Rogue (Dead Man's Ink, #2)(47)

“Because…I’ve never told anyone before. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“You’ve never told anyone you loved them before?”

“No. Never.”

“What about your…” I know she was going to say my father, and I know she then realized how stupid that would be; I watch it all play out on her face. “What about your Uncle, then?” she says. “What about Ryan?”

“Nope. Never. He was a pretty stiff kinda guy. I know he loved me in his way, but he never said it. I think he would have kicked my ass if I’d have told him.”

“And there were never any girls you dated? You…you never fell in love with any of them?” She’s beginning to sound incredulous. I don’t know if I should be offended, or I should be finding her complete and utter disbelief entertaining.

“No. Never been in love.”

“But you’re…”

“I’m what?”

“You’re insanely hot! I just…I can’t…”

“Lay back on the bed, Soph.”

“What?”

“But we’re not…you just told me that you’re in love with me. I can’t—” Sophia covers her face in her hands, shaking her head from side to side. She’s not coping well at all with this new piece of information. I stand up, crack my neck, and then I push her onto her back, eliciting a strangled scream from her.

“What the f*ck? You—”

“I am your master for the night, remember. It’s time for you to start doing as you’re told.”

She goes still again, staring at me—seems that’s all she’s done the past fifteen minutes, like I’m some strange, alien creature she can’t possibly comprehend—and then she lets her hands fall either side of her on the bed. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, fine. Show me.”

I head for the bureau on the other side of the room, slide open the top left drawer, and take out a pair of scissors. They’re old. Really old. They have Winchester Gun Co. engraved on the handle, and they’re really f*cking sharp. Sophia’s face goes blank when she sees them. She doesn’t object, though. She doesn’t get up and make for the door. She remains where I left her on the bed, watching me cautiously.

“What are you going to do with those?” she asks, her voice flat.

“I’ll show you. We’re going to go through some rules, though, sugar. Are you going to obey them?”

“Shouldn’t I probably know what they are first?”

“No, you shouldn’t. That’s the whole point.” I’ve only played this game with three other women, and nearly every single one of them hesitated here. It’s not in a person’s nature to strike bargains or agree to things without prior knowledge of their responsibilities beforehand. However, Sophia shocks me when she doesn’t miss a beat.

“Okay, then. I’ll obey your rules.” Her voice doesn’t waver. She means what she says, that much is clear, and the effect that has on my body is insane. I’ve never been so proud in all my life.

“Good girl. Rule number one: when I tell you to do something, you do it immediately, without question. That one’s simple. Number two: don’t speak until you’re spoken to, or there will be consequences. Number three: you don’t come without my permission. Simple, right? You think you can handle that?”

“Yes. I can.”

“Okay. From here on out, we’re operating under these rules. Shall we begin?”

“Yes.” Her response is barely loud enough for me to hear, but I can see it in her eyes: she’s intrigued. I’m sure Matt-the-boring-ex never did anything even remotely off the wall; this is probably going to be a real education for my poor little Sophia. I make my way back to the bed, scissors in hand, and I climb up onto the mattress on my knees beside her. She lies still, watching the sharp, silver object in my hand with just the right amount of trepidation to tell me she’s concerned about what comes next.

I start at her right ankle, taking hold of the cuff of her jeans and then opening the scissors, sliding the lower blade beneath her clothing. Sophia sucks in a sharp breath but remains still, just like she’s meant to. There’s understanding on her face now—she knows what I’m about to do, and in truth she looks a little relieved.

The scissors cut through the denim material easily; I could probably just run them upward and slice through from her ankle to her waistband in a few short seconds, but where would be the fun in that. This is a sensory experience, after all. The sound of the scissors cutting through one inch at a time is half the fun. And Sophia feeling the cold, hard metal against her warm skin is another very big part, too. She gasps the first time I lay the flat of the lower blade against her calf. I don’t leave it there long. I don’t want the metal to heat up, and besides, too much contact will desensitize her. She’ll become used to the sensation and it won’t be shocking anymore.

When I reach the middle of her thigh, I go even slower. She’s breathing fast, not looking at the piece of metal in my hand or what I’m doing to her clothes. She watches me, her mouth slightly open, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her lips, a slightly doped up look in her eyes, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from forsaking the scissors and tearing her damn clothes off with my teeth.