Текст книги "Asking for It"
Автор книги: Lilah Pace
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
“Listen to me, okay? You’re going to get through this. Yeah, graduate work is difficult. It’s supposed to be! But you were smart enough to get there, and you’re smart enough to make it through.”
Carmen shook her head against my shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Sometimes life is like a video game. When things get harder, and the obstacles get tougher, it just means you leveled up.”
She laughs brokenly. “Except I suck at video games.”
“I know.” Carmen never even figured out how to steer her car in Grand Theft Auto. “But you don’t suck at math. Come on. Deep breaths.”
She keeps crying it out for a while, though, and is still teary when we finally get seated. Still, one of the great truths of life is that any situation can be improved with coffee. By her second cup, she’s perked up a little—and when her waffles arrive, she’s calm again, enough to notice my relatively empty plate. “Hey, why didn’t you order anything?”
“I got tea and toast.”
Carmen gives me a look, no doubt remembering my ability to slaughter a stack of pancakes.
“Well,” I admit, “Jonah might have made me breakfast this morning.”
“Oh, yeah? He stayed over?”
“I stayed over.”
Carmen’s eyes are still red from crying, but I can tell she’s glad to have something else to think about for a while. “You’ve been so quiet about this guy. When you first met Geordie, you told me everything.”
I’ll never be able to explain why I didn’t tell her about Jonah at first, or why so much of our relationship will remain secret. But if he’s going to be a bigger part of my life, I have to open up about him a little more. “Jonah’s a very private person,” I say. “I respect that.”
“Fine. Be mysterious. It doesn’t matter, because obviously this relationship is the definition of a whirlwind romance. And you’re totally into him. I mean, you went to Scotland with him! How much was that ticket at the last minute?”
She isn’t asking for real—just trying to get me to prove I’m head over heels for Jonah. Still, this might be the moment to be totally candid about the Scotland trip. “He got me the ticket.”
Her eyes go wide. “Jonah bought you a ticket to Scotland? Oh, my God, Vivienne. That’s huge!”
“Not really. His dad actually was one of the cofounders of Oceanic. So he’s got an in with the airline.”
This doesn’t have the effect I expected. Carmen frowns. “You said Oceanic?”
“Uh, yeah. Why?” Was there a crash today or something?
Instead Carmen says, “So . . . Jonah’s part of that screwed-up family in the tabloids.”
I gape at her. “How do you know that?”
“If his dad founded Oceanic, and his name is Jonah Marks, that means his dad was Alexander Marks, right?”
“Since when have you heard of any of these people?”
Carmen makes a face. “The usual! TMZ, sometimes the news, supermarket tabloids—I mean, come on, you have to read those once in a while, right? What else can you do while you’re waiting in line?”
“I check my phone and talk myself out of buying candy bars, like a normal person!” Great. Everyone in the whole world pays more attention to gossip than I do. So much for keeping Jonah’s secrets. Calming myself as best I can, I say, “I think Jonah tries to keep his distance from all that.”
“He didn’t even say anything about his mom this morning?” Carmen winces. “I bet he hadn’t heard yet.”
“Hadn’t heard what?”
Even the most serious news sources print sensational headlines for this story. There’s no way to describe it that isn’t lurid.
CHICAGO “MAD HEIRESS” ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT ON STEPSON
Everything from the Wall Street Journal to OhNoTheyDidn’t has differing accounts of what happened. A few blurry camera-phone videos have been posted to YouTube, but none of them reveal much beyond distant movement in the dark, and the sound of a woman shouting. As near as I can piece together, Jonah’s mother left Redgrave House—already unusual, for her—and went to The Orchid, a downtown club and restaurant so chic even I’ve heard of it. The Orchid’s owner turns out to be Maddox Hale, Jonah’s younger stepbrother. When Jonah’s mom accosted Maddox, an argument ensued, and apparently she hurt him—though nobody can agree whether she knifed Maddox through the hand, only slapped him, or something in between. I don’t get a good look at Jonah’s mother at any point on the videos, but I do hear a man saying, “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. It’s all right. I don’t want to press charges.”
