Going Down (11 page)

“Into the shower.”

Being nude and without use of her arms transported her into the familiar world framed by her career. Much like a calf with a rope around its neck, she stood trembling and helpless and alive. She had no thoughts of resisting him but also couldn't think how to obey. He'd made her his; she'd become his responsibility. Let him deal with the aftereffects.

Perhaps he could read her mind because instead of repeating the order, he used his hold on her elbow to force her to the side so he'd have access to the shower. Opening the door, he reached in and turned on the water. Instead of a single shower head, there were three separate sprays. They all pulsed, the water changing from a light mist to a strong jet, drenching the oversized shower in a near river of warmth. And when he guided her into the enclosure she went willingly.

He followed her in as she knew he would, closing the door behind him. Instead of waiting for his orders, she stepped into the spray so it struck her throat and breasts. The pulsating, gyrating water felt as if it were penetrating her outer layers while it searched for her lungs and heart.

If her dumb compliance confused him, he gave no sign. Instead, he slowly turned her in a circle so the water hit every inch of her from the neck down. When he adjusted the nozzle so a strong spray was directed at her pussy, she spread her legs. Having the water slap her there wasn't the only thing responsible for her growing submission; he, her captor, was a vital part of the scene. She'd become his creature, his object. Being tired and lost also played their own roles of course. In addition, although it made no sense, she simply wanted to see where this was heading.

He was maybe eight inches taller than she, hard where she was soft, confident in contrast to her confusion, and when he released her, she made no attempt to move. He reached for a rose-scented bar of soap and lathered a luxurious-looking washcloth. Moving behind her, he indicated that he wanted her to bend forward. Obeying him meant she could no longer see him, but he'd already taught her that he could force her to do whatever he wanted. Water was running into her eyes so she closed them, keeping her stance wide so she wouldn't risk losing her balance.

The soap felt like liquid satin, the scent intoxicating. After lying on her side in the back of a car for hours, having her skin pampered felt wonderful. At the same time she was no fool. Just because he was being gentle now was no reason to believe that would continue. He'd said something about a plan for her, a use he intended to put her to.

Curiosity about that use faded and died when he reached the base of her spine. Up until then his touch had been so light that she'd been hard-pressed to distinguish it from what the shower was responsible for. Now, however, gentleness changed into possessiveness.
You're mine,
his hand around her middle proclaimed as he bent her even farther forward.
For as long as I say,
he added simply by running the cloth between her ass cheeks.

Whether having her head so low that blood rushed to her temple was responsible didn't matter. What did was her reawakening awareness of herself as a functioning human being. This wasn't a movie; she wasn't a well-paid model who'd agreed to have her most intimate parts exposed. She was in the hands of a powerful and perhaps dangerous man, and she was a fool to have tried to delude herself into thinking anything else.

The washcloth was between her legs, suds coating her labia and running down her inner thighs. Over and over again he stroked the length of her pussy, each journey forcing a sigh from her. The formerly soft terry cloth now scraped her unbelievably sensitive flesh, bringing her onto her toes in an insane attempt to put distance between herself and what was both pleasure and pain. No matter how much she tried to keep it trapped inside her, a long and low moan rolled out of her.

“You're going to be so easy,” he muttered. The words were no more than just out of his mouth when he grabbed her hair and jerked her upright.

Sharp pain on her scalp separated her from stimulation, that and the fact that he'd removed the washcloth from between her legs. She tried to look back at him only to have her head held firmly in place. The fear she'd been able to briefly deny seeped into her. Fingers clenched and her thoughts locked on how much damage she might be able to inflict with her hands together like this, she concentrated on breathing without bringing too much water into her nostrils and mouth.

“You remind me of a horse I broke once,” he said with his mouth near her ear. “As long as I kept a rope on him, he'd let me do everything I wanted. He led me to believe he'd accepted that I was in charge. But the moment he was free to run, he was hell to capture again. I'm keeping my ropes on you, Saree. Let them teach your body their own lessons.”

His ropes on her, lessons for her body to learn. Instead of recoiling from the implications, she all but crawled into the words.

