Unraveled Together (3 page)

Her dom? Could I be Miranda's dom? It had been long since I had allowed myself to dream that dream, to dream that I could one day find my perfect submissive—a woman who craved being controlled, commanded, punished, corrected, nurtured, cared for, and, above all, loved—my polar opposite, the woman who yearned for everything I had to offer her, not material, of course (I've been that route), but sexual and emotional. Could my dream finally become reality at long last?

Mary Ellen buzzed me and put through a call from Monaco, interrupting my musings on Miranda. About time. There were still meetings to attend, acquisitions to make, companies to buy, auctions to win, everything that was part and parcel of my life as owner and CEO of Hartwell Global Media. At that moment, I resolved not to allow myself to degenerate into some teenager, mooning over a girl named Miranda Stone whom I hadn't even met . . .

Ten minutes later, a call from none other than Miranda, herself, and all my resolutions were out the window. First, the revelation that she hadn't wanted her sister to deliver her manuscript to me at all, nor did she want me to publish it. In fact, she had a publisher already and didn't even want me to know about it at all.

“You haven't read my manuscript yet, have you, Mr. Hartwell?” she said, clearly trying to project a self-confidence and an air of entitlement. Underneath, though, she was obviously anxious to get her manuscript back from me. Naturally I drove as hard a bargain as possible and flatly refused to return it to her, unless she met my very specific demands.

I held the whip hand, and we both knew it. I had in my possession her erotic manuscript, which she'd planned to publish under a false name, and with just one phone call to the right gossip columnist, I easily could have exposed her and tarnish her career as ghostwriter forever.

Not that I would have done that, but it didn't hurt for her to believe I might. The more powerful a submissive woman believes a dominant to be, the more eager she becomes to submit to him.

So—even though we were only talking on the phone at that early stage—I pulled out all the stops: the extra-deep voice, the sternness, the formality (“Miss Stone” this, “Miss Stone” that). In short, I played the strict headmaster to the hilt, and my guess was that as much as she made a show of fighting back, I was feeding into Miss Miranda Stone's deepest, most secret fantasies.

Although she made a stab at resisting my demand that she come to Hartwell Castle forthwith and read me the manuscript, she very quickly agreed that the following afternoon, she would present herself to me and read aloud the sexiest, most salacious chapter of
Unraveled
, word for word, moment by moment, spanking by spanking.

I had won, and the victory was sweet. I knew that when she read the chapter to me, she would blush from head to foot, and her shame and embarrassment would be almost too much for her to endure. For me, on the other hand, it would be everything I needed it to be: arousing, titillating, and at the same time it would tell me everything I burned to discover.

I had always prided myself on my patience, aware that patience was an integral part of the skilled dom's weaponry, and I assured myself that in this situation, I would be no different. Truth be told, though, I couldn't wait to have Miranda Stone here, in front of me, reading her erotic novel out loud, partly to subject her to erotic humiliation—an ever-present element in real-life BDSM. And, of course, also so that I could watch her like a hawk and then come to a final judgment as to whether
Unraveled
was merely fiction or the work of a woman who was the real thing and who had experienced every single steamy moment in real life.

Chapter Three

Robert Meets Miranda

Twenty-four hours after I first threw down the gauntlet and demanded that Miranda present herself at Hartwell Castle, she arrived there, dead on time.

I was eminently aware that the prospect of meeting me must have terrified her. And I relished the thought, because like any dom worth more than a dime, I understood only too well that part of the impetus that made a submissive surrender was the undeniable truth that, deep down, she relished the frisson of fear that a dom is able to ignite in her.

It was also highly effective for a dominant to play the heavy father now and again. The stern judge about to issue a sentence. The implacable ruler of a country, captivated by the fairest of fair maidens, but determined to put her through a number of hoops before he finally softens and makes her his own.

Aside from playing those roles to the hilt, I've always believed that the best doms are akin to rock stars, able to cast a spell on a submissive woman through their force of will, their power, their sheer animal magnetism, and to simultaneously intimidate and beguile her.

And just as every rock star has an opening act, on this occasion, there could have been no better opening act for me than the formidable Tamara Hatch, my housekeeper and a woman who had transformed intimidation into an art all her own, and who would set the tone for what I hoped would transpire between me and Miranda.

Consequently, I was glad that Mary Ellen, who had been so sweet, so sunny, so well-disposed toward Miranda, was out of the office on some errands, because her very presence would have soothed Miranda's trepidation at our first encounter, whereas Mrs. Hatch's would serve to increase it. And if Miranda were as genuinely submissive as I hoped she might be, her deep-seated feelings of trepidation at the prospect of meeting me would also serve to excite her.