So Maddox would have let it go, whatever it was she did. The police feel differently.
All I know for sure is that Jonah must feel so torn up inside. And I understand instinctively that he will never, ever talk about it with a single soul—not Rosalind, not me, not anybody.
Maybe I should call him or run back by his apartment. Not to make him open up if he doesn’t want to, just to be there with him.
Yet that feels like . . . too much. Like acknowledging his pain would be too intimate. How can we be this close and yet this distant? I want to bridge the gulf between us, but maybe that’s impossible.
The entire day, I wait for him to call. I don’t expect Jonah to vent about his family’s sorrows, but he might turn to me for companionship. For understanding.
He doesn’t phone that day. Or the next. No e-mail either.
Whatever hell Jonah is going through, he seems determined to go through it alone.
Twenty-seven
On Thursday, Jonah finally calls while I’m shopping at the supermarket.
Even after five days, I don’t get a hello. Instead he says, “Sorry I’ve been—off the radar.”
“That’s okay. Sometimes we all need some space.” That’s my invitation to him to tell me why he wanted his solitude.
The invitation is declined. He says only, “I had an idea.”
“Yeah?”
“For our next game.”
I’m standing in the produce aisle between the cucumbers and the persimmons, but just hearing his low, rough voice talk about our games makes my body respond instantly. Fire kindles deep inside, and I cradle the phone closer to my face so no one will overhear. “Tell me.”
“When I have you, I want to own you.”
“You always do,” I whisper.
“Not completely,” he says. “Until now.”
• • •
Doreen’s hair seems to have gone gray at the temples in the past couple of months. I wonder how much of that is due to me.
“You and Jonah haven’t spoken about his family issues at all,” Doreen says. “Even with their goings-on splashed on every website and newspaper in the country.”
“He doesn’t want to talk about it.” I shrug. “Sometimes I don’t want to talk about things either. So we respect each other’s privacy. Isn’t there a quote about that? About how the best love is two solitudes that border, protect, and greet one another?”
“We’ll discuss Rilke some other time.” Doreen’s dark eyes never leave my face. “You say Jonah never mentioned his mother’s arrest. Instead he called and asked you to ‘play’ again.”
“That’s right.”
“You realize he may be compensating for feelings of powerlessness.”
At that I have to laugh. “You don’t need a psychology degree to figure that out.”
“What do you think you’re compensating for?”
“I’m punishing myself by indulging myself. When I indulge my rape fantasy—when I surrender to that fear and helplessness—I’m punishing myself for wanting it. Don’t you see?”
“I doubt it’s as simple as that.”
Is she kidding? “Nothing about this is simple.”
Doreen leans forward, and when she speaks to me, genuine emotion comes through in every word. “There is no reason for you to punish yourself for this fantasy.”
“I want to relive the worst thing that ever happened to me? What Anthony did to me? It’s sick.”
“Again, many women have rape fantasies. Some men do too. It’s not always a response to trauma. Most of the time, I don’t even think there is a specific reason.”
A thousand times, Doreen has said this. But what she says next explodes in my mind like she’d thrown a hand grenade:
“You might have had this fantasy even if Anthony had never raped you.”
“No.” I shake my head. “He did this to me. You know he did.”
“Anthony raped you,” she says. “The fantasy comes from that, and from a culture that eroticizes violence against women, and leftover puritanical guilt about sex that tells us we’re not allowed to choose it and want it for ourselves, and from God only knows where else.”
I’m furious with her. I want to cry. My cheeks are flushed with shame. Every emotion I’ve ever felt about this is bubbling up at once. “But it’s the only thing that gets me off. I can’t come any other way! Does that sound normal to you?”
