I began to unbutton it even as the feel of his fingers remained around my neck.
No matter what he did or said—the fact that he knew Runa’s routine almost as well as I did was undeniably hot.
I peeled the cardigan and dress off together, ignoring the cold of the basement. Vadim took them from my hand and laid them on the table beside me.
The only things he had removed were his jacket and tie.
Typical.
He backed me against another table—solid wood, no padding. I placed my hands behind me to stop the edge digging into my rear.
“Sit,” he said, tapping my hip.
I gripped the silver pole and lifted myself onto the table, legs dangling. That’s when I saw the cuffs hanging from two poles on either side. He moved behind me. I glanced back quickly.
On the table, there were three thick metal loops. Two sized for wrists. The middle one clearly for a neck.
“If my daughter is upset that you’re late,” he drawled,“you’ll find yourself back down here once she’s fed.”
I tore my eyes from the restraints and closed them for a moment—caught between self-preservation and the automatic calculation of Runa’s next feeding time.
At least two hours away.
For a crime lord he had an abundance of time on his hands.
His fingers pulled at my hair until I lay back, my hair dangling off the edge of the table. Or the torture instrument. The distinction was becoming less clear.
The metal snapped around my neck before he locked it into place. He had left the door open—I could hear Sergei coughing faintly from the other room. He took my left wrist and bound it.
“Do you know how humiliating it was for me?” he asked, snapping my right wrist into place.“To look everyone in the eye while they all knew about my little runaway wife.”
I tracked his movements as he walked around the table and crouched to grip my ankle.
“And what of my humiliation?” I asked softly.
He didn’t pause in wrapping the leather cuff. I could practically hear him thinking—that silence of his that meant something had landed and he was deciding what to do with it. He moved out of sight and his hand curled around my other ankle. By the time he was finished my legs were spread wide.
“Perhaps we should stop keeping tally,” he said, tugging each strap before he moved away again.
I turned my head. The cold metal dug into my neck.
“So you’ll be fair with me?” I asked, not bothering to hide the scepticism.
His chuckle joined the click of his shoes as he returned.
“One thing at a time,” he said, placing something on the table.
He removed his cufflinks and slipped them into his trouser pocket. I nibbled the corner of my lip as he began to roll his sleeves up in his usual methodical manner—unhurried, deliberate, every movement designed to be watched. He was watching me watch him and that’s when I understood he knew exactly what his tattoos and forearms did to me.
“You’ve been so accommodating lately,” he said, blowing into a latex glove.
He pried it onto his hand then did the same with the other. He rested both hands on my thighs—the rubber not quite preventing his warmth from reaching me. He slid them up toward the poles before trailing back down toward my inner thighs. I used the restraints for leverage and arched my back, trying to lift my hips.
His fingers moved. He didn’t touch me where I needed him to.
“He’s probably dying next door,” he said, reaching for something I couldn’t see.
I tried to lift my head. Impossible.
