Forcing my brain to function, I untie her, smoothing my hands over each indent and mark from the ropes. I kiss each one, telling her how beautiful she is, how brave. When I think my legs can hold me again, I carry her into the adjoining bathroom.
"A bathtub, that's nice," she sighs.
Lifting her into the tub, I put her on my lap, sinking down as the warm water flows over us. My fingers lightly touch each of the marks on her arms and breasts.
"Are they going to bruise?" Violet asks, her words slurring a little.
"No," I kiss the top of her head.
"Oh, that's too bad," she sighs.
My cock is rising again and I groan silently. I'm going to have to ice my dick so I can get some of the blood back to my brain.
Chapter Twenty-One
In which Violet Meets the Family.
Violet…
Date night.
That's all the card says, just two words in Roman's blocky handwriting. The expensive piece of stationary is on my bed, sitting on top of a pile of clothes; an ankle length midnight blue dress, with a slit that rises to scandalous proportions on the left side and a halter top. No room for a bra, I notice, rolling my eyes. I'm grateful the halter has some padding, at least, because my girls like a little support. Underneath there's a box with a pair of gladiator style sandals, and under that, another note.
Wear your hair up.
I tap the note against my palm. A nice dress, but not too fancy, so no super high-end restaurant. The sandals… no heel, so I could walk or run in them. I hate not knowing his plan, but I have no choice but to just go along with it.
By now, Roman must know that the hardest possible thing for me is to, "just go along with it." I haven't gotten where I am in life by being passive and letting other people take control but maybe I can, just for tonight.
Roman is waiting for me in the front hall right at six, infuriatingly gorgeous in jeans and a white linen button-downshirt, sleeves rolled up. He takes my hand and I think he's going to kiss it, instead he pulls me in for a hug, burying his nose in my neck and breathing deeply.
"Are yousniffingme?" I ask, half laughing, half turned on.
I can feel his chest expand with air and his cool breath on my skin as he replies, "Absolutely. You smell almost as good as you taste."
"Roman!" I say with a hasty glance around us, hoping no one heard him. My sisters are out, along with Roman's plethora of guards.
"How does the dress feel?" he asks, spinning me in a circle. "You look edible in this."
"Very comfortable. And with the slit in the skirt, I can make a break for it if you get serious about the 'edible' comment." I'd put my hair up in a chignon with some strands loose around my face, minimal jewelry, and makeup, except for mascara and dramatic eyeliner.
"Excellent," he says with a smile I can only describe as avaricious. When he leads me out to the garage, he walks past the Range Rover and the Bugatti to a sleek black motorcycle. I've always liked the look of motorcycles, but they're so loud and the way they nimbly weave in and out of traffic on crowded New York streets is always vaguely terrifying to watch. He hands me a helmet and I eye the bike, alarmed.
"Do you ride often?" I ask.
"My sweet Violet, it's too late to doubt me now."
"I do not find that at all reassuring," I snap back, but he only laughs, putting the helmet on my head and strapping it securely under my chin.
"Swing your right leg over the seat and tuck in your skirt, baby."
I jump a little when he starts the bike, the engine vibrating under my ass. He pulls smoothly out of the driveway, and I settle myself on the seat, aware of how tightly my thighs are bracketing his and my arms are strangling his waist. He rides sedately down Commerce Street, and when we get to the thoroughfare, he makes a left and hits the gas as I scream.
"No screaming unless we're about to be decapitated by a garbage truck," he groans. "There's a microphone and an earpiece embedded in your helmet."
I wince. "Sorry, I thought I was just screaming into the wind. That's pretty cool, being able to talk to each other." My nails dig into his abdomen as he sweeps past a truck changing lanes and then between two cars to beat the light. Whenever I'd thought about riding on a motorcycle, I pictured something on the highway, the bike's steady roar with the wind in my hair. Something semi-glamorous like "Sons of Anarchy," maybe.
Nothing like this.