Doreen looks at me steadily. “Exactly. The fantasy isn’t your problem; it’s the extremity of your fixation on it. Who is it who won’t let you find sexual satisfaction any other way?”
Me. She means me.
And only at this moment do I realize Doreen has been building to this moment for a very long time.
I grab my purse. “This is over.”
“This session, or our counseling relationship?”
She said this knowing I might break from her permanently. Right now I want to. But I’ve found too much solace here in the past to let Doreen go that easily.
“For now,” I say. “But I’ll be back.”
I go out the door without waiting to hear her reply.
As I walk to my car, trembling, I think of what I meant to talk with Doreen about. We weren’t supposed to unearth the roots of my fantasy today. We were supposed to talk about this weekend. What Jonah wants from me. How much further we’re going than ever before.
It doesn’t matter. No matter what Doreen said today, it wouldn’t have stopped me.
What Jonah asks of me, I’m going to give.
Preparations:
I set up an automatic e-mail response at both my school and personal accounts, letting everyone know I won’t be able to reach them until Monday morning at the earliest.
I tell Carmen that Jonah is “taking me away for a weekend,” just to a cabin in the state park, nothing major. She thinks it’s something romantic and sweet; more to the point, she won’t worry about me. Won’t look for me.
Kip hears that we might go hiking, Jonah and I. Although he raises an eyebrow at my choice of recreational activities, he believes me. Why wouldn’t he? That way, when I come back to the office next week, Kip won’t think anything if I’m scratched or bruised.
Water the plants. Pack an overnight bag.
And on Friday, I drive to the place where I’ll be held captive.
• • •
I want tokidnap you, Jonah said.
I want to keep you tied up, away from the rest of the world, for days. I want to use your body in every way it can be used, over and over, until you can’t take it anymore. But you’ll still have to take it. And I want you to know there’s no place you can run to, no one who will hear you.
You will be completely mine.
When we could think straight again after that, we worked out the logistics. As aroused as I am by the thought of Jonah actually grabbing me and dragging me into his car, we can’t risk it. We might easily be seen, which means someone could either call the police—or worse, play vigilante, which could get Jonah arrested, badly hurt, or even killed. The places where we live offer some privacy, but I’m too familiar with them. Too comfortable. Both of us want the illusion of ultimate control to be as complete as possible.
So Jonah found a place, a rental cabin near the edge of the state park. He’s given me an address and a time to show up there Friday afternoon. By another hour on Sunday, he’ll set me free.
The rest is completely unknown to me. I’ll be in Jonah’s hands.
I wear the clothes I bought at the thrift store specifically to be destroyed—a faded cotton skirt, a T-shirt too thin for November weather. While I can’t saunter in carrying my suitcase without destroying the illusion, I’ve packed a duffel bag Jonah will bring inside from my car at some point. It contains a change of clothing for Sunday and my cell phone. Anything else I need, or want, I’ll have to earn.
This late in the season, we’re probably the only ones who’ve rented a cabin for the weekend. Even if we weren’t, none of the other cabins are within three miles. Every minute I drive reminds me of how remote our location is. How all-encompassing this fantasy will be. My palms are sweaty against the wheel of my car. Songs play on the radio but I don’t hear them. There’s only my pulse, my nervousness, and my desire.
Sunset stripes the sky violet and orange as I reach the cabin. Gravel crunches beneath my tires while I take the long, narrow road away from the highway and the rest of civilization. Finally I see the cabin—a small, rustic place with bare-wood walls and a low ceiling—and Jonah’s sedan parked in front.
He will have heard me pull up. That’s his cue.
I get out of my car. My legs feel weak and wobbly beneath me. I drop my keys on the hood of my car, turn away from the cabin, and listen. Every rustle of leaves in the trees makes my ears prick, and—not for the first time—I think, This is crazier than anything else you’ve done. You’re crossing a line. Are you ready for that?
Then I hear the cabin door open, and I run.
