Taking Turns (Turning #1)(52)

Her mouth is open. Ready and willing.

“Oh, no, Chella. It’s not gonna be that easy. You kept me guessing all week. You hid your dark side and had me worried we’d made a mistake.”

She doesn’t move a muscle. She sits still, looking up at me like I am her whole world.

God, it’s like she knows my soul.

I reach into the new bedside table, already stocked with the things I like. The ball gag. The rope. The whip. The blindfold.

I place them on the bed and point. “Choose.”

“All of it,” she says.

But I shake my head. “No. You’re going to hear no from me a lot now that you’re ready to say yes. Choose one.”

I expect the blindfold. Or the gag. But she chooses the rope.

I pick her up and throw her down on the bed, opening her legs. I take one length of rope and wrap it around her ankle, tying it to one corner of the bedframe. Then do that again with her other ankle.

She is moaning softly each time I touch her. Her fingers, still free to do as they please, seek out her own pleasure as she watches me work. “Chella Walcott,” I say as I finish tying her legs open. “You are a freak after my heart.”

She says… nothing.

I take my coat off, then my suit coat, throwing them both down on the floor. I unknot my tie and use it to bind her hands together in front of her stomach.

Still, she says nothing.

“You like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she says, her eyes on my cock, still peeking through the zipper of my pants. “I like it all, Elias. Give me what I like.”

I leave my pants on. I like the way the zipper bites at my balls when I bend down to lick between her legs, my tongue sweeping up and down her *, flicking against her clit until she is writhing and begging me to whip her, and slap her face, and come all over her tits.

“Getting ahead of yourself, Marcella,” I say in a low growl as I straddle her hips and walk my knees up her body until my cock is hovering right in front of her mouth. “We’ve got a long way to go before we get to that little corner of your dark mind.”

I straddle her shoulders and slip my dick into her wet mouth, grabbing her hair as I push myself so far inside her, she gags hard.

But it only turns me on more. It only makes me go deeper, thrust harder. Her face is covered in her own spit, her eye make-up running down the sides of her cheeks.

Still, her eyes never leave mine.

I can do anything I want with this woman. Anything I want. She will never again tell me no.

I f*ck her after that.

I put my dick in her so deep, she wails, her bound hands grabbing for my shoulder as I thrust, over and over. Her nails bite into my skin and she’s whispering in my ear. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”

I f*ck her like I’ve wanted to f*ck her all week. I f*ck her the way I imagined it. I look at the cameras—because I know where each and every one of them are—and I flip Smith off as I do it.

Fuck you, Smith, I think. Fuck you for being right. Fuck you for bringing her here. Fuck you for watching.

Fuck you for ruining her, just like you ruined all the others.

Fuck you, f*ck you, f*ck you.

But he’s the one who wins tonight.

And we both know it.





Chapter Eighteen - Chella




When I wake up Bric is gone. On the pillow next to mine is a note.



Don’t be late for work.

Don’t be late coming home.

Wear the red dress without panties or bra.

I’ll pick you up here at seven.



Elias



His commands feel both familiar and foreign. Familiar because I’ve been down this path before. I’ve taken that shortcut through the woods more than once.

But it’s been a long time.

The only significant thing that happens at work is learning that Matisse’s entire collection sold on Saturday night—Saturday seems like years ago—and that Bric bought it, and then promptly donated it to the Mountain Ballet. It’s going to be displayed in its entirety in the courtyard outside the building. Construction on an all-weather version of the curtain has begun and installation will begin on April first.

My boss, Charles Benton, is in the gallery all day talking on the phone to special patrons—a code word for contributors—about the year ahead. He takes over my office since he really doesn’t have one here himself.

I manage visitors and do the appropriate amount of small talk. But my mind is not here at the gallery. My mind is stuck back in the place Bric left it last night.

Under his complete control.

Silently begging for more.

Asking myself over and over and over why I need more.

I’ve had complete control over all my shameful desires for three years. So why now? Why did I let Rochelle dangle this arrangement in front of my face? And more importantly, why did I accept her offer?

The problem is… there’s only one answer for it. One answer that I don’t want to think about.

I really am sick.

The car comes promptly at six to pick me up, just like it came promptly at eight forty-five this morning to take me to work. It was strange walking out of the top-floor apartment without one of my players, and it feels strange to walk in without them as well.