Trust Me (Rough Love #3) (2 page)

See, some women were into soft caresses and gently whispered endearments. Not me. And it wasn’t because I’d worked as a stripper and a call girl, or that I didn’t realize my value, or that I came from an abusive home and was somehow messed up in the head. It was because I was wired to enjoy violence, and Price was wired to enjoy giving it to me. His thrusts intensified, marking me, invading me, and then I heard him come too with the rough growls that signaled his climax.

I hated when it was over, because that meant he would let go and leave my body. The waiting would begin, the craving for his next possession. How was I supposed to go out there and keep working?

He squeezed my shoulder and I turned to do my task, cleaning him up with my lips and tongue so he could shove his cock back into his pants and return to work too.

“Go fix yourself up,” he said when I finished. “Then I need to see you out in the other room.”

I went into the powder room and did what I could about the jizz and juices dripping out of me. It was impossible to be someone’s sex slave and retain the full measure of your pride. There were a lot of indignities, bodily fluids and hurried cleanup sessions, and pulling your skirt down over your bare ass and pussy and getting on with your day. When I went into the other room, Price stood by my worktable looking down at the manacles.

“You promised delivery today,” he said. “Are they finished?”

“Yes, Sir.” I hurried over to show him, but he stopped me.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “Sit.”

I sat in my desk chair and he pulled a second chair up right beside me. I wanted him to look over at the manacles and like them, maybe even compliment them, but he looked at me instead. I swallowed and clasped my hands in my lap, one hundred percent aware that this sinfully handsome man had been ramming his cock into my body not five minutes earlier. It might as well have been five hours ago. No more fun time.

This was going to be rough.

“We need to talk about your lack of progress,” he said.

Do we have to?
my brain whined. My lips remained shut.

“What have you been doing?” he prompted, looking around my organized workspace.

“I’ve been making things.”

My studio smelled similar to the old metals lab at Norton, although I think this building had better ventilation. I slid a glance at the manacles, and showed him some earrings I’d been working on before then, with tiny, deep blue, speckled stones. He didn’t look that impressed.

“They’re pretty,” he said. “Who’s going to wear them?”

“I don’t know. I just like making stuff. I don’t feel comfortable pushing it on people.”

“Artists want their art to be seen. You’re making excuses. You’re being lazy.”

I grimaced. “Thanks.”

“I’ve introduced you to dozens of people in the last few weeks. You’ve had plenty of chances to sell yourself.”

It was the wrong choice of words, considering I’d literally sold myself for ten years, whored myself out to hundreds of clients. I blinked and stared down at my interlaced fingers.

“I gave you extra time,” he said. “I gave you until the end of August. You knew what I expected. One customer. One person interested enough in your brand and your talent to commission a piece. One fucking bracelet, Chere. A pair of gold studs. One fucking ring.”

Every word he said made me feel smaller. Ugh, why couldn’t talent and creativity be enough? Why did I have to sell myself? “I’d rather work for someone else,” I said. “I appreciate you setting me up here and everything, but I don’t want the responsibility of running my own company. I decided I don’t really like that. I mean, it was your idea.”

I chanced a glance at him. He regarded me with unsettling focus.

“I’m not a marketer,” I protested as the stare wore me down. “I’m not a salesperson.”

“Then learn how to be a salesperson, or hire some salespeople to work for you.”

“I don’t know how. We didn’t learn those skills at art school.”

“You saw me work with people during your internship,” he reminded me. “You sat in on countless meetings and watched me do dozens of deals. You watched me network and put projects together.”

“Yes, and you’re great at it. You’re great at getting shit done and convincing people they need your buildings and bridges. I’m making classic, elegant pieces of jewelry that no one’s interested in. I’ve got no hook. I’ve got no flair. I’m not a business person.” His eyes darkened with each denial. I could barely hold his gaze. “You can’t punish me for sucking at business.”

“I can punish you for being so fucking negative. I can punish you for anything I like.”

