Unraveled by Her (14 page)

I’m thrilled.

I follow him into the Halekulani’s Levers Bar and we sit there holding hands, listening to the romantic jazz standards the pianist plays and sings so beautifully.

Out of the blue, though, he switches from Cole Porter to “When You Wish Upon a Star,” a song I’ve always loved. My mother used to sing it to me when I was a child, but instead of enjoying it, I suddenly realize that it is the theme to Disney’s
Pinocchio
, the story of a marionette that told terrible lies, and I stiffen.

Robert gives me a questioning look, so I will myself to relax and instead listen to the lyrics.

But when I hear the lines about wishing on a star to make your dreams come true and that fate is kind to lovers, all I can think is yes, fate has been kind and sent me Robert. And I really did think I’d found true love and eternal happiness at last. But how can I hold fast to it when I’m hiding such a terrible secret, one that could end up with me losing everything I hold so dear?

Sensing my distress, Robert pays the check and suggests we go for a stroll along the beach.

He probably thinks I’m still upset about leaving Mom, and I am touched at his kindness and sensitivity. I just wish that that were the only reason.

He puts his arm around my waist, and together, we stroll along by the side of the Pacific in silence as the stars shine down on us. We end up sitting in the dark by the pool, and I do my utmost to avoid thinking about the orchid mosaic at the bottom of it. I lean back against Robert’s chest, and I can feel him relax with relief that I’m myself again.

I’m not, of course, and I probably never will be, but I don’t want him to know that.

But despite that, despite everything, because I am so close to him, because the heat of his body is scorching mine, I am acutely aware of how erotic every single inch of him is in every single way.

And without any warning, but probably because he has been secretly monitoring my every expression, my every change of mood, and realizes the effect he is having on me, he slides his hand under my dress and rubs my pubic mound, which, as I got a Hollywood wax in the spa this afternoon, is smooth all over.

“I love it bare,” he says, and moves his fingers farther down and for a minute or two swirls them around the edge of my clitoris, “every inch of it. So smooth, so beautiful. And I can’t wait . . .”

“Can’t wait to do what, Robert?” I say, excited to the tips of my toes at the prospect of his igniting our red-hot sex life again. And, as always, I love his telling me ahead of time in his deep, gravelly voice exactly what he is going to do to me later.

“Touch it, feel it, stroke it . . .” he says.

“Pinch it?”

“Just a little,” he says.

“Only a little?”

“So do you really think you’re ready to plunge back into
il nostro mondo segreto
[Italian for “our secret world,” as he sometimes terms BDSM] with me again?” he says.

“Just try me!”

With that, he grabs me by the hair, pulls my head back, and kisses me so passionately, so violently, that if he weren’t holding me so tightly, I would probably topple over into the pool.

“Don’t ever change,” I say when I regain my balance.

“Never would, never could, Miranda; my dominance is in my blood, my DNA, and there is no way in which I could shed it, even if I wanted to. But because of what Tamara did to you, and because you are still so fragile, when I planned this trip, I decided that this was the perfect time for me to give you another taste of what a vanilla love affair can be like, and—”

He stops for a second, then lights a cigarette.

“And what, Robert?” I say.

“And also because I still need to prove to myself that I am able to survive for more than a few days without dominating the woman I love,” he says finally.

“But you were in a vanilla relationship with Georgiana for a while,” I can’t help but mention.

“Once. Not out of choice but out of necessity. That particular relationship was far different than ours will be, I can promise you.”

Then, seeing my discomfort at the thought of their relationship, he changes the subject, “Let me emphasize again that I decided a vanilla interlude is right for us now. And I plan to keep it that way until I judge that you are strong enough for something a little more challenging. When I decide, and not before,” he says sternly, and while I tremble outwardly at the forcefulness of his voice, for the first time since my rescue, I am well and truly wet.

“When will that be?”

“When I say so,” he says, and stares deep into my eyes. So deep and so piercingly that I end up flinching and looking away, lest he read the secret within them.

Don’t let her do this to you, don’t let her deprive you of the thrill of walking on the dark side with him once more.

So I turn back to him and, with every iota of sincerity and conviction I possess, say, “I can’t hold out much longer, Robert. Let’s start again tonight. Please.”

He stares at me for what seems ages.

Then he stands, pulls himself up to his full height, grabs me by the arm, and yanks me up on my feet. And suddenly, he is miraculously transformed into a Master once more. My Master.

“Inside, Miranda,” he says. “Lovely as you were in every way these last few days in Honolulu, I’m afraid that I have to inform you that certain elements of your behavior need correction and could benefit from a session of intensive, severe, and sustained discipline.”

I tingle all over with an irresistible combination of fear and pleasure.

Then he clicks his fingers and indicates that I should follow him.

Which I do, like a bitch in heat, under his spell.

Chapter Twelve

He backs me into the suite living room until I’m standing in the middle of it.

Then, slowly, agonizingly slowly, he unzips my dress, and his fingers move lingeringly down my back as the dress falls to the floor.

“Pick it up and hang it in the closet, neatly,” he orders.

I do, careful to arrange the dress on the hanger so that it doesn’t slip off and arouse his ire.

“Get back in the middle of the room, right away,” he says.

I scurry there, as he leans against a nearby desk and impatiently raps the top of it with a long shoehorn with a mahogany handle and a bone tongue.

“Arms behind your neck. Now spread your legs for me,” he orders, as his voice rings with dominance and I obey without hesitation.

“Stand up straight, Miranda,” he snaps, and I do.