She heard the washcloth hit the floor. Then he released her hair and pushed her forward until she was directly under the spray, her instantly drenched long hair in her face. No matter that it was hard to breathe, she wasn't about to make the mistake of trying to move where he didn't want her. Instead, she stood with her fingers still clenched and her hands pressing against her mons, listening, waiting, anticipating.

Another possessive tug on her hair pulled her back and against him. Tense, she tried to blink water out of her eyes. A new aroma, this one a heady vanilla, calmed her a little. She relaxed even more when she realized the smell came from the shampoo he was putting on her hair. Standing straight and still, she followed his every move. He'd started by soaping the top of her head and was now working the suds down the strands. To her relief, he'd pushed her hair off her face and was taking care not to get shampoo near her eyes. When she was a small girl her parents had pampered her by shampooing her hair, and although this experience was quite different, there was a single common ground.

She felt cherished.

Cherished? What a fool she was to believe that of a man who intended to mold her in ways she couldn't begin to comprehend! She
had
to pull herself together and see this moment for what it surely was, his manipulation of her emotions.

Her grip on her senses slightly firmer than they'd been a minute ago, she vowed to separate her mind from what was happening to her body. Her determination got her through the rest of the shampooing and rinse. She managed to return his stare while he carefully washed her face, and if her composure slipped when he turned his attention to her throat and breasts, she told herself that he was studying his handiwork instead of her. Another point in her favor; his erection was growing. True, he might decide to bury it in her, but at least he wasn't immune to what he was doing.

When it came time to wash her legs, he backed her against the tile and propped her foot on his thigh. Then, a slightly bemused expression softening his stern features a little, he covered every inch of her from crotch down with soapy foam. The slow and thorough process forced her to draw comparisons between herself and ice left in the sun. She was losing form and definition and taking on the contours of whatever container she'd been placed in—or more accurately, parts of her seemed to be sloughing off so he could pick them up and mold them to his needs.

Finally, thank goodness, he must have decided she was clean enough for his exacting standards because he directed her to stand in a corner while he washed himself. He showed no sign of being embarrassed by his erection; neither did he give her any indication that he intended to use her to reverse its condition.

Good. The last thing she wanted or needed was to have sex with him.

S
aree sat on a high stool across the kitchen island from where Reeve was cooking breakfast. After they'd gotten out of the shower, he'd directed her to towel dry her hair and wrap the oversized towel around herself, no easy task. Then he'd refastened her hands behind her. Being essentially naked while he wore a fresh shirt and shorts was disconcerting but not nearly as much as having again been robbed of the use of her hands.

She didn't like any part of what was happening—except for the wonderful aroma of sautéing onions and mushrooms. Had he stocked the kitchen before coming after her or was one of his
partners
responsible?

Thoughts of who else was in on
this
caused her to replay the short phone conversation he'd had earlier. Now that she'd run it through her mind, she believed the woman he'd mentioned had managed to replicate her voice, thus convincing her employers that they'd spoken to her.

“This isn't going to work,” she blurted. “You can't just kidnap me and expect to get away with it.”

“You haven't been kidnapped. You accepted the invitation of a wealthy and persuasive man you've fallen in love with to be with him for the foreseeable future.”

The words thudded around her. Although she opened her mouth, nothing came out.

“I'm going to tell you several things because I believe you'll be better equipped to focus on what happens between the two of us if you've accepted certain realities.”

“What realities?” Her throat was dry.

“A woman pretending to be you called management at The Dungeon. Because of the timing, I'm guessing she left messages on their answering machines either last night or early this morning. I have no doubt she was quite believable. Her acting abilities are considerable, and she's been watching your videos long enough to have your speech patterns and word choices down. The short story, the mysterious man who showed up on a set the other day has swept you off your feet. You don't know how things are going to work out between the two of you, but you're excited about doing whatever needs to be done in order to explore the possibilities. People aren't to try to get in touch with you because you don't know where you'll be when. It's all about spontaneity.”

Suddenly dizzy, she dug her toes into the footrests. Reeve had helped her onto the high seat, and although she'd both enjoyed and resented his assistance, she now understood why he'd done what he had. She couldn't get down without risking a fall.

“No one's going to be looking for me?” she whispered.
At least no one at work.

“Correct. Don't worry about your mortgage and utilities; they'll be paid. Fortunately you don't have pets. You might lose some inside plants but thanks to your yard service, your neighbors won't become alarmed.”

