, warm as honey, runs down the inside of my thigh and I hear him draw in a labored breath.

This affects him too.

“You’re very wet and swollen now. Does this
arouse
you, Tunis? Tell me.” He sounds husky with emotion, almost hoarse.

I gasp as the whip lands again, close to my nipple. It’s barely a tap, but I jerk at the shock.

“I said
tell
me.”

“Yes. Yes—it does.”

It lands again, harder this time, on my still-tender bottom.

“It does—
what
?”

“It does—S
ir.”

It goes on, light, teasing—but relentless. Sometimes the blows whisper over my skin like silk, sometimes they sting. Each one sends a jolt of electricity straight to my groin, too sharp to ignore, too light to make me come.

I’ve no idea where it’s going to land next. Soon I’m almost feverish, twitchy with arousal, aching for relief.

I grow weepy. When a precise blow lands squarely over first one tight, quivering breast then the other, I cry out without thinking, “
Stop.
”

Instantly the air around me stills. I hang limp in my chains for a moment, panting.

“Tunis? What’s the matter? Too much?”

I nod in my private darkness. “Enough, please. I can’t take any more right now. It’s so…” To my horror I feel tears well up underneath the mask then, all at once, I’m being unfastened. He gathers me up in his arms and carries me a little way then I’m lying down.

He pulls away the blindfold and he’s sitting over me, his expression troubled. I blink up at him, my skin on fire. A tear trickles into my hair.