Dark Secret Love (8 page)

“Now kiss the tip.”

It was a cane.

I’d written about canes, of course. In my nightly pounding of Lois’s keyboard, I’d written about all of my kinky desires. Being free from Byron had freed my mind as well. I’d seen these implements in the windows of the sex stores in Hollywood. But I had no idea what sort of pain the thing would impart.

“We’ll start with six,” Nate said, “and you’re going to count each blow.”

My ass was still hot from Garrett’s punishment, but when Nate ran his hand slowly over both of my cheeks I shivered at the gentleness of his touch. He knew what he was doing. As soon as my body responded to one sensation, he was there to confuse me beyond measure. I didn’t think I could tense my muscles any tighter than they were. I held my breath, but Nate was too smart for that. He
waited, saw me exhale, and then inhale again before he put his lips to my ear once more and said, “Prepare yourself.”

There was nothing I could have done to prepare. The first stroke was fire. Plain and simple. I’d never felt anything like that before. Nate seemed to be smiling as he said, “You’ve forgotten the rules already, baby? What are we going to do with you?”

Forgotten. Forgotten what?

“You count,” he repeated coldly. There was no longer the sound of a smile in his tone. “You count for me. We’ll call that one practice.” My heart raced. I was in a panic. Six more? Could I take six more? But before I could think to protest, he’d started again.

“One—” I murmured, tears wetting the black velvet of the blindfold. I sensed it when Garrett came forward. He wanted to watch close up.

The cane struck a second time, and I cried out, my back arching, feeling electrified by the pain. “Two—” There was no way I could take six. And there was no way I couldn’t. We were alike. He was right. Two halves of the same soul. Nate had seen it from the start. Connor’s power paled in comparison. Garrett was a wind-up toy. Nate knew what he was doing, and he gave me two in a row, so quick and fast that I stumbled on the numbers, not knowing where I was anymore, and he laughed again. “Ah, baby, why are you doing this to me?” As if I were causing him serious pain instead of the other way around. “You’ve got to work, Sam. You’ve got to keep up.”

Ultimately, six equaled more than ten. And ultimately, the numbers were lost in my sobs. You’d think I would have wanted to turn to Garrett for comfort, the way I’d basked in the strokes and kisses from Nathan during
Garrett’s whipping. But I didn’t want any of that. I only wanted Nate.

My pain. His pleasure.

Nate was on the bed again, and with a tug the blindfold was off and I could see. He undid the ties on my ankles and released the cuffs from the hook in the wall, although they remained on my wrists. He flipped me onto my back.

“Byron should have done this a long time ago, huh?” he taunted me. “If he’d taken care of you the right way, you’d never have been such a little slut, would you?”

I wanted to answer, to defend myself, but how could I? If I said that Nate was right, I knew his immediate response. He would have said not to blame Byron for my own slutty actions. And if I dared to disagree with him, and said that I’d have cheated anyway, he would have punished me for owning my desires. This was a no-win situation. Exactly what Nate wanted.

“He should have seen what was going on,” Nathan hissed. “I would have. You and I would have dealt with the situation very, very differently.”

I knew he was right in a way. I could see it in my head. Byron had called me a cunt. Nate would have made it impossible for me to sit down for weeks. But there was a false quality to the equation. I’d never have cheated on Nate.

There were clips in his hand now and I sucked in my breath as he placed them, one by one, on my nether lips. The pain was instantaneous—it was all I could think of. He continued to speak to me, but I barely heard a word.

“Roll back over onto your stomach now.”

Until he said that.

“And keep your hips up for me.” I lifted immediately.

“I’m going to undo your wrists,” he said, “and you’re going to spread your cheeks wide open for me.”

I lowered my head, feeling a fresh wave of fear like ice water down my neck.

“You know where I’m going,” he continued. “Don’t make things harder on yourself by pretending you don’t.”

