Embracing Fate: A Captive Hearts Novel Page 16

  “You have guts, and while I admire that, be careful. I’m exceptionally fair. The count stands.”

  “You’re still a monster, Sir.”

  “One you don’t fear. Have you figured out why that is? Because I agree, you have every reason to be afraid of me.”

  “I’m terrified. Everything about this makes me afraid, Sir.”

  “But you don’t fear me.” I leaned back. “I’m not sure whether to be insulted by that or pleased.”

  “I’m more wary than fearful…Sir.” She struggled to tack on that word. It was burdensome and affected the natural flow of our conversation. If she gave me what I needed, I would remove it soon.

  “And that’s because?”

  “Because I’m not chained to a wall in a basement.”

  Her words damned her because she’d taken her first step down the path I set for her. She didn’t trust me, but she saw a glimmer of decency within me.

  “Follow the rules, make good choices, and you won’t be, but don’t think for a second you won’t wind up there. If that’s the path you choose, I’ll take you there.”

  She yawned and covered her mouth. “Honestly, I don’t care. If I could choose anything, Sir, it would be to crawl back in bed and try to sleep. Is this feeling ever going to go away?”

  “I’m not going to lie, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

  She lowered her defenses, more than she realized. We were having a regular conversation. I wouldn’t go as far to say this was normal, but it would become our normal. At least that’s what I hoped. At the end of this journey, I wanted what Jake and Kevin had. I wanted a woman willing to devote herself to me, for no other reason than because she craved what I could give.

  Chapter 19

  The next few weeks, I did my best to help Clara through the worst of her heroin withdrawal, but I also set the tone for our growing relationship. There were rules. Consequences, both good and bad, followed.

  Slowly, she began to understand pleasing me brought her pleasure. It could be a tiny thing, like a new book loaded on her e-reader, or a new dress, a fluffy pillow, or some small trinket which eased her boredom, like the cards we played the other night. Failing to please me brought pain.

  I tried getting her feminine things she may miss from her previous life, but she didn’t seem to care about jewelry. I also touched her…a lot. She needed to acclimate to the feel of my hands on her body.

  It was the sweetest torture I’d ever endured. At every chance, I touched her in nonsexual, nonthreatening ways. Not that I shied away from sensual touches.

  Or the spankings.

  Punishments were punishments and she quickly learned to control her fate. If she reached the threshold of twenty strikes, she found herself across my knees, bare as the day she was born, while I spanked her ass cherry red.

  Not once did I cop a feel, grab her tits, or reach between her legs. The first time I did, if she ever allowed it, would be because she begged for it. I wouldn’t take that from her.

  With time, she understood there were places I wouldn’t touch. Her inherent caginess disappeared. Flinches from my touch turned to squirms as I discovered her ticklish spots.

  Her cautious gazes turned to hesitant interest. Her movements loosened up. No longer stiff and protective, her natural grace began to shine through.

  Over time, I slowly realized a shocking truth. She wasn’t used to a man handling her with such intimacy, and I suppose I enjoyed that kernel of knowledge more than I should.

  And while Clara was no virgin, it became clear she’d never been truly pleasured by a man. It seemed more something she endured than enjoyed. I worked hard to help her transition from fearing me to feeling safe around me moving forward, while never letting her forget which one of us was in charge.

  We sat together, digesting a mouthwatering dinner of steak, potatoes, and cream pie, her choice, while we decided how to spend the rest of our evening.

  Together.

  I spent as much time with her as possible.

  “What do you want for dinner tomorrow?” I placed my phone down on my knee and wriggled my toes. I’d lost a bet with her last night. A tiny thing, it had far-reaching repercussions because it tied us together.

  The bet itself was immaterial. I chose something I could easily lose without looking like I was throwing the bet.

  Clara had no opportunity to win at anything we did. I was her Master, and she was my slave. Strict obedience was expected. This was the only thing I could give her that gave her any illusion of freedom.

  Our bet came down to a game of chance, a simple card game called War. She wanted to bet on who would win, but I told her I didn’t bet unless the stakes were high enough. I ran through our conversation last night in my head, loving how everything played out.

  “What are you willing to bet, my sweet Clara?”

  “We don’t have to really bet. I was just trying to make it fun.”

  “When the stakes are high enough, you’d be surprised how fun it can be.”

  “I don’t have anything to bet with, Sir.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  Manipulating her might not have been fair, but I needed something to pull us together. Something she could lose which wouldn’t break her spirit.

  “I have nothing.”

  “You have everything.”

  She had looked up at me through the dark fringe of her lashes. That coy look never failed to arouse me. We’d had a light-hearted day, one where I read to her from her most recent mystery novel. It left her in good spirits and lowered her defenses. It was a vulnerability I took advantage of to tie her to me.

  “Name one thing I have that you want?” Her innocence would be my undoing. Did she really not know?

  The moment the words spilled from her mouth, she realized her error. The girl didn’t trust me yet. Not fully. We were still working on that. Which made this the perfect opportunity to extend kindness.