Had
they
thought of everything?

“Some of your friends within the industry will feel slighted because you didn't personally get in touch with them, but the less contact we have with them, the less chance of a slipup.”

If only the dizziness would lift! It was nearly unbelievable that
they'd
made it possible for her to drop off the face of the earth. There'd be no missing person's report, no worried neighbors or colleagues, no one afraid for her.

Except for her sister.

“How—how long will this last?”

He'd been concentrating on the vegetarian omelet, but now he looked up at her. “I don't know.”

“Days?” She swallowed. “Weeks?” Another swallow. “Don't tell me you can't ever let me go. Please, don't.”

His darkening eyes left no doubt that he'd caught the panic in her voice. “It depends.”

“On—what?”

“How well the two of us do our jobs. And on whether eventually you'll believe that we did the only thing we could.”

This didn't make sense; surely he understood that. “And if I don't?”

His mouth a white slash, he turned his back on her. “Don't go there.”

“How can I not? Damn it, this is my life we're talking about!”

Whirling back around, he glared at her. “We're not talking about anything. I'm damn sorry I let you speak.”

“Why did you?”

His silence said nothing and everything, and because she knew better than to try to press him, she only watched while he dished up their breakfast. After placing her share in front of her, he unfastened her wrists. He sat on the adjacent stool, his presence enough to kill any and all thoughts she'd had about throwing herself at the front door. Not only did she have no doubt that it was locked, the unknowns remained. She didn't know where she was or where, if anywhere, she could go for help.

And there was something else, an intangible life force between them, primitive and powerful.

Although she didn't think she'd be able to so much as taste the omelet, the moment it touched her tongue, she sighed in approval. Calmed and quieted by the mix of flavors, she chewed and swallowed. “What about my relatives? What is the woman pretending to be me going to tell them?”

“You have only one, a sister. The answer is as little as possible.”

It won't work,
she nearly told him, but her freedom and possibly her life depended on her sister. “Oh.”

His scrutiny nearly forced her to drop her gaze. “For the record,” he said, “our operative has already left a message for Hayley. You're beyond in love. You believe the man you had dinner with is the one you've been looking for all your life, and you don't want anything to get in the way of getting to know him.”

Fighting down the impulse to laugh, she nodded.

“What is it?” he demanded with a forkful of omelet inches from his mouth. “You don't think it's going to work?”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You don't have to.”

“Good,” she snapped, just barely stopping herself from jumping to her feet. “because I'm not going to. You and whoever else is in on this insanity think you have it all figured out. Far from me to try to tell you different.”

 

They'd finished eating in silence, thank goodness, because if he'd pressed her she might have said something that could put Hayley in jeopardy. As it was, she had no doubt that Hayley wouldn't begin to buy that cock and bull story because finding
the
man had never been one of her goals and Hayley knew it. What she didn't know was what Hayley would do with her concerns, or how she'd go about trying to find her.

One thing for sure, no matter how desperately she wanted to believe in a wordless communication between the two of them, she couldn't tell her sister where to send the cavalry because she didn't know where she was. Oh, technically there was no doubt of her physical body's exact position—next to a sleeping Reeve on a queen-size bed. Damn it, that sexual zing shouldn't still exist. She didn't want to be near him, she didn't! Only tell that to her nerve endings.

Unlike him, she wasn't free to sprawl out because he'd wrapped a rope around her waist and tied her hands to it in front. In addition, he'd loosely but effectively secured her feet to the bottom of the bed. Even if she managed to sit up without waking him, there was no way she could use her hands to unlock the restraints around her ankles.

She'd actually fallen asleep shortly after he'd finished positioning her, but forgetfulness hadn't lasted long. Instead of trying to claw her way through the many questions about the mysterious others' plans for her, she kept imagining the conversations at work. The management knew her. She'd worked hard to develop her reputation as reliable. At the same time, she'd been careful to separate her private life from business. Just because she'd joked about erotic and exotic dreams and fantasies didn't mean those had been her actual dreams and fantasies. She'd never wanted to head into a jungle in search of Tarzan or seduce one of the world's richest men, but maybe her coworkers had believed that nonsense about her desire for a life of luxury.