He undid the cuffs, and I obeyed his command, reaching back and spreading my rear cheeks, feeling him watching, looking at me. Feeling more exposed than I ever had in my life. I wished for the blindfold once more, but Nate was too smart for that. He gripped a fistful of my long hair and pulled, making me look back over my shoulder at him.

“Now, beg me.”

I could have laughed. I heard it in my head, a bitter sound. Each time I survived one test, there was another waiting for me to pass.

“Do I need to get the cane again, baby?” His voice was resigned. I was doing this to him. I was giving him no choices.

“No, Nate.”

“Then do what I say. I won’t warn you a second time.”

“Please, Nate,” I whispered. “Please fuck me.”

“Get the cane,” he said to Garrett.

Oh, god. No—

“Please,” I said louder. “Fuck my ass, Nate.”

“This ass?” he slapped me.

“Yes,” I stuttered. “Yes, please—”

“Why should I?” He slapped me again.

Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.

“Because I need it.”

“Why, Sam?”

Images flickered through my head, disappearing
quickly, like smoke.

This wasn’t therapy. I couldn’t explain. I could never explain. I could only beg. But I’m good at begging. I was in total supplication to him, my fingers slippery on the cheeks of my ass, offering myself to him.

“Please, Nate.” I felt as if I’d never stop crying. “Just please—”

I hoped it would be good enough. It had to be good enough.

“We’ll get there,” he told me, his voice low, and I thought of that night he’d whispered that he’d eaten the girl’s soul. Was he after mine? “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll get there.”

And then I felt the wetness of spit on his fingers and the first thrust of his cock in my ass, and I knew Garrett was close by watching, and I knew Nate wasn’t finished with me by far. But I shut my eyes once more, and as I found myself coming, I felt him unclipping the clamps one by one and letting them drop to the mattress.

“Good girl,” he said softly afterward, touching my damp cheek, rubbing the marks on my wrists. “You’re a good girl, Sam.” His black eyes flashed. “You made me proud tonight.”

Garrett was gone now, back to his own room.

It was just the two of us.

I looked at him, locked on his eyes, understanding full well that we both knew he was lying.

Black dress, black fishnets, black go-go boots. My hair up in a high ponytail. A velvet choker tight around my neck. I stood in the bathroom and checked out my appearance as if seeing myself for the first time. The salon was in the heart of Beverly Hills. I’d be dealing with beautiful people all day long, and I wanted to do my best to blend.

“You know, it ought to be a collar,” Nate said, coming up behind me and putting one strong hand on my throat, covering the choker.

I stared at the two of us in the mirror. Nate had a ruby towel wrapped around his flat waist and nothing else. His dark hair was wet from his shower, and he smelled faintly of a spicy aftershave. As always, he was as handsome as a headshot. But Nate came alive behind the camera.

“Black leather,” he said, “with silver hardware.”

An interesting fashion statement for the first day on the job, I thought, but kept the observation to myself. I already knew better than to respond with some wisecrack
comment. Nate could be unpredictable.

“Buckled tight,” he continued, dropping his towel now and stepping behind me.

I tensed immediately, not knowing what he was going to do.

“You’re nervous,” Nate said, taking my hands and placing them gently on the edge of the pink ceramic sink. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” That was true enough.

“I’m going to make you forget your nerves,” he promised, and I felt him slide the dress up in the back, revealing my bikini panties.

“Aw,” he whispered, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You wore black panties. Black down to the core.” His warm fingers slid the knickers past the tops of my thigh-high stockings. “But what’s this, baby? You’re breaking the dress code.”

I didn’t know what he meant, and I looked into the mirror once more, meeting his eyes as he gazed back at me. “Your ass is all black and blue.”

I lowered my eyes as a shudder worked through me. The welts and marks from his caning and Garrett’s cropping were only slowly fading. Nate admired his handiwork for a moment before pulling my hips back against him. I didn’t even think to resist—simply gave myself over to him as he started to fuck me, smoothly, evenly, sliding his cock in and out at a hypnotic pace.