  “Relax, Clara. That’s not what this is about.” Dammit, I had been ready to ask for a kiss if I won. I had to quickly shift gears. Sex and anything physical were triggers requiring delicate navigation. I would bind her to me, but not through sex. “All I want is to braid your hair.”

  “My hair?” Confusion pinched her brows together. “You know how to braid hair?”

  “I know a lot about ropes. Braiding hair isn’t that different. Actually, I think I’ll bring in some of my rope.” A look of uncertainty flitted across her features, but she gave a sharp shake of her head.

  “That’s silly.”

  “I want to do a lot of things to you, my sweet Clara, rope play is just one of them. But how about we start with allowing me to braid your hair? No squirming allowed.” I held up a finger and fixed my sternest expression on my face. “I want you to sit in front of me while I run my fingers through your hair. You’ll enjoy it. I give amazing massages. You can let me win…” I gave a curt nod. No way was I going to win.

  Her lips had twisted together, then an impish grin spread across her face.

  “I’m not sure if I like the expression.” I leaned forward. “What is going on inside that head?”

  “If I win, you let me paint your nails. If you win, you can braid my hair.”

  If I wanted to braid her hair, I wouldn’t ask her permission, but that’s not what this was about.

  “Paint my nails?” A ripple of revulsion shuddered down my spine. “You don’t want to try asking to be let out of this room?”

  “Is that on the table?”

  “No.”

  She crossed her arms and tucked her chin in a pout. “That’s why. But painting your nails is different.”

  “How so?”

  “Because it’s not something a man like you would ever allow.”

  “A man like me? What kind of a man do you see me as?”

  I itched to know how she saw me. Had I made any progress? I had a pretty good idea. She didn’t call me her monster for no reason. Lately, however
, the tone and inflection had changed. She used it as a cautious form of endearment. Clara wasn’t ready to cross the divide from slave to something else, but there was hope.

  She shrugged. “You’re not like any man I’ve ever known.”

  “Care to elaborate on that?”

  “Not really.”

  “I could make you finish that thought.”

  “You could, and a man like you might do that, but you won’t.”

  “You sound pretty sure about that.”

  “You like bossing me around. You get off on control. But you don’t enjoy forcing me.”

  “Controlling you is pretty much forcing you to do what I want.” I leaned forward. “And I like doing that very much.”

  “Yeah, but this is different. Every second of every day, you’re in charge. We do what you want, when you want, and how you want it done. Letting me paint your nails is the only thing you can give me that’s of any real value.”

  “For the record, you love being controlled. My dominance, sweet Clara, turns you on. You thrive beneath my rule.” I hadn’t planned on this, but this was a perfect way to explore something. Something she wasn’t willing to acknowledge. “You’re not ready to accept it yet, but you crave it.”

  “You’re wrong.” She shook her head, but the way her pupils dilated and her breathing hitched told a different story.

  “What have I said about lying?”

  “It’s not technically a lie. Maybe if we met under different circumstances…” She let the rest of what she was going to say go unsaid, but there was no need to decipher her intent.

  An insane attraction pulled us together. It was undeniable and unrelenting. It was also something she couldn’t accept. To admit she was attracted to her captor wasn’t a headspace she was ready to accept. But it was there.

  In the furtive glances when she thought I wasn’t looking, it smoldered. In the lingering stares when she checked me out, it burned. It existed in the hesitancy of her touch when I forced her to take my hand. In all the little things, we were building a bridge, one stone at a time.

  She knew it.

  I knew it.

  But she wasn’t ready to admit it—not to me and most definitely not to herself.

  “If we had met under different circumstances,” I said, “you would’ve been too afraid to accept the truth. You wouldn’t explore the things we do and you’d shut down, stopping anything before it had a chance to bloom into something amazing. You’re a natural submissive, a woman who shines brighter beneath a man’s iron control. You crave it. You need it. You deny it’s your nature because you’ve been taught it’s wrong. If we met under different circumstances, you’d never have been brave enough to explore this. You’d snuff it out before it had a chance to ignite.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Really? How many men have you had sex with?”

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “You’ll answer it or we add it to your list of infractions. You’ve accumulated fifteen strikes today. Five more and you go over my knee. And you and I both know what happens when I spank you.”

  “Nothing happens.” Her shoulders curled inward and her gaze darted away from me.

  “My sweet Clara, I can smell the arousal leaking down your legs. I feel the heat of your pussy pressing against my cock. And I know if I placed my hands on you, you’d be wet for me. You can’t hide the truth.”

  “That’s not arousal.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s…it’s…it’s just my body’s reaction to pain.” She looked away. “It’s pain sweat.”

  “Pain sweat?” I shook my head. “Never heard it called that before, but it’s pain that you enjoy, at least when delivered in the right way. I will say this, you’re not a pain slut. Far from it, but you thrive on being dominated. You’ve discovered its resonance inside of you. Fortunately for us both, I know exactly what you need. And that’s why all the men you’ve dated before did nothing for you. None of them could give you what you need. You’ve never had an orgasm with any of them, have you?”

  “We’re not talking about this.”

