Unraveled by Him (15 page)

I start with a bubble bath, a deep, warm cocoon in which I drift away on a dream, a fantasy.

Robert and I are at Hartwell Lake, celebrating our marriage the night before we are due to leave on our yacht, the
Lady Miranda
, for our honeymoon in Corsica, the birthplace of Robert’s hero, Napoléon.

As always, Robert is masculine, dominant in his perfectly tailored Armani tuxedo suit. And I am elegant, glamorous in my emerald-green chiffon Valentino gown.

We are surrounded by hundreds of our friends, the fountains play, the air is ripe with my signature rose scent, waiters glide around with silver trays of Cristal and tins of beluga, and a voluptuous blonde singer in silver lamé, backed by a twenty-piece orchestra, serenades me with Cole Porter–style lyrics specially commissioned by Robert, just for me.

“You’re the tops, you’re Miranda Hartwell . . .”

And our friends, our guests, swarm around us, congratulating Robert, congratulating me, and both of us accept their congratulations, all their good wishes gracefully, when all the time all we really want is to be upstairs, in the Honeymoon Suite, alone together.

I’m in bed now, feeling fresh and clean after my bubble bath.

I am under the white linen covers, holding my Magic Wand in my left and stronger hand.

Before I turn it on, I lick the middle finger of my right hand and insert it deep into me, then turn the Magic Wand on, and the exquisite sensations vibrate through me.

For the first time since before I met Robert, I finally relax completely and let go at last.

Then I close my eyes and luxuriate in my dream, my fantasy.

Robert and I are now in the Honeymoon Suite together.

Candles burn with the fragrance of Miranda Royale.

The massive four-poster bed is covered in emerald-green silk, with plump emerald-green silk tassels hanging from it, the color of Robert’s eyes, and my signature color. The only color I ever wear, perfect for my hair and a tribute to him, my husband, my king, my Master.

Romantic music wafts through the suite: Dionne Warwick singing “I’ll Never Love This Way Again,” with the line about his having looked into her fantasies and made them all come true, just like Robert has done for me.

And Jo Stafford singing “You Belong to Me,” full of passion and possession.

Katie Melua singing “Call Off the Search,” now that she’s found him.

And Barbra Streisand and Celine Dion duetting about the moon and the sun shining in his eyes, and having what’s meant to be.

Spread all over the bed, a hundred long-stemmed Lady Miranda roses, all with the thorns removed by one of our staff.

Robert is standing by the wood-burning fireplace, his green eyes glittering in the light cast by the flames.

I am at his feet, worshipping him.

With great care, almost reverence, he sweeps half the Lady Miranda roses off the bed and has me kneel on it.

I do so and he caresses my ass tenderly.

Then I feel the crack of his leather paddle.

And his sexual power is such that I willingly take every stroke of his paddle, yet remain perfectly still, perfectly receptive, welcoming what he is doing to me because I am in ecstasy, in heaven.

Then the pain stops and he is standing in front of me, lifting me up, so that my eyes meet his.

He kisses me, hungrily, savagely, lovingly, and I am wet with molten desire for him.

When he is done, he turns me around again on the bed and enters me so hard and so fast that once more I am overcome by his masterful sexuality.

As he pumps into me from behind, his big, strong hands clutch my ass cheeks, squeezing them, pinching them, slapping them, feeding me a combination of pain and sexual satisfaction all at the same time, and I revel in it.

And together we come, gloriously, passionately, and unforgettably.

Afterward I nestle in his arms, gazing up at him, lost in wonder at his sheer masculine power.

And I know now that Robert Hartwell, my Master, my lover, my husband, is everything I want in a man, everything I crave, everything I need in this world, now and forever.

Back down on earth in my suite in Hartwell Castle with my vibrator, I come and come, contraction after contraction, and almost pass out from pleasure.

Then I hear a faint noise. I open my eyes with a jolt.

To be faced with the shocking sight of Robert standing next to my bed, glowering at me.

I don’t know how long he has been standing there, or what he has seen.

All I know is that I feel exactly like a bank robber caught red-handed.

“I came to say good night to you, Miranda. But you are obviously otherwise occupied,” he says, and slams the door hard behind him.

Chapter Seven

Ten thirty and I am in the Regency Room, finishing breakfast alone, like a condemned woman eating her last meal.

I pick at the smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on my plate but almost choke on every bite.

Robert caught me with my vibrator!

How can I ever look him in the face again?

Fortunately, though, down in the dungeons, that might not be much of a problem, as sub/dom protocol dictates that a submissive must never look at the Master without permission.

First, though, I have to go back to my suite to find my next set of instructions.

To hell with Robert Hartwell and his dramatics!

Why can’t he be here, at breakfast, sitting opposite me, whispering his instructions to me in his deep, gravelly voice?

Too simple for him, I guess. Not serpentine enough.

After breakfast I make my way back to my suite.

Or rather, try to.

The castle is so enormous, my sense of direction is dreadful, and suddenly, I’ve got no idea where I’m going.

I go up and down staircases, along corridors, only to come face-to-face with my worst nightmare: a tall and strapping Mrs. Hatch striding out of a suite directly in front of me.

“Are you lost, Miss Stone?” she says, her coal-black eyes glinting at me in disdain, as if to say,
You stupid little fuck.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hatch. Dreadful sense of direction,” I say, as lightly as possible.

“Your room is in the West Turret. This is the East,” Mrs. Hatch snaps.

“And Mr. Hartwell’s?” I say, then regret my question.

“In the North Turret,” she says.

“Not the Honeymoon Suite?” I say.

