Wishing Well(50)

“Tu es ma seule chagrin,” he whispered pulling away from a kiss that left me breathless, the meaning of the words lost on me, but not the sad tone.

“What did you say?”

Eyes tracing down my body, he answered, “Trust me, Penelope. And do as I say. Go in the room and wait for me.”

Wavering in my decision, scared by how strange it all was, I focused on the kiss, on the way my body felt when he touched me, on the release he’d given me the last time I trusted him to show me that he could make me melt. And for those reasons, despite how ridiculous they were, despite the logic inside me screaming to get dressed, get out, keep running as far from Wishing Well as I could, I put one foot in front of the other and obeyed him.

Opening the door, I stood confused for a moment, because despite there being a bed, this was not what I’d expected of a bedroom.

The carpets were a plush, thick black, the fibers soft against my feet as I stepped forward. On the right side of the room, a large bed was dressed in blood red silk sheets, small chains hanging above it on the wall, the silver metal glinting against the dark paint. At its base were ropes attached to the two tall posts, the loops at their ends casually lying over the mattress