Twigs and branches snap across my chest as I hurl myself into the woods, running as though my life really did depend on it. My world has become a blur of trees, dirt, the pale sky above. The uneven, rocky ground makes me stumble once, twice, again—but I keep my footing. I have to. I have to try to get away.
And I can hear him behind me. His footsteps coming faster and louder. Even his ragged breath. Jonah’s chasing me with all his strength.
We are both too good at our games.
I reach a clearing and attempt to run faster, but that’s when I’m tackled from behind. We fall to the ground, and I put up the best fight I can—kicking, wriggling, trying to get out from under him—but Jonah has me. All my struggles do no good.
He gets his knees on my arms, puts his weight on my chest. Jonah is breathing hard, dirt smudged across his cheekbone and his forehead. He pants as he looks down at what he’s caught, and I feel the rise and fall of each breath beneath my trembling body. I am powerless to do anything but lie beneath him.
Slowly, Jonah smiles.
• • •
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Jonah has dragged me inside this cabin—which is bare-bones, so far as I can tell. One of his arms pins both of mine behind my back as he pulls me onward so fast I stumble. I glimpse only a few sticks of wood furniture, a rag rug on the floor, before Jonah pushes me into the bedroom.
The bed is the only piece of furniture in the room. Barely even a double, with a metal frame that has tarnished to dingy mercury gray over time, and covered only with a stark white fitted sheet—but what catches my attention are the ropes.
Jonah has wound pale ropes around each of the four posts of the bed. They wait for me.
He shoves me onto the bed. One shoe I lost in the doorway; the other falls off now. I try to push him off, but it’s futile. Jonah straddles me and smiles in slow satisfaction as he spreads my arms wide. “Shhhhh.” He pushes one of my wrists through a loop of rope—it’s soft, silky, like the stuff that holds back curtains, but when he tightens it, I’m bound as inexorably as I could be by handcuffs. “This will go so much easier if you stop fighting me. Much faster. Don’t you want it to go faster? To be over?”
“Let me go—”
Jonah thrusts my other hand into its binding. “Shut up,” he whispers. “Or I’ll gag you with your own panties.”
No.
Yes.
He slides off the foot of the bed and pulls one of my ankles to the post. Within a moment I’ll be tied down, spread-eagled, open to him and whatever he wants to do to me.
He ties the other foot. That’s it. I’m completely helpless. Only the word silver could save me now.
As he stands at the foot of the bed, between my legs, Jonah runs his hands up my thighs. “I wanted a pretty one. A girl like you. One I can keep.”
Silver, I think wildly. Silver. But that’s not what I say. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. You could drive me somewhere—let me out, so I don’t know where you are—”
Jonah shakes his head slowly. “I warned you.”
He reaches under my skirt and rips my panties away. As I watch in a crazed mixture of horror and desire, he wads the cotton into a ball, then climbs atop the bed. One of his hands forces my jaw open, and he stuffs what’s left of my panties inside. I can taste my own wetness, my own need.
As he kneels between my parted, trembling thighs, Jonah takes my T-shirt collar in both hands and rips it open. I went without a bra, so my breasts are exposed to him. As he cups them, he pinches my nipples and smiles as they harden to his touch.
“Let’s see what else I caught,” Jonah says. His strong hands tear through my skirt as if it were made of tissue paper. Now I’m naked, as exposed to him as a person could be. “Oh, I can think of lots of things to do with you.”
By now I’m crying. It’s not acting, not completely.
“What?” He looks at me, mock-innocent. “Do you have something to say?”
He pulls my panties from my mouth for the pleasure of hearing me beg.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please.”
“Why should I? Are you a virgin?”
“—no—”
“Then you’re a slut. Anyone can use you. Now it’s my turn to use you.”
I try to turn my face away, but he stuffs my underwear back into my mouth. For a few moments he watches me, writhing and helpless. My cunt is completely exposed to him—every part of me is laid bare—and I can hide nothing. Prevent nothing.