“You’ll be at the counter, helping people, and thinking about how sweetly I fucked you this morning and how hard I’m going to fuck you tonight.”

And now my breath caught, because Nate understood. I could come from being taken this way, but only if he talked dirty to me. “Normal” sex was never enough.
“We’re going out,” he continued, slipping his hands up under my dress now and tugging my bra down to reveal my breasts. He twisted my nipples as he spoke to me. “You and me. We’re going to a special place I know. And they have a dress code, too. Dresses optional. Collars mandatory.”

He sped up the rhythm now, pinching my nipples as he fucked me. “So you think about that, Samantha, while all the newness of your job makes you feel dizzy and off balance. You think that tonight, I’m going to clear everything up for you.”

And he pulled out unexpectedly, and gave my ass one last slap before walking out of the bathroom.

I stood there for a moment, staring at my reflection, seeing an entirely different girl than I had moments before. Nate confused me. I had thought that after our crazy fucked-up night together, he’d treat me the way he did all of his conquests. That he’d cross me off his list. But he hadn’t. Maybe he simply wasn’t bored yet.

I looked at my eyes, at the glow in their depths, at my flushed cheeks, and thought,
Jesus, they’re going to know I just got fucked
. But one thing was for sure, Nate was right. I didn’t feel nearly as nervous now.

Carmen trained me. She’d been at the salon for a decade, and she moved with a fluid grace behind the counter, even on four-inch heels, answering the phones, greeting guests, paging stylists. She wore her ginger hair straight to the middle of her back and had the most piercing blue eyes I’d ever seen—a crystal blue that couldn’t possibly be real.

Normally, she told me, she let the other girls do the routine work, but she always explained the system personally to new trainees. That way they wouldn’t feel quite so
overwhelmed. But even though I was quiet as she spoke, I wasn’t put off at all by the chaos. I’d started working in a salon when I was twelve. It was attached to a beauty supply store, and I hung out at the makeup counter so often that the manager put me to work. So the noise, the hectic pace, and the very familiar scents of salons were more comforting to me than almost anything else.

Still, this was the biggest place than I’d ever worked, with celebrities coming in hourly, often using a private elevator in the back. There was an espresso bar and an international newsstand and a whole bank of manicurist/pedicurist stations, chairs facing a wall painted with a detailed mural of a horizon.

“You understand that you never let a client off the phone without booking an appointment. If we can’t book the desired stylist at that time, you offer another time. If the time is more important than the stylist, you find another stylist.”

I nodded.

“And you’re pleasant, even if someone is irate. That’s the number-one priority.”

“But you can put them on hold,” the girl with a shiny black bob next to me grinned. “I’m Nina,” she added, “and that’s my favorite trick.”

Carmen nodded. “As a last resort,” she said, “because they’ll simply hang up and call back, but if someone’s screaming at you, that’s what we all do.”

Screaming, I thought. People take their hair way too seriously in L.A.

Carmen brought me back to meet the different stylists, and I knew that it would be weeks before I could memorize everyone’s names. Half were French, with fairy-tale names like Adrien, Patrice, Jean-Claude. The rest had
monikers that sounded as if they’d renamed themselves: Brandy, Temper, Raven, and Frankie. But all were friendly to me as I passed through the massive salon.

“Don’t worry,” one said, pulling up alongside me. “You’ll get it.” I must have looked mildly panicked. I stared at him, realizing I’d already forgotten his name. “Matteo,” he said, smiling, and when I hurried after Carmen, who’d already headed toward the rear break room, I heard him whisper something under his breath.

“So,” Carmen said, kicking her feet up on a zebra-striped leather chair and settling in with a giant cup of coffee. “Does it all make sense?”

I nodded. I’d done reception during my freshman year at an architecture firm. All I did there was run an eighty-line switchboard for six hours at a time. The name of the firm was a tongue twister and keeping the employees straight was a nightmare, but I’d succeeded. This couldn’t be half as difficult.