“You’re a curious little thing, aren’t you, Miss Stone?” Mrs. Hatch says, her face so close to me that I can smell the mint on her breath.

I blush scarlet.

“No, Mrs. Hatch. I . . . I’m sorry . . .” I say.

“Follow me,” she says with a sigh, as if the effort of being in the same space as someone as idiotic as I am is too much for her to bear.

To my relief, within minutes I find myself standing in front of the door of my own suite again.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss Stone?” Mrs. Hatch says, and clamps a large hand on my shoulder.

Yeah, go play on the LIE.
But I shake her hand off me, smile, and say politely, “No, thank you, Mrs. Hatch, I’ll be fine.”

She gives a snort and marches away.

Does the witch know why I’m here? Does she know what I’m here for? Or can she guess?

I dread to think.

As I open the door, my heart is thumping at the prospect of reading Robert’s instructions concerning what awaits me in the dungeon, and what he expects of me.

Instead, I find a note with the words
Wear your peach Stella McCartney dress and meet me in the castle forecourt at 12 sharp
.

An order, not a question.

But given what I’ve signed on for, I can’t say that I’m in the least bit surprised by his tone.

I am, however, really shocked by the location of our meeting. The castle forecourt, just when I’m primed to go down into the dungeon. Totally confusing.

Trust him to throw me off balance.

Classic Robert Hartwell!

I am outside the castle now, waiting for Robert by the Rolls, this time an emerald-green one with the license plate RH4.

Egomaniac!

I see him striding toward me, elegant in his usual black Armani suit and a white shirt, looking as handsome as the day is long, and my heart skips a beat.

Then I remember last night, when he caught me with my vibrator, and a wave of shame floods through me.

Don’t let him see he’s got the better of you, Miranda!

So instead of flinching under the I-can-see-right-through-you gaze he is giving me right now, I smile back at him as radiantly as I can.

“A princess in peach this morning, Miranda,” he says, and I blush at the compliment, thrilled to have won his approval.

Then I remember.

I may look like a princess now, but I won’t remain that way for long.

Not after my test in Dungeon 1, that’s for sure.

He takes my hand, every inch the knight in shining armor, opens the Rolls door, and I get into the backseat, expecting to be relegated here while he sits up front again, and I’ll end up feeling like shit . . .

Instead, he takes his place in the back of the Rolls alongside me.

Not only that, when he does, he wraps his arms around me and gives me a long, lingering kiss, a kiss so passionate that it almost takes my breath away.

“You look beautiful, Miranda,” he says.

And you look sexier than any man I’ve ever known, Robert.

But I push away my thoughts because I am so confused by his sudden renewed passion for me.

My mind is in a whirl, and as we drive toward Manhattan, one of Grandpa’s favorite stories pops into my head:

The legend of a king named Sisyphus who displeased the gods, and as a result is condemned to push a great big boulder up a steep hill, then watch as it rolls down again.

After which he has to push it up the hill again and watch till it rolls back down again.

Then he has to push the boulder up again and watch while it rolls down.

And push it up once more.

For all eternity.

That’s how dealing with Robert Hartwell feels to me. One minute he is kind, caring, loving, and romantic.

The next he is cold, stern, forbidding, and remote.

Nightmare, only this time real.

Robert helps me out of the car in front of a world-famous Manhattan auction house. I follow him inside, and as I do, the crowds part to let him pass, his masterful figure towering more than a head taller than anyone else in the room.

All around me, elegant, beautifully dressed men and women stare at Robert as if he were a god come down to earth to walk among them.

I can only imagine what they are saying about me. “Robert Hartwell with this little miss nobody? And after our beautiful Georgiana! Outrageous!”

They are all thinking that about me, I know—from the English movie director I recognize immediately, to the stunning queen of an Eastern country often seen on the news, to a legendary singer whose husband has just left her millions.

All of them are horrified that I’m here with Robert Hartwell.

But I am, and that should be all that matters—or so I tell myself.

We are in the front row of the auction hall now, and a tall, horse-faced auctioneer with a shock of white hair is holding up four yellow gold pocket watches, one after another.

“I’m going to start at five hundred thousand dollars,” he announces.

The stunning queen of an Eastern country raises a bejeweled hand.

“One million from Her Majesty,” he says.

Everyone, with the exception of me and of Robert, bursts into applause.

“Now do I hear one and a half million?” the auctioneer says.

And pointing at a bank of phones at the back of the hall, he declares, “One and a half million by telephone from Moscow,” and there is another outbreak of applause.

Meanwhile, Robert throws me a confident smile and does nothing.

But by the time the auctioneer announces “Eleven million dollars to the sultan, eleven million,” Robert tenses, and I can tell that he is about to make a bid.

But only when the auctioneer declares “Twelve million dollars to Her Majesty over here, going for twelve million, going . . .” does Robert raise his arm and bid.

Her Majesty stands up, snaps her fingers at her entourage, and stalks out of the auction hall, with them following her.

I smile at Robert, but he whispers, “It’s not nearly over yet, Miranda.”

And he proves to be right, as the telephone bidder from Moscow strikes again.

After that, I feel as if I am watching a fast tennis match, with the bidding alternating between Robert and the mysterious telephone bidder from Moscow.

I look on and am happy when Robert finally wins the auction, agreeing to pay the stratospheric sum of $19 million for the watches.

“They will look wonderful on you, Robert,” I say.

And he shakes his head.

“A donation to a charity close to my heart,” he says.

And I flash to the Lady Georgiana Foundation and understand exactly what he means.