“So many things I can do to you,” he murmurs. “First I need my toys.”
Toys? That could mean anything. I told him not to cause me serious pain—so not a whip, probably—but the list of things he could use to bind or humiliate me is endless. They run through my mind, a kaleidoscope of sexual perversion that lights me up inside.
I hear him outside, then at the door. What else could he have brought?
When he walks inside, he casually tosses a bag near the foot of the bed, then smirks to see me there, tied so that he can see my exposed cunt. Jonah steps closer and thrusts his fingers inside me. He works his hand in and out, slowly, then steps back. His grin is wicked as he unzips his pants.
I don’t want to want this, but I do—I do—
“You want to beg me some more?” Once more he tugs the panties from my lips. I think he likes this, shoving them inside, silencing me.
“You don’t have to do this.” My words come out shaky.
Jonah laughs. “Say anything you want, bitch.”
Then he climbs atop me, his blood-dark cock thick between my legs for the moment before he pushes inside.
It burns. It aches. It’s so fucking good I could scream.
His cock fills me, inch by inch—he’s taking it slow, tormenting me with how long it will take. “Yeah,” he whispers as he sinks in deeper. “That’s it.”
He’s in me all the way now, and starts thrusting, still going slow—but strong, so strong he pushes my body upward on the bed, and the ropes around my ankles strain. I groan in mingled satisfaction and pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” he says. His hips rock forward, so that he’s buried in me to the hilt. “Or I’ll pound you harder, ’til you bleed.”
Jonah slides into me. Out of me. Every stroke burns; every move aches. My traitorous body responds to him, wanting more even as the ropes bruise my wrists.
“Taking it slow,” Jonah says. “Do you know why?”
I shake my head. My hair is stuck to my forehead with sweat
“Because I’m not going to come in you yet. You have to wait for it. Soon you’ll beg for it, because that’s the only way I’m going to stop.” He pushes in again, burying himself deep inside me, and whispers against my shoulder, “Stop for now, I mean. I’m going to fuck you again. And again. I’m going to fuck you blind.”
“Don’t—”
“I told you to shut the fuck up.”
Jonah pushes the panties back into my mouth, and this time he won’t take them out again. He pumps into me, his hips pistoning faster and harder until the force of it feels like it’s going to rip me apart. He’s spread my legs so far apart that I can see where he sinks into me, the faint glistening of my wetness against his rigid cock as he slides in and out and in again. My ragged cries are muffled by the cotton in my mouth, and I can tell he loves how I try to scream, and fail.
When I’m on the verge, I can’t help rocking my hips up to meet his—but that’s when he pulls out, denying both of us release.
For a moment he kneels there, his cock jutting forward as he looks at his prisoner. He reaches up to cup my breasts, squeezing hard.
Then he slides off the bed.
He goes for his bag and pulls out something small and white, U-shaped. What in the world?
“I’m going to roll you over,” he says. “You’re not going to kick me, or fight, or do anything else stupid. If you do, you get spanked. Understand me?”
Nobody’s ever tried to spank me before. Is Jonah talking about light, playful pats, or something more brutal?
Probably the latter. I mean to find out.
When he loosens one of my ankles, I do nothing more than flex my foot. Renewed circulation sends blood rushing through my heel and arch and toes, tingling in a way both painful and welcome. But when he releases the other, I use my newfound traction to push myself farther up the bed and kick at him.
“Bitch.” Jonah lunges over me and sinks his teeth into my shoulder. Pain ripples through me—has he broken the skin?—and I freeze. This is what he wanted. He turns me over as best he can. While my arms are still tied to the posts, most of my body lies on my left side, and he’s now scooting down the bed to tug my legs to the opposite bedposts.
He’s turning me over just enough to expose my ass.