A minute or two before the meeting was scheduled, Tamara Hatch deposited her on the threshold of my office, a sour expression on her face, probably caused by coming face-to-face with Miranda and discovering how beautiful and how very feminine she was.

As for me, I sensed immediately that Miranda was everything I'd ever dreamed of in a woman. Spirited, sexy, intelligent, and sparky but with a hint that she might well be deeply and inherently submissive.

And so I played the moment for all it was worth. Instead of instantly rising to greet Miranda when Tamara delivered her to the threshold of my office, I left her standing there while I ignored her completely and instead engaged in a long and (truth be told) meaningless conversation in Russian, just to impress her with my fluency in the language. Next I had a second, even longer conversation regarding a few paintings on which I was bidding and, just to hammer home to her the extent of the financial resources at my disposal, made no bones about the stratospheric sum of money I was prepared to pay for them.

I knew only too well that if she really was the genuinely submissive woman that her explicit manuscript led me to believe she might be (and after all, could a woman write so realistically about her BDSM experiences at the hands of a strong and resolute Master if she hadn't experienced them herself?), like most women with even a hint of submissiveness in their makeup, she would love nothing better than a dom who challenged her. And I intended to do just that.

On the other hand, she was so sweet, so fragile, yet so sincere, that I was momentarily tempted to jettison my plan to make her read the most explicit section of her erotic novel aloud to me. But then I reminded myself that, above all else, a submissive woman needed consistency from her dom. I had told her that I wouldn't return her manuscript unless she read the chapter of
Unraveled
to me aloud, and I had to stick to that, no matter what; otherwise, she'd lose trust in me.

Don't overplay it, though . . .

So I decided to switch gears and first delve into her personal life, her history, instead.

“Tell me about your father,” I said, because I've found that submissives often have deep-seated father issues lurking somewhere in the depths of their psyches.

And sure enough, Miranda Stone definitely had those issues writ large, with a father hunger so deep, so repressed, that she cried out for a strong, loving, authoritative man to resolutely take her in hand and demonstrate that he cared enough about her to devote himself to nurturing her, guiding her, dominating and disciplining her.

The way in which she told me about her father (clearly a devious son of a bitch who was utterly detached from his daughter) was so moving, her pain and her dignity while telling me so palpable, that I felt like a prize bastard for having put her through the exercise.

So instead of enforcing my demand on her right then and there, I did the gentlemanly thing and escorted her on a tour around the estate instead.

As I did, I took the opportunity to study her further. Her hourglass figure, as I had already observed from the photographs, was flawless, and even the austere vintage Chanel suit she was wearing didn't obscure it. But as her A-line skirt was full, I couldn't check out whether her ass was round or broad, flat or pointed—just that it filled out the skirt, which was fine by me.

She was far from tall, but I wouldn't have called her petite, because how could you call a woman with such big breasts petite?

Walking around the castle with her, through rooms I hadn't entered since—well, since Georgiana—I couldn't help but be overcome by past memories, both positive and negative. But instead of filling the sudden silence with inane nervous chatter, as people usually did, Miranda had the good sense to keep quiet.

When she did say something, or made a comment about the castle or the grounds, I was impressed at how intelligent she obviously was. And—more important—how very turned on she was by me; when I took her hand, and held it extra tightly in my grip, she caught her breath, and when I sat close to her in the golf cart and, just for a millisecond, rubbed my thigh against hers, she gave a start, clearly as overcome by erotic excitement as I was. From as far back as I can remember, I was always adept at disguising my emotions, so I effortlessly succeeded in hiding them from her. Until, of course, I slipped and told her far, far too soon just how beautiful she was, and then wished I hadn't.

After we toured the house, Miranda and I sat by the lake together, and just when I thought she was ready to capitulate and read that chapter of
Unraveled
to me aloud, she suddenly switched gears.

“Toss for it?” she challenged, and I was so captivated by her gutsy ploy that I immediately agreed to it. But I still wasn't going to let her have everything all her own way, so I wrested some of the power from her and got back some of the control (and how I relish being in control) by handing her the Double Eagle coin, all eight million dollars of it, to toss.

She was honest and unspoiled enough not to disguise how impressed she was that I owned the Double Eagle, and how overwhelmed. And for a moment, I longed to be in her shoes, to be that young, that unbridled, that free of wariness and caution.