“Stomach in,” he says, and gives my belly a sharp tap with the shoehorn, which makes me pull my stomach in, double quick.

“Stick those beautiful big breasts out,” he says, and I blush with shame but do.

“Now stay that way, and don’t move a muscle,” he says before sauntering into the bedroom suite and leaving me in the middle of the room, where I struggle to remain as motionless as he decreed.

From next door, I hear the sound of CNN.

How long is he going to make me stand here, in the living room, all on my own?

I concentrate hard on not moving, but as the seconds turn into minutes, I find it more and more excruciating, more and more humiliating to stand here like this. Outside the windows of our suite, the stars sparkle over the Pacific, while from the bedroom I can hear a newscaster drone on and on about the economy.

Then nothing.

I hear the shower and know that soon, very soon, he’ll give me his full and undivided attention.

Not in the form of hugs and kisses and tender licking and sucking, not like the way in which he has made love to me since my rescue, but with orders, and rigorous authority.

And I can’t wait.

He stands in front of me now, and I am overpowered by the smell of him, a heady combination of cypress, amber, musk, tobacco, sandalwood, and countless other masculine spices, which all intermingle into the essence of Robert for me.

He is still flushed and warm from his shower, and I know that under his white terry-cloth robe, he is naked.

He towers above me, presses his big, brawny chest, his washboard stomach, and his huge, hard cock against me, and through his robe I catch a glimpse of his long, muscular legs. I’m trembling with lust for him.

He tilts my chin so that I look up and meet his intense, smoldering green eyes.

“Crawl into the bedroom,” he orders.

I immediately drop to the floor and start to crawl, hating how ungainly I must look to him right now.

Only to be rewarded with a sharp slap across my ass from his big, heavy right hand.

“Not like that, Miranda!” he says, and I remember his past instructions and flush.

When I tell you to crawl, I expect you to wag that sexy ass of yours from side to side, as if you are begging me to fuck it for you.

Despite my embarrassment, I take a deep breath and do my best to obey his edict.

At the edge of the bed, he orders me to stop crawling, face him, and rise to my knees.

There, in front of me, he stands stark naked. And I am torn by an overwhelming impulse to either fling my arms around his neck and kiss him or fall to my knees and worship him, as he so richly deserves.

I kneel at his feet and gaze up at him in awe; his muscular legs; his bulging thighs; his oversized balls; his dark, wiry pubic hair; his long, thick, heavy cock are just inches from my face, and I am dazzled by the masculine perfection of his flat, muscled stomach; his six-pack; his chest and arms; and his handsome face.

Right now, the expression on that face is stern, strict, and I palpitate with a combination of terror and delicious anticipation.

“The object of tonight’s exercise, Miranda, is to educate you further on the various elements of your submission to me that I expect you to accept, without question, on a regular basis.

“To begin with, you need to understand that, as far as I’m concerned, punishment falls into three separate categories:

“The first is punishment for misdeeds, wrongdoings that I deem you to have committed during the course of that particular day or night.

“The second is punishment for drill—maintenance punishment; punishment I shall inflict on you as a matter of course, simply to remind you who you are, what you are, and your place.

“The third category of punishment, the punishment I intend to mete out to you tonight, is for my own pleasure. Simply because I can.”

I repress a smile.

Doesn’t he know that his pleasure is my pleasure? And that if he punishes me for his pleasure, he will also be punishing me for mine?

I look up into his green eyes, and they seem darker than ever.

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he places three pillows on the bed.

“Facedown, Miranda, support your stomach on the pillows, stretch your forearms out in front of you, and position your ass as high as you can,” he says.

And I obey.

The first blow from the shoehorn comes so hard and so fast that I am almost winded.

I close my eyes and brace myself for the second stroke, and the tongue of the shoehorn slashes across my ass.

By an enormous act of will, I manage to hold myself still and not move, not even a fraction.

Then I open my eyes, look into the mirror opposite me, and savor the erotic image of Robert, his arm raised high above his shoulder poised to slam the shoehorn across my ass again. And each and every time he inflicts the next stroke, his eyes burn like wildfire with passion for me.

After the seventeenth stroke, I brush away the tears starting to form in my eyes and look into the mirror again.

I see that his entire body is covered in beads of sweat from a combination of erotic excitement and the exertion of punishing me as wholeheartedly as he now is.

The eighteenth blow and I collapse into the pillows, limp and vanquished.

He drops the shoehorn, comes around to the other side of the bed, lifts me, and kisses me as if he’ll never let me go.

Then gently, ever so gently, he lays me down on my stomach.

“Don’t move, Miranda,” he says, and I lie there, exhausted, sore and tingling all over my ass.

Then I feel him slowly massage cream over every inch of my ass so tenderly, so lovingly, that I melt with love and adoration for him.

“Arnica. To soothe you and make sure you don’t come up in heavy bruises,” he says.

“The hotel had arnica in the bathroom?”

“No, darling, but the drugstore in town did,” he says.

I struggle not to burst out laughing.

Because for the past few hours or so, I was secretly frantic for him to end our vanilla relationship tonight, when all along he was planning to do just that.

As Diamond Head recedes from view beneath us, and the Pacific glitters in the morning light, I am finding it horrendously difficult to settle back in my armchair and enjoy the flight.

Even though I’ve had a wonderful time with Robert in Honolulu, and my mother and Alex were utterly bowled over by him, as I knew they would be, despite the arnica, my ass is so bruised and blistered that I can’t sit still without wincing in pain.

I’d like nothing better than to run my hands over my ass, to soothe it, but the seat belt is still on, so instead I writhe in my seat and suffer.