“That’s right,” Jonah murmurs. “Lie still instead of fighting. You want to make me happy, don’t you? If you make me happy, I can be nice to you. Give you something to eat. Let you sleep in this bed instead of on the floor.”
Oh, God, oh, God. What is he going to do to me? I fear it as much as I thrill to it. Is there no danger, no humiliation, that can ruin this fantasy for me? Or will it own me forever?
It owns me. Jonah owns me.
I shake my head yes, silently affirming that I’ll do what I can to “make him happy.”
He grabs my hair, lunges close. “Good. You’ve learned that you have to do whatever I want. And now I want you to wear something.”
Wear something? Confusion only adds to my fear as he pulls away again and grabs the small white device. Now that I see it more clearly, I can see that the ends of the U are flatter, the center more cylindrical; it seems to be coated in silicone. Then I feel him slide it inside me—one end within my cunt, the other pressing against my clit.
“You’re not just going to take this,” Jonah says. “You’re going to like it.”
I hear a soft click—and the device inside me begins to vibrate.
This is a vibrator? I’ve only seen the rabbit ones, not counting the enormous things they sell at the pharmacy as “back massagers.” I come so easily that I’ve never bothered buying one.
It feels good, though. Great. I realize now that this is perfectly designed to be worn during sex; the end inside me is slim enough that Jonah could push his cock in there too. Maybe the sensation will do something for him, too. But I don’t know why he thinks I’d need a vibrator to enjoy it when he fucks me . . .
Just at that moment, Jonah slides two fingers inside my ass.
My entire body tenses, clenching around him. His fingers seem to slide up so deep inside me; the pressure kindles primal shame within. I start to shake, individual muscles in my legs and my ass trembling like the strings of an instrument being played. As Jonah turns his hand inside me, I can feel the pressure of his knuckles—the roughness of his skin against my hole—and I feel myself blushing so strongly that my skin seems to be on fire. Jonah chuckles, low and hot; he must see that I’ve gone scarlet with shame. He pulls out his hand, but he’s not done.
I called off my limits. Why did I do that? Because now he’s going to do something to me no other man ever has. Jonah is going to fuck my ass.
“You’re going to love it,” he whispers as he ties one of my legs to the bedpost, then the other. I couldn’t turn over if I wanted, now. Jonah’s fingers push back inside me—not so slow, this time—and he starts working his fingers back and forth. Yet the vibration against my clit keeps doing its job, turning me on even more. “You’re going to come hard while I’m in your ass, and that’s going to prove how much you love it, slut.”
Oh, God, oh God, oh God, oh God. I told him this was no longer forbidden, but only because I knew it was something that could happen in a real attack. Nobody’s ever put it in my asshole before. It’s going to hurt. It would hurt if anyone did it, but Jonah’s massive cock will split me in two—
“You’re going to come so hard, it’ll be the best it’s ever been.” Jonah pushes another finger in me. Tender flesh stretches. By now I can tell he’s slicked his hand with something, oil or some other kind of lube, but it doesn’t lessen my panic. I don’t want him to do this. I want out of here.
And yet I don’t.
I can’t say silver, not with my underwear jammed in my mouth. Still, I could stop him by snapping my fingers. Even bound as I am, I could manage that. But the vibration is starting to profoundly affect me. Spirals of arousal spin through my head, dizzying me completely. My cunt throbs and aches. But it’s my ass Jonah is working hard.
One last plea: I shake my head. Jonah laughs. “What, do you want to beg? I like hearing you beg.” With that he tears the wet rag of my panties from my lips and throws it aside, done with it at last. “Beg me, baby.”
“I—” I choke out the word. “Please, not that. Anything but that. I’ll do anything else you want.”
“You’re going to do everything I want anyway, bitch.”
And then Jonah pushes inside.
I cry out. The pain is undeniable—and yet it lessens quickly as Jonah holds still, stretching my body to fit him. Shaking, I try to wriggle away from him, but I can’t move. All I do is push the vibrator more forcefully against my clit, and then there’s no telling the pain from the pleasure.
