She’s unbelievably cool under pressure. Does that mean she’s had training? If so, she and the agency have done a very good job keeping it a secret that she works for them. I’ve heard nothing about her going to the FBI Academy. And if they hand-picked her as the agent to get to me, they’ve upped their game. She and I were together for six weeks, nine years ago. Over the years, I’ve only asked about her directly a handful of times. Still, here she is in my place playing it as cool as a fucking veteran undercover agent.
“Yeah, you can have something.” Walking away, I tell her, “And you can keep your panties on. If you let them put a wire in those, you deserve to keep it.” In my room, I ignore the bathrobe. She’s not going to be wearing a bulky cover-up for what comes next. Instead I find a threadbare Guinness t-shirt that’s older than we are. It also happens to be the shirt I had on the first time I talked to her.
When I hold it out, she looks at it and frowns. “Just this?”
“Or nothing.”
She turns and faces the wall. Reaching back, she unhooks the clasp and leans forward so the bra falls off. Holding it out behind her, she waits.
I take it, but my eyes never leave her bare back, which is gorgeous. Her shoulders are the width of her hips. Her waist’s narrow and leads down to the tiny dimples a few inches above her peach perfect ass. She’s got the same great muscle tone she had as an athlete.
The Dublin Guinness shirt falls into place, the hem covering the dimples.
“Shoes,” I say because the straps or buckles could easily conceal a device.
She takes them off, and I scoop up the clothes and shoes. After unlocking the door, I dump them in the hall. Shutting the door, I lock us back inside. Now the only protection she’s got is an old t-shirt and a pair of lace panties. The odds on her spilling her secrets just tipped in my favor.
“All right?” she asks. “Now do you believe me?”
“No. But I believe you’ve got nerves of steel, which impresses me.”
I toss my own bloody button-down in the garbage and open the door to the soundproofed guest room. At first glance, there’s nothing unexpected in the calm sage and dove gray room. I unlock a hidden panel on the bed’s footboard, open it, and slide out the leather restraints that are hooked to eyebolts inside. I do the same with the headboard. Then I unlock the trunk at the foot of the bed and take out a padded foam bolster. I toss it on the bed, along with a wooden paddle.
I don’t bring many play partners home. I usually meet up with them in commercial dungeons or hotel rooms. But I set up the guest room thinking it would come in handy if I ever got into a relationship.
I look at the smooth, polished rectangular paddle. It’s never been used. When I’m playing with a girl, I spank her with my hand or occasionally whip her with a flogger if she’s experienced and into that kind of thing. I bought the paddle in case I had a girl in my life who needed to be punished. The need never arose because no relationships ever got serious enough. My attention span is usually two or three weeks at best.
Laurelyn comes to the doorway and then freezes like a deer in headlights. Her stillness finally breaks as she takes a breath, but it’s shallow. Her gaze fixes itself on the leather restraints.
“No,” she whispers.
“Come in. You can keep your underwear on.”
Her gaze darts to mine and when she speaks her voice is firm. “Scott, no.”
I smile without humor. “I didn’t ask you a question. I gave you an order.”
Her green eyes narrow. I remember that glare. At eighteen, it was pretty damn effective, which is saying something because I can count on one hand the number of times I thought twice about my actions where Coynston schoolgirls were involved.
I crook a finger at her. “If you try to run or fight this, I’ll take that t-shirt back. Want to be naked while I punish you? And to stay naked after?”
Her breathing’s uneven. Fight or flight, I wonder, because I can tell she’s not going to submit the easy way. I wonder again who she’s covering for. Someone I haven’t thought of who wants revenge? Is she more scared of him than she is of me? I need to change that.
My cock’s at half-mast. I’m tempted to make this about more than punishment. How much would I love to put clamps on her nipples and cuffs on her wrists to tease her before I fuck her? When we were together, I didn’t try to coax her into wild sex right away because I didn’t want to push too fast. Unlike all the others, I wanted to hold onto her. Then we imploded and I let it go.
“You can’t do this.”
“There are restraints built into the bedframe. Clearly I’m capable, so iscan’tthe right word? The difference between the right word and the almost right word…” I wait for her to finish the Mark Twain quote from her days as debate team captain.
“Don’t be cute.”
“Too late,” I say with a small smile. I shouldn’t be flirting, but I can’t help myself. Then I realize a device could be in her hair clip.Sloppy, Trick. Stay on point.Walking over, I unhook the barrette’s clasp and let her silky hair spill over her shoulders. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it, with strands cascading down to her elbows. Sexy hair. Matches her body.
I walk out to rid myself of the clip, leaving it on the pile of discarded clothes. She takes the opportunity to retreat to the kitchen.
Taking her arm, I pull her toward the guest room door. She resists, so I lift her off the floor and carry her back inside. When I toss her on the bed, she lands and immediately crab walks to the far edge, her eyes finally wide with fear.
“You do this to someone who’s not willing?”