His big, capable hands rested in his lap. He was going to hurt me later with those hands because I was lame and uncertain, and not making any progress. I was failing to launch.

“I feel horrible. I hate disappointing you,” I said, trying to elicit some sympathy. “It’s hard to have you connected to my working world, my art.”

“I’m connected to whatever I want, as far as you’re concerned. That was the deal we made, remember? You belong to me, body and soul.”

I looked around my workroom, at everything he’d made possible. I loved belonging to him, but at the same time, I was a failure, a disappointment, an underperformer who had to be punished. My friend Andrew had graduated at the same time as me, and he was already selling lots of his work.

“Sometimes I think I don’t want to do the jewelry anymore,” I said, looking back at him. “I just want to belong to you.”

I knew that would make him furious. It was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to happen. It was the whole reason he’d resisted letting me into his life, but now I was in his life and all I wanted to do was serve him. He’d paid a lot of money to help me become a designer, and now I didn’t want to design. He could force me to do it. He could force me to do anything in our dynamic, and I had no safe words to extricate myself.

He let out a long, sad breath, then reached to pick up one of the manacles I’d made. He turned it over in his hand and reached for my wrist. It worked on a delicate, hidden hinge, closing snugly around my skin and bones. I’d fashioned it with curved edges, but I hadn’t added any kind of padding. I didn’t deserve padding.

“You know I love you, Chere,” he said, fingering the clasp. To my ears, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t trust him, which made me a very bad slave.

He closed the manacle with a snap and studied it on my wrist. I’d polished it until it shone. Without the fitting for the chain, the silver band could pass for a bracelet. He picked up the other one and put it on me so my wrists were tethered by the chain. He brought them together and covered my hands with his, and held them as he gazed into my eyes.

“These are beautiful,” he said, and it sounded like the sad breath he’d taken earlier. “You do beautiful work. The world needs this work.”

I tried to read his expression. I saw disappointment and doubt. Was he questioning us? Questioning whether he needed to let me go? The words burst out of me in a panic.

“Don’t leave me. Don’t make me go away.”

He released my hands and grabbed my face. I flinched as his fingertips dug into my cheeks. “Do you think I’d do that to you?”

“You
did
do it to me. You left me before. Twice.”

He gave me a harsh look, followed by a brisk slap on the cheek. It was hard to hold his gaze, but when my eyes slid away he grabbed my neck and I knew I’d better fucking attend to him. I didn’t know what I feared more, his punishment or his desertion. If he believed he was harming me, he would leave me. I knew that. He’d done it before.

Twice.

“I’m sorry,” I pleaded. “I’ll do better. I just want to be with you. The jewelry design, the business, it takes away from my time with you.”

“You used to love making jewelry.”

“Now I love you.”

I felt his fingers tighten. “We have plenty of time together outside of work. You need a life besides being my—”

He stopped talking, but I knew him well enough to understand the things he didn’t say. He wanted me to maintain a life outside of our claustrophobic emotional entanglement in case we had to part again. I knew he maintained escape plans. My career was one of them, because it prevented my complete surrender. My eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t leave me,” I whispered, turning my neck to get more air. “Please.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

We sat like that for fifteen seconds or more, staring at one another with his hand around my neck. I clasped my fingers together and the manacles clinked.

“I’ll find a client by next week,” I promised. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“We’re leaving for Paris in two days.”

“When we get back, then. I’ll use that time in Paris to create a marketing plan—”

“You don’t even know what a marketing plan is.” He let go of my neck and looked at my work. “You need to be out in the world, getting inspired, talking to people, telling them about your vision.”

But I want to be in your dungeon. I want to be near you, loving you. I want you to love me…

“I’ll visit jewelry shops in Paris,” I promised. “I’ll go to fashion shows. I’ll keep working if you want me to work.”