Jonah starts to move, taking my ass the way he’s wanted to since the beginning. I hear him groan in satisfaction.
He’s tearing me apart—no. He’s fusing us together. There’s no me any longer, no him. There’s only the way Jonah pumps into me, every move turning us into one.
Jonah’s the only man who ever made my entire mind splinter like this. Because I can’t speak. I can’t think. I don’t know what to feel. All I know is that he’s pumping me hard now, so deep inside me that it seems like—like there’s nothing left of me except my body, and my body is completely his—even the arousal arcing inside me, more and more powerful, that belongs to him too—
My cunt contracts, and my orgasm crashes over me, through me, a tidal wave of pure ecstasy. My ass clenches around Jonah’s cock, and I hear his low, cruel laugh of triumph. He did this to me, fucked me up the ass and made me come long and hard and good while he did it.
That’s it. He’s won. He could never own me more than he does right now. And I glory in my own defeat.
Jonah plunges into me again, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of me. “Not done yet, baby. Not nearly done yet.”
And the vibration isn’t done with me either. Already I feel arousal building inside me again. Surely I can’t come again this fast. I can’t. Yet the vibrator’s inexorable stimulation continues rippling through me, demanding my response.
He keeps pumping into me. Stretching me out. Violating me in the most degrading way a man can force a woman—and making me love it.
Every single flutter of the vibrator between my legs brings me closer to the brink.
“Oh, God,” I whisper against the mattress, in mingled surrender and shame. “Oh, oh—”
It crashes into me like white noise and white light and oblivion. I come so hard it makes me convulse beneath him, and Jonah laughs out loud in his triumph.
No one else could ever master me like this. Only Jonah.
He whispers, “Slut.” And then he grunts and shoves inside me to the hilt, shuddering as his own orgasm takes him.
For a moment I lie there, vibration now almost painful against my overstimulated clit. But Jonah leans back—slides out—and slips the vibrator out too.
“You’ll beg me for that again later. You’re going to beg me for all kinds of things.” He unleashes my ankles and turns the vibrator off, setting it aside. I’m too limp and weak to resist or even to move. “Now you’re going to shower for me. I want to watch you. Then you’ll come back here and get tied with your legs open again. So anytime I want to use you, I can.”
Jonah slips my wrists free, drags me to my feet—
–and my cell phone rings.
The sound of that ringtone—the one I assigned to Chloe after our last awkward phone conversation—jolts me almost entirely out of the fantasy. He must have brought in my duffel bag when he walked away for a few seconds, because the ring is close, maybe by the door. Jonah’s growl of frustration is completely real. How could I have forgotten to turn the ringer off?
“Are your friends wondering where you are?” Jonah runs his hand over one of my breasts, pulls at my nipple. “They’re never, ever going to know. I’m going to shut off your phone so we don’t get disturbed again.”
The ringing stops. Thank God. Chloe will leave her voice mail, and Jonah and I can slip back into the fantasy. He walks me through the living room into the bathroom, which is basic tile, stark and white. Trembling, I step into the shower where I’ll have to perform for him—
–which is when the damned phone rings again. And it’s still Chloe.
Chloe would always rather leave a voice mail. Always. She wouldn’t keep calling back if this were any ordinary call.
This is important.
Something’s wrong.
“Silver.” I turn to Jonah and repeat the safe word. “Silver.”
Instantly he releases my arms. His expression shifts in an instant, no longer the angry, brutal master. Now he’s Jonah again, and I’m me. “What’s going on?”
“My sister. She never calls twice like that.”
I head toward the sound of the ring. My legs are still shaky; my breathing is still too quick. I slump to my knees on the floor before I unzip my duffel. Although the ringing stops in the instant before I grab the phone, I immediately hit the key to return her call. She picks up instantly. I say, “Chloe? It’s me. What is it?”