Then I flipped the Double Eagle in the air, won the toss, and was about to sit back and enjoy what I was about to put her through, when the sky turned black and it became clear that a storm was imminent, and my plans were to be thwarted.

“It seems you do have Lady Luck on your side after all, Miss Stone,” was my face-saving line, as I pulled her into the shelter of the golf cart and raced it to the castle. And while I didn't get what I wanted at the exact moment in which I had expected to get it, I was gratified that only an act of God had stopped me.

Fortunately, the following day, I finally did get what I wanted and more, when Miranda had lunch with me at Violetta. At the end of lunch, when she had nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, she faced me fair and square and read the first chapter of
Unraveled
to me aloud, blushing with shame at every word, just as I had hoped she would.

She still refused to tell me whether the book was autobiographical or merely fantasy, but that no longer troubled me, because the moment I took her hand in mine and squeezed it extremely hard, her pupils dilated, and I had my answer. Aside from that, everything about her—every gesture, every expression, and every word—screamed submissive to me. Most of all, the way in which she strived so enchantingly to project herself as exactly the opposite. She was a born submissive, no doubt about it.

By the same token, she was also an intelligent, fascinating, challenging woman with a mind of her own and a body to die for. And after she agreed to fly to Geneva with me, I relaxed, aware that as soon as we would be alone together on my plane, I'd be able to discover the full and unexpurgated truth about Miss Miranda Stone at last.

Consequently, once we were airborne and flying over the Atlantic, I quizzed her about her experience, or lack of it, in BDSM. And then she uttered the name Warren Courtney.

I acted as if this were the first time I'd ever heard of Mr. Courtney and kept my expression neutral, because the last thing I needed was for her to learn that I'd been checking up on her. Only when she confided that she'd spent a month with Warren at his Central Park South penthouse, and that he kept a bullwhip on display above the fireplace, did I drop my guard and allow her to see how intrigued I was by her story.

I was also unpleasantly surprised that Warren Courtney's BDSM proclivities hadn't been uncovered by Peterson. But, like many serious players, myself included, Warren Courtney was obviously highly proficient at conducting his BDSM exploits in the strictest of secrecy. So I guess I could hardly blame Peterson for not picking up the fact that Warren Courtney was a dedicated Master.

Regardless, when Miranda told me that Courtney had subjected her to BDSM in a variety of ways, and then dropped her without any explanation, I couldn't help but react with fury at his cruelty.

Once I'd found my equilibrium again, I struggled internally with how to handle her now. Did her early negative experience with Warren Courtney dictate that I should take our journey into BDSM slowly? Or should I assume that she told me so much about her past experience to demonstrate that she knew exactly what she would ultimately be getting into and to encourage me to launch a fully fledged BDSM relationship with her?

In the end, after a lot of reflection, I decided to take her at her word and treat her as if she had a certain amount of experience in BDSM, negative or not.

So—although protocol dictated that I should first instruct her to call me sir, then graduate to calling me Master, and that a dom ought to give a warm-up spanking before administering the real thing—I went straight for what I wanted, and what she was giving me every indication she wanted just as much. I gave her a hard, prolonged spanking, and she gave every impression of loving it, just as many a good submissive usually does.

I was elated by her reaction. And when we arrived in Geneva, I was equally elated by her wonder and delight at the city, and her joy at the clothes I bought for her. I reveled in my time with her, in the memory of her obedience and compliance on the plane, her sweetness and bubbly enthusiasm once we got there, and in her undisguised pleasure at our shopping spree.

The night ended in bliss at the hotel, where I made passionate, BDSM-laced love to her and afterward, utterly satiated, happy, and—dare I say it—almost on the verge of falling in love with her, fell asleep, with her locked in my arms.

And as I slept with Miranda that first night, I felt so warm, so satisfied, and that just maybe, I had finally found the woman with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life, a woman whom I knew I could respect and—almost more important than anything else—trust in the way in which I'd thought I would never trust another woman again. Not after Georgiana, not after what she did to me, and how she betrayed me.

Miranda, I felt sure, would never hurt, deceive, or betray me.

That was then, but today, now—in the cold light of the horrors that were just unleashed upon me at Le Château—I can't help but laugh bitterly at my own delusions. Remembering that night in Geneva, the night on which the first seeds of doubt regarding Miranda were sown within me, the poison injected into my rising passion and love for her, and all so cleverly, so ruthlessly, so efficiently, I can't believe that I carried on loving and trusting her for so long.