Was it possible? What she'd considered good-natured fun had been taken as the truth? If so then why wouldn't everyone believe she was convinced she'd found a sugar daddy and was taking off for places unknown? After all, the same thing had happened to Amber Green.

Determined not to make herself sick contemplating the truth about Amber, she reluctantly turned toward Reeve. According to the nightstand clock, he'd been asleep for a couple of hours. He hadn't slept last night so logic said he wouldn't rouse for a while. What was he dreaming about, if anything? Thanks to the angle of his body, she couldn't tell whether he had an erection, but it wouldn't surprise her After all, he was a healthy young male with a helpless and relatively good-looking woman waiting for him to do whatever he wanted to.

Against all logic, her mind drifted in that direction. Upon waking, he'd free her legs and stroke her calves, knees, and thighs until her eyes glazed. As soon as she spread her muscle-less legs, he'd slide into the space she'd made for him He'd check her receptivity and, finding her drenched and soft and swollen, he'd aim his cock at her waiting and willing hole. Sex would be hard and quick and silent with bodies twisting on the sheet and the dry desert breeze carrying away their cries. Maybe they'd come at the same time, although maybe one or the other would fall off the ledge first. Whenever the leader landed, he or she would help the other reach the crest.

She wanted to come before him so she could watch his loss of control. How empowering the sight of a sweating, pumping, grunting man was! Brought down to animal level, a man becomes primal and basic. Conversation, what there was of it, was crude and single-minded, his interests going no further than the end of his cock. How long could she keep him in her? If—

Movement from him stole her breath-snagging thoughts. For a moment she told herself he was still asleep and doing nothing more than changing position, but there was purpose to the way he stretched, and when his hand slid over her middle, she sensed energy in the touch. He didn't acknowledge her sigh, sent no message in intimate possession. It didn't matter; his heat became hers.

Then he sat up, his nude body turning from her as he stood. He walked away without looking at her, and she stared at the ceiling instead of studying his retreating ass. When he returned, he had on a pair of cutoff jeans but no shoes or shirt. His features were grim and became even more so when he glanced at the clock. It was nearing noon.

Not meeting her nervous gaze, he unhooked her ankles from the bed but kept the connection between them in place. Pulling her into a sitting position, he leaned over and threw her over his shoulder. Intent on keeping as much of her weight as possible off her hands, she gave little notice to where they were going until she realized he'd taken her to the rear of the house, where she hadn't been before.

When he straightened, she slid off him and took in her surroundings. They were in a room devoid of all warmth and personality. True, it had a dresser and a bed, if one could call that narrow mattress and high metal headboard and footboard a bed. Having seen a number of them at The Dungeon, she knew exactly what it was—a bondage prop.

The interior walls here, like the rest of the house, were concrete block, but where the other rooms had been painted in neutral but warm hues, these were gray. Metal rings had been attached to the walls at various heights.

This rear room was new and, she was willing to bet, constructed for one thing—to imprison.

Even more disconcerting, several video cameras had been set up. One was aimed at the bed, another toward one of the walls. From the looks of them, they could be detached in case someone wanted to carry them about, to provide a close-up of one body part or another.

Her mouth so dry she didn't try to talk, she stared at Reeve, but although he had to know she needed an explanation, he said nothing. She couldn't begin to read his expression.

Unwilling to give away any more than she already had, she turned her attention to her
prison.
There was a single long, narrow window near the ceiling through which just enough of the desert's sunlight entered. They'd come through the only door, and it locked from the outside.

Ropes spawned from her imagination circled her. Even with fear and disbelief warring for supremacy, she couldn't deny her body's reaction. For the first time in her life, she wasn't responding to the promise of multiple orgasms in exchange for a dose of well-paying bondage play. This was the real thing, danger and excitement rolled into one. Stealing a glance at Reeve, she concluded that she couldn't have asked for a more perfect
master
if she'd ordered him. Not only did he have the requisite size, strength, and dark stare, but every cell of his body shouted
masculine.

He was male, she helpless female.

In her fantasy he'd take her to the edge of fantasy and thrills, to the limits of sexual experiences. She'd become putty in his hands, a shaking, sweating, begging whore willing to crawl for whatever sexual satisfaction he granted her.