“I want you to work.” He looked back at me, pinning me with his stern, blue gaze. “You can do both, be my slave and share your talents with the world. Your job,” he said, pointing his finger at me, “is to do what I think is best for you. I don’t want you to lose yourself inside me, inside my house and my life and my will. Inside my dungeon.”

“Yes, Sir,” I said dutifully, but the tears were back, because he’d just described exactly what I wanted. It was what he wanted too. He’d told me as much when he came back into my life, but he wouldn’t allow himself such selfish pleasure.

“What?” he snapped. “Why are you crying?”

“Because you’re angry with me. And because…”

His finger tapped on his knee. I wasn’t looking forward to the punishment later, but if I was getting it anyway, I might as well speak my mind.

“I’m crying because I think you don’t… I think you don’t really want me. You don’t want our relationship.”

I put my hands up to cover my eyes. He yanked them back down with the chain. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

“You want me to work so I’ll be able to support myself when you leave. You’re not going to stay with me.”

He pursed his lips, his eyes flashing fire. His grip tightened on the chain. “You’re mine, Chere, and I intend to keep you. But our deal was for you to maintain a creative life too, a real life with a real job.”

“I don’t want a real job. I want to belong to you—”

“You do belong to me,” he interrupted, not even allowing me to finish my plea. “Now shut the fuck up. I’m tired of your whining.” He turned over my wrists and worked the clasp to open the manacles. “You can leave at three o’clock to go home and prepare yourself. I’ll be home around six.”

“Yes, Sir.”

He slipped the manacles into his pocket and tipped up my chin. “This isn’t going to be a fun night for you, starshine. When I threatened punishment, I meant punishment. I’m not happy with you.” He brushed away one of my tears. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you, or that I wish you would leave. Don’t put words in my mouth or tell me what I’m going to do as far as you’re concerned, because I do what I want, and you fucking accept it. It’s very simple,” he said, pointing at his chest. “I own you. Your only job is to fucking be owned.”

Punishment

I
left at
three, as instructed. That was really when the punishment started, because my thoughts, from that point on, were fixated on the pain I had coming to me, and the fear of what he might make me endure.

I undressed and put my clothes in the guest room, as I did every day. The guest room was the vanilla room where things like clothes and belongings were kept, because in his bedroom and his dungeon I was purely his naked, obedient slave. He said the separation was necessary, that I couldn’t be doing things like getting dressed and checking my email in his bedroom. It would make us too equal, too much like some boring, traditional couple.

God forbid we would be that.

Once I was naked, I ate a snack and drank some water. I had a long soak in the tub, preparing all the various parts of my body for use and abuse. I used to do a similar routine before I went on dates with him, when I was a high priced escort. Back then, it had been work, routine. Now it was the manic desire to please him, even when I’d displeased him.

After the bath, I got my collar from his bedside table and buckled it around my neck. It was comforting to put on the circle of soft, brown leather. It was also a reminder that I needed to trust him and stop worrying about how he was feeling and whether he would leave me. If I belonged to him, truly belonged to him, none of that mattered. His will was my will, end of story. I felt embarrassed now for my neurotic display, my tears and whining.

I definitely deserved to be punished.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d earned a punishment. He’d turned out to be a very exacting Master, with no qualms about making me cry when I broke his rules. He supplied good rough and bad rough. The quick, sexy fuck in the back room of my studio had been good rough. Punishments were bad rough, pushing me beyond boundaries, and tapping reserves of strength I didn’t know I had.

I lotioned myself up really well, including my nipples, which were sure to receive plenty of abuse. After that, there was nothing left to do but wait and stress, and mull over my life choices. I drifted into the guest room and lifted a stack of pillows in the closet, and took out the pair of binoculars secreted there.

He’d never specifically told me that I couldn’t use the binoculars, but I was furtive when I borrowed them, and I always put them back under the pillows as if they’d never been disturbed. I took them out to the living room and focused on my old apartment across the street. Someone else was living there now, a boring, traditional couple that I spied on from time to time. They might be boring, but they were also happy. I was supposed to be happy too.