Sweet Backlash (5 page)

For the first time, he detected
vulnerability in her. Pain added a hard edge to her lips, yet
loneliness shone from her eyes like a beacon. She didn't like this
any more than he, and he believed she did this to save his life.
The problem was she intended to see their roles fulfilled. He'd
have to convince her otherwise. He hooked a finger over the edge of
the collar. "Take this off."

"No."

"I'm not taking the chance of having
people see me like this."

"I don't think you understand your
place. You don't decide anything. I tell you what to think, do, and
say." She gave the leader another tug.

His ire rose another notch, and he
tapped into his court training to get his emotion under control.
Pretending a judge looked down at him, gavel in hand, Chip entered
into calm negotiations. "How about I promise to accompany you
inside? In fact, because your feet hurt, if you take off this
restraint, I'll carry you to your apartment."

Her eyes widened a bit and she
loosened her grip on the leash. "I like the idea of you carrying
me, slave. I propose I leave the collar on but drape my arm around
your neck and hide the leash with my sleeve."

She was good, but he really wanted it
off. "I'm stronger than you. I could simply resist you. How
about—"

"Don't
ever
threaten to use
your strength against me!" Her face turned pink. She trembled and
the leader buckled in her fist. "I swear, I'll beat you until you
wish you'd never been born."

He could only stare. Damn, she was
sexy when she got enraged. In the five hours he had known her, she
had seemed so poised, so strong. Her wild eyes told him she had
come unhinged. Yet, not for a second did he believe she would
follow through on such a threat. She intrigued him. All of a
sudden, he wanted to get her inside so he could find out what lay
behind her outburst. He wanted to find out what made this beauty
tick.

She lowered a veil over her features
and inhaled a shaky breath. "Sorry."

He smirked. "Apologizing to a slave?
Is that allowed?" Maybe he could get into this game. For the
weekend. He didn't have anything else planned. Now that she showed
she wasn't hard as stone, this could prove an interesting
diversion.

* * * *

Melony couldn't believe her ears. Chip
had called himself a slave. Even George hadn't given in so quickly.
When he scooped up his jacket and came across the driver seat to
join her on the asphalt, she almost smiled. Almost. Did he just
become more attractive? She rubbed her eyes and looked at him
again.

"Tired?" he asked.

"I have no weaknesses," she said,
stating her dominatrix mantra. Kathy had taught her that her slave
had to believe she was invincible so she could maintain the upper
hand.

He nodded solemnly. "Except your
hurting feet."

Oh, yeah. She had admitted that. And
they were on fire. "Be careful," she warned. "Your attitude's going
to get you in trouble."

"Let me help you," he said like a
patient father talking to an exasperated child.

His tone should have insulted her, but
she liked it for some reason. She swung the car door shut right
before he swept her up in his arms. It took her by surprise because
she had expected him to wait for her command, and coming off her
feet that way made her stomach do a roller coaster flip. The thrill
made her smile, which she buried in her shoulder.

"Drop something?" He took a step back
and glanced at the ground.

"No. Go ahead." She pressed the lock
button, and the car issued a confirming brrrreep.

He headed for the building entrance,
his gait smooth. "You don't weigh much. Probably less without all
your leather."

"Don't talk. You're ruining the moment
for me." With every step closer to the apartment, her apprehension
mounted. He seemed docile, but she knew attorneys. He only acted
this way because he wanted something. She didn't buy his abrupt
change in attitude, and she had to come up with a plan.

The society rules clearly stated that
he had to stay at her place for a full month. However, she couldn't
let him have the run of the place. Especially with the way he had
kissed her. Especially with the way she had enjoyed it. He
threatened her security. Her sense of self. Everything she
understood of her world. He probably had in mind to put on a face
to the society, to Frank, and fake their roles when not behind the
safety of closed doors. She couldn't do that. He affected her, made
her feel sensations, have thoughts she didn't want. She needed to
control him so she could control herself.

She definitely needed a plan. Damn
Frank, anyway. If not for the bouncer, they'd have gone their
separate ways and seen each other only at work. The tension caused
by this awkward night would have lessened over time, and life
could've continued as it should. Unfortunately, they now functioned
under the rules of the society. She couldn't relent for a second.
If she let him chink at her hard-won wall, he could destroy her.
Put her back where she started a year ago.

Still in his arms, her feet already
much less painful, she unlocked the apartment door and pushed it
open as he walked them through. He set her feet on the carpet and
closed the door while she turned away so he wouldn't see her
grimace of pain.

"You look like a sexy vampire," he
said right behind her, his voice washing over her in a seductive
embrace.

Pretending like she didn't hear, she
unzipped both boots at the same time and stepped out. The lush
carpet cushioned her feet, the relief making her knees weak. She
hung her trench coat on the rack and turned. With a simple flick
and twist of two fingers, she unfastened the secret latch on his
collar and removed it. She hung it on the rack, the leash brushing
the floor.

"Hungry?" she asked.

"No. But do you have anything to
drink?" His expression told her he had as little interest in a
beverage as in food. His desire focused on her.

"You don't get to ask questions,
slave." She went to the kitchen and poured a glass of
water.

"Do we have to play that game? How
about we cut to the chase and just go to bed?"

Glass in hand, she stepped backward
and presented him with her most inviting come-hither look. He
followed like a sheep, though he smiled like a wolf. At a door
between the kitchen and the small dining area, she stopped. She
licked her lips suggestively, cracked the door, and set the water
on a ledge along the near wall inside. "That sounds like a great
idea," she purred.

In a single move, she darted around
the door and grabbed handcuffs before he could follow. She waited
for him, wondering why he didn't come right in. When he did, the
kitchen light illuminated the back of his naked body. She stifled a
giggle. How did he undress so fast?

"Why is it dark in here? Where are
you?" he asked. He reached his hands forward.

She took advantage, clapping the cuffs
on his wrists. Jerking the connecting chain, she had him off
balance and easily sent him stumbling across the room to a retainer
bar.

"What the—" he hollered.

With the speed that came from a year's
worth of practice, she attached the bar's runner lock to the cuffs'
chain, turned the key before popping it from its hole, and
retreated out of range. On her way out, she turned on an already
plugged in nightlight and called out, "Sweet dreams."

Chip tried to stand as the door
closed, but the new restraint wouldn't let him bring his hands
higher than his knees. He sank to the carpet and studied the cuffs
in the faint light. He tested the chains. They were the real thing.
He moved his attention to the cord and lock attached to the cuffs.
Clear rubber tubing encased steel wire, the same kind he used to
lock his bicycle, and a dura-loc secured it. Too strong.

Running a hand along the bar, he
checked the texture and where it attached to the wall. Soft, thick
terrycloth covered a pad. He could peel the material where it
fastened with Velcro, but the neoprene pad didn't budge. Grasping
the bar, he gave it a shake. It moved just a hair at the wall
bracket. Hope breathed new life in him, like a cool breeze on a
humid day. He rattled the bar with all his strength. It didn't
give. He slid his legs underneath and braced his feet against the
mirrored wall. He pulled. Pouring his might into the task, he
grunted with the effort. Nothing.

"Hey!" he yelled.

Silence.

"Melony! This isn't funny!"

Silence. Chip took a moment to glance
around. The room was the size of a second bedroom or home office. A
row of shelves displayed shadowed shapes of whips, harnesses,
chains, and other instruments of torture he had only seen in
movies. A single, straight-backed wooden chair sat in a corner, and
on the far wall, a sound system and speakers filled a glass-fronted
case. Other than the sheet mirror behind the bar, nothing hung on
the walls.

"Let me out of here!"

No response. No hint of
movement.

He bellowed until his voice broke, but
she didn't come. He remembered the glass of water she had brought.
If it still sat on the ledge, she might come get it. Maybe he could
reason with her. Almost afraid to look, he cut his gaze sideways
and peeked. Gone. The water was gone.

"Damn it." His voice had lost its
strength, and he could manage no more than a rasp.

He stared at his petulant reflection.
Quiet permeated the room – a living, throbbing, oppressive
nothingness. No noise from neighboring apartments. No traffic
sounds. Just his own breathing. Then it occurred to him. She had
soundproofed his prison.

* * * *

Melony set the last hot roller on her
vanity counter and ran fingers through her hair to separate the
curls. The rich scent of fresh coffee wafted to the master bedroom.
She headed to the kitchen and poured the steaming brew into two
cups. She grabbed a loincloth from the counter on her way to
continue Chip's training. As an afterthought, she collected his
collar and leash from the coat rack. Part of her dreaded seeing
him, yet part of her looked forward it.

Inside, she set the cups on the ledge,
put the neck restraint on a shelf, and went to where he slept,
stretched on the floor. After getting home from buying him
loincloths from the Pink Banana Boutique last night, she had
checked on him. She had covered him with a soft, fleece blanket
before going to bed. Now, only a corner of it rode over the curve
of his hip to cover his privates.

She drank in the sight of him. His
peaceful features, so boy-like in slumber, tugged at her and
contradicted the manly build below. Unable to deny her attraction,
she let her eyes worship his broad shoulders, thick chest, chiseled
abdomen, and narrow hips. The same black hair lightly swirling over
his chest formed a line that disappeared under the blanket from his
bellybutton. Lower, more graced his long, well-shaped legs and
peppered his toes. Damn, he was sexy.

Her body responded to him in a way she
had never experienced. She despised men. Feared their strength and
aggression. Subjected them to servitude when given the opportunity.
But this one she desired. Looking at him made her want to touch
herself. Made her want him touching her. A chill raised the hairs
on her arms, a combination of thrill and threat.

He lay naked at her feet, impotent
thanks to a restraint system guaranteed to prevent him from causing
her harm. She could have her way with him. She suspected he would
offer only a cursory reluctance, but she wasn't prepared. Not
ready. She wondered if she'd ever be ready. Besides, after last
night, she doubted he could handle it. The first night was always
the worst.

Stripping away the blanket, she went
utterly still. Her lungs clamped onto her last breath. His cock
stood at the ready, more perfect in form than the chocolate she had
tried to enjoy at the meeting. Straight, hard, and bouncing
slightly in time to his heartbeat, it begged her to wrap her
fingers around it. Test its size. Feel its texture. For the first
time in her life, she wondered about its taste. It appeared sort of
glossy, smooth, the blue veined ridges adding contour. She wanted
to know how it would feel on her tongue if she licked
it.

What was happening to her? Her own
thoughts contradicted all she believed, all she stood against. But
he looked so delicious. She moistened her lips and raked him with
her gaze once more. What could it hurt to look? Her palms itched to
touch his skin, learn the shape of his muscles, see if the hair on
his chest felt soft or wiry. Oh, God, she had to get out of
there.

Dropping the loincloth over his hips,
she faltered backward. Her foot landed wrong, and the high heel of
her boot turned her ankle at a painful angle. Not taking her eyes
from his face, she covered her mouth with her hand, horrified he
had brought her to this. Weak, questioning, wanting. Her legs gave
out and she sank to the floor. She hated him. She wanted him.
Confusion turned everything inside out.

* * * *

Coffee. Chip smelled coffee. And
something coarse felt scratchy on his back and legs.