  “Yes, we are.”

  She turned away from me, but I wasn’t done. “I bet the only thing that got you off was your vibrator, your fingers, and your very naughty fantasies about a man just like me. How many times did you bring yourself sweet release thinking about a man tying you down, or one confident enough to give you the rough sex you crave? Or how about a man who could scold you with unquestioned authority?”

  She squirmed and I knew I’d discovered a wonderful secret. Clara wasn’t a pain slut. She could handle a certain degree of pain, but only when paired with the authority she craved.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  “Fine. We don’t have to talk about it right now, but we will talk about it. We’re going to talk about all your filthy fantasies, my sweet Clara. And you won’t be able to hide from me. You won’t be able to stop.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You won’t hate me when I make you scream.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.” Her lower lip curled into a pout.

  “It will. Now, are you ready to play cards? If you win, you can paint my nails.”

  She peeked up at me. “Promise?”

  “I will never break a promise I make to you.”

  * * *

  I lost the card game and now I paid the price. But it was worth it. Clara sat at my feet. My left foot was propped on her knee as she bent over me with a bottle of panther pink nail polish gripped in her hand.

  I worked for moments like this. Forcing nonsexual physical intimacy on her, placing her in close proximity to train her to habituate to my touch. I didn’t want her flinching every time my hand accidentally brushed against her arm.

  “It’s atrocious.” I wriggled my toes.

  “Just wait until I paint your fingernails.” She peeked up at me with an honest smile. There was no fear. No apprehension. In that look, she was just Clara. And I was just me.

  There was no Master, no slave, no monster. We filled this moment with just us.

  “You’re not painting my fingernails.” I made a show of sitting on my hands. “That was not the bet.”

  “You said nails.”

  “I meant toenails.”

  “You didn’t specify,” she teased. “Technically, I can assert my rights.”

  “Your rights?”

  “To paint your fingernails.”

  “I’ll tell you what. You can paint my fingernails if I get to braid your hair.”

  “You and hair braiding? You know, that’s not very masculine.”

  “Who says men can’t braid hair? Besides, you haven’t seen me with rope.” It was something I itched to try with her, and the perfect solution to my no sex rule.

  Chapter 20

  My Monster was a man I didn’t understand; a monster and protective angel all rolled into one.

  There was great pain in his past, I would bet everything on it, although he would never share something like that with me. He brought me pain and soothing calm. Hardness lined his eyes, but I caught vulnerable moments as well. When his gaze softened, he bared his tortured soul, and I felt as if I’d been gifted with something priceless.

  My Monster was an enigma.

  He tried to maintain distance between us, but in those brief vulnerable glimpses bone weary loneliness, aching loss, and overwhelming protectiveness shone through.

  Our first conversation still swirled in my head. Hard and unyielding, he set rules I must obey. In the days, and weeks, that followed, not once did he waver, doling out punishment without pause, or regret.

  I spent five long days puking my guts out, suffering through night sweats, enduring aches and pains, which had nothing to do with the pain his punishment brought. While I survived the worst cramping and diarrhea of my life, he taught me his rules, trained me in protocols I must follow, and held my hair out of the way while I vomited
.

  There wasn’t a single part of my existence which screamed sex slave. While my entire body begged for relief from heroin withdrawal, My Monster assured me the worst had passed, but did I want it to be gone?

  There was more to him than I understood, a darkness lurking inside the man who bought me but refused to touch me. That was the thread I needed to unravel.

  Dark and vile, My Monster hid his humanity from the world. That would be my salvation—finding his humanity. If I did that, I might find a way to free myself.

  My body was confused around him, never aroused but strangely content. It trusted him, while I feared what he would do to me. A part of me wanted to offer myself to him and get the violation over with, but a more concerning piece of me yearned to soothe the ache deep inside of him.

  I wanted to discover the mysteries behind what made him the man he was. Another part of me wanted to kill him, ending both our miseries in one fell swoop.

  He spent nearly every waking minute with me, helping me endure the worst of the withdrawal. When I wasn’t puking, sweating, shivering, groaning, and yes, even the diarrhea, he filled our time with conversation, books, and card games.

  We talked about the mystery book I started reading. At some point, when the worst of my withdrawal hit, he began reading aloud to me. We spent our mornings reading from books. Him, and his eloquent voice, reading to me, as I sat beside him, or knelt at his feet.

  By his lack of action toward me, I knew he waited for my symptoms to go away before he pushed for more physical things. It was the only thing which explained why our most intimate contact had been him holding my hair while I puked over the toilet, carrying me to my bed while I shivered, wiping the sweat from my brow, or any of a handful of other humiliating interactions.

  I suppose the spankings weren’t benign.

  My butt had never hurt this bad. Sitting was impossible, practically a punishment on its own, and I couldn’t envision a day when it wouldn’t hurt. The rules he set ensured I found my way over his lap several times a day.

  The first time, I fought and screamed. Now? I didn’t want to think about all the things I thought, and I most definitely refused to acknowledge the strange things I felt. Not all of it was painful.