The Gilded Cuff (8 page)

She wasn’t surprised by the room; it was just like him. Elegant and simple with a massive, beautiful, ornately carved bed frame, a dresser, nightstand, and large walk-in closet. Sophie balked just inside the door.

“What’s the matter?” He turned around to face her, a challenge glinting in his eyes.

She swallowed hard, her gaze darting between him and the bed.

“This is part of our bargain. My story for your submission. I want you in
my
bed tonight with
me
.” He closed the distance and reached around her to pull the door shut behind her. She leaned back instantly, pressing herself into it, relying on the wood’s steady support.

“Tonight is not about sex. A dominant/submissive relationship isn’t always carnal. Sometimes a dom just needs to hold his submissive close at night, and the sub’s need to be held is just as strong. The best relationships are symbiotic.” As he spoke he slid his hands behind her back and gently pried her away from the door.

“The first lesson tonight is about trust and caring. I want you to undress me.” He stepped back a few feet until he was close to the foot of his bed.

“Undress you?” Sophie remained frozen, her body vibrating with nerves and anticipation.

Emery’s full lips curved into that bad boy smile she was starting to love and hate. It made her want to sigh and rub up against him, and she hated how it affected her so strongly.

He crooked a finger. “Come here, little sub.” His tone was teasing, but his command was strong and her knee-jerk reaction at his command had her approaching him. His jacket was already off, but other than that he was still fully dressed.

“Untie my shoes.” He put a hand on her shoulder and with a faint pressure there, he showed her he wanted her to kneel. Sophie gritted her teeth, not liking the subservience of the position, but once she was on her knees, she focused on the task, unlacing the expensive, Italian leather shoes.

“Thank you,” he praised in a low soft voice that made her inner wanton purr. Then he toed out of his shoes.

“Stand.” He curled one finger under her chin and tilted her head back as she got to her feet. Normally she wouldn’t have liked being ordered around, but it did make it easy to have him tell her exactly what he wanted her to do. It was actually freeing, not to worry about what she was supposed to do. Would it be that easy in bed?

“You’re doing very well, Sophie. Now unbutton my shirt.” He waited patiently.

Sophie tried to bury the riotous emotions exploding through her—disgust at herself for enjoying his praise, curiosity about his naked body, shock that she was actually undressing the man when she’d never done that before. Her hasty couplings in the past had never amounted to much and they’d always been in the dark. There was no exploration of bodies, no admiration of the human form. She’d never even really climaxed before, at least not compared to what she’d felt on Emery’s lap at the club. She’d been so close to something great, something truly life altering. That had been a first for her and she couldn’t imagine what it would be like when she finally slept with him. Would it be as wonderful and exciting as those brief moments in the club had promised? She wanted to know, but she was
afraid
, too.

Maybe if I got this over real quick…
Her fingers shook as she reached for the top button of his shirt. She got three buttons undone before he grasped one of her hands by the wrist and palm, trapping it.

“Easy, little sub. Go slow. The best things in life should be enjoyed, not rushed.” He held her hand, clasping it gently to his chest above his heart. Through the expensive dress shirt, she could feel his heart beat against her skin. A strong, steady beat. The
thump-thump
lulled her into a haze of sensual awareness as he finally let her hand go.

She continued to unbutton the shirt, savoring the experience of baring inch after inch of his lightly tanned flesh. She was in control of him now, removing his clothes, and that did make her feel more certain of herself. When the shirt was fully open, she slid her hands up his chest under the fabric before she peeled it off his shoulders. The action brought her unbearably close to his hot body, and her arms slid around him as she pulled the shirt down off his back and arms, as if she was embracing him as she undressed him. Then the shirt fluttered to the floor and he was standing there in just those expensive trousers that hugged his lean hips. The muscles of his abs were like corded steel and she stared at them in shock and hunger. She reached toward him without thinking and placed one palm flat on his abs. The muscles jumped beneath her touch and she could have sworn they both held their breath. Unable to resist, she raised her head just as he leaned down. Their lips feathered in a ghost of a kiss—so delicate, yet potent, like an addictive drug. She shivered, aching for more, needing his lips on hers, but he didn’t press her.

“Not so fast, my little Sophie. Pants next.” The corner of his mouth quirked into a little grin and she focused on breathing as she dropped her head again, staring at the silver button and the zipper on his pants. Was she really doing this?

Pants. She could handle pants. Oh god, she was unzipping his pants!

The top button slipped out of the slit and she had to coax the zipper down. There was no mistaking the massive bulge of his cock barely concealed behind black cotton briefs. She tugged the pants off his hips and they dropped to the floor. He stepped out of them and removed his socks. She raked her gaze over him, admiring the lean muscled calves, powerful thighs, and sculpted chest. The man was beautiful. There was no denying that. And she…she wasn’t. The negative thought had her retreating back a step but he caught her by the upper arms, stilling her retreat.

“Sophie, sweetheart,” he murmured, as though he sensed her fear. “We’re just sleeping tonight. Now, tell me, since your bag hasn’t arrived yet, what do you like to sleep in?”

The intensity of his eyes had softened and his hands were warm on her cold skin, and it was comforting, not frightening. Was this how a normal woman was supposed to feel? A woman not ashamed of her body?

“I like big t-shirts and boxers,” she said.

With a little approving nod, he walked over to a dark wooden dresser and opened the top drawer, pulling out a pair of boxers and a large shirt. When he came to her, he set the items on the bed and twirled a finger.

“Turn around. It is time to undress you.”

She gave him her back and had to fight the urge to close her eyes. He wouldn’t see the scars from behind; was that why he’d insisted she face away? Was it out of respect for her desire to hide them, or his own desire to avoid them?

“Stop thinking so hard. I can almost hear your thoughts, little sub. I know you’re sensitive about your body. I told you how I feel about scars, but I’m allowing you some privacy while we get to know each other.” He reached around from behind, his fingers tracing playful patterns up the front of her corset, almost plucking the satin ribbons like the strings of a cello. When he reached the top of the bodice, the tips of his fingers innocently—or perhaps not so innocently—stroked the tops of her breasts before they unfastened the bow and began to unlace the ribbons. The corset loosened and when it was almost ready to fall off her, he reached for the shirt.

“Lift your arms,” he murmured in her ear.

Her hands shot up and he slid the shirt over and down her upper body. Then he completely removed the corset from beneath her shirt and let it drop to the carpet. She turned around to face him and he pulled her into his arms. The heat of his bare chest sank through his shirt to touch her barely covered breasts. She liked this feeling of closeness, but she feared it would end all too soon.

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The smile on his lips reached his eyes and she couldn’t resist smiling back, until he unzipped the mini skirt and tugged it down. Then his hands were on her bottom. She wriggled, trying to get free, but he swatted her ass with his hand.

“You’re itching for a spanking, sweetheart.” He bent his head and gave her a nibbling little kiss, meant to tease more than seduce. Only after she’d calmed did he hand her the boxers.

“Thanks,” she whispered, still shy as she tugged them on.

“You’re welcome.” He captured her wrists and unfastened the leather cuffs, setting them on the nightstand. “Now get into bed. I’ve had a long day, as have you, I imagine. We’ll talk more about our bargain tomorrow.” He waited until she’d climbed into bed before he flicked off the lights and got into bed with her.

Sophie didn’t mean to go completely rigid, but she did. Like a piece of wood planking, she was stiff, and jerked when he reached for her.

“You haven’t slept with many men, have you?” he asked. In the darkness she couldn’t see much of him. But the faint light of the moon from the distant window reflected in his eyes.

“I’ve slept with men. I’ve just never had any of them stay the night before.” Why she admitted that to him, she wasn’t sure. It was easier in the dark to speak the truth, and she could hide her face, the shame that no doubt colored her cheeks.

“I’ve never let a woman come home with me either.” His admission shocked her, and yet it felt like he’d evened the playing field. This was new for both of them.

“Really?”

“Really.” His strong arms curled around her waist and she slid a few inches closer as he tucked her against his side. After several long seconds, she relaxed bit by bit and then nuzzled her face into the pillow, letting her body absorb his heat and his strength. A woman could get used to this…

The clock chime was heavy, sharp, and ominous. Sophie jerked awake as Emery abruptly sat up in bed. Outside the moon was still bright, which meant they’d only been asleep a short while.

“Emery? What’s that matter?” Sleep fogged her brain, but she tried to focus on the fact that he was getting out of bed and walking toward the door. He opened it without a word to her and started down the hall. The patter of rain outside was steady, and the occasional rumble warned her that a storm front was moving through.

Was he sleepwalking? She followed him, wondering where he was going as he reached the top of the main stairs. Just as Sophie put her foot on the top red-carpeted step, the grandfather clock chimed again and thunder growled menacingly from overhead.

The grandfather clock continued to chime, and the sound rang clear, striking the pale yellow marble of the walls.

“It’s midnight,” Emery murmured almost absently. “The clock shouldn’t work.” He gave a strange little shake of his head. It chimed again and he tensed. “Hate that sound,
hate
it.”

He looked over her head to something behind her and blinked, but the cloudy cast to his gaze spoke of his seeing something from the past, or perhaps the future. Sophie only knew he was gone in that moment. Something or perhaps someone had captured his head and heart, leaving her with a shell, a mere body.

“Emery? What’s wrong?” Her gaze darted between him and the grandfather clock, confused.

“Shadows…always shadows.” He kept staring out the window next to the huge door. “Told you they were there. I told you…but I didn’t tell her. I stopped you from telling her.”

Sophie thought about asking him what he was talking about, but she sensed he wasn’t talking to her, wasn’t even seeing her.

The electric lamps lighting the gilded hall dimmed to a lower setting simultaneously. Shadows blossomed, growing pregnant from the loss of light.

“Emery?” Sophie tugged on his hand, apprehension coiled tight in her stomach. Emery seemed to be frozen in place.

The clock, which continued to chime its full beats, suddenly went silent save for the heavy ticking—counting hours, days, measuring the ghostly sense of the Lockwood house. A clock that wasn’t supposed to work. Unable to resist, she turned her head toward the massive grandfather clock, eyes locking on the gold pendulum that swung back and fourth behind the clear glass.

Her grandmother’s voice intruded on her mind, a whisper of ghoulish tales and scary stories. Granny Belinda, or Bells as everyone called her, had been born in Boston, and swore her roots dated back to the days of the Salem witch trials. And on more than one night Granny Bells had sat in her great wing-backed chair by the fire, a soot colored cat in her lap, and told Sophie stories.

“You must take care, Sophie. When the clock strikes twelve, ’tis the witching hour.”

“What’s so bad about that?” six year-old Sophie had asked.

“’Tis the time when you’re most vulnerable to darkness, to the evil that can steal your soul. The witches ride their black-winged horses, helping the devil claim wandering souls.”

Sophie blinked, and the strange lethargy of watching the pendulum swing was broken at last. She looked up at Emery, saw his mouth moving as though he was whispering. She drew closer, standing up on tiptoe, still clutching his hand. Finally, she stood close enough to hear the words leaving his lips.

“Fenn, listen to me…you can’t make me go. I’m not leaving you behind.”

Emery repeated the words over and over, a hurried, breathless mantra. Horror filled Sophie, swallowing her like a black cloud. Her heart clenched. He had to be having some kind of relapse. She needed to get him out of the past. She had to rescue him. Without a second thought, she wound her hand back and slapped him.

He collapsed, crumpling on the stairs behind him. Sophie eased down next to him, cupped his chin.

“What are we doing down here, Fenn?” he asked. The look on his face was that of a young boy, frightened and hurt. He raised a hand to his cheek and touched the reddening mark. “Did you hit me?”

Sophie winced. He didn’t recognize her, still caught up in the flashback.

“Why did you hit me? I’m frightened; he won’t let us go, you heard him. We have to escape!” Emery pushed away from the step and got to his feet. He leaned heavily on the polished walnut railing and gazed at her, wounded mistrust in his eyes.

“The clock chimed, Emery. It triggered some sort of flashback. You have to snap out of it. Fenn’s not here.” Sophie’s brows drew together when he ripped his hand away from hers. She hated losing physical contact with him. In the few short hours since she’d known him, she’d grown accustomed to his touch, to his hand enveloping hers and the safe feeling that came from being surrounded by him. Being bereft of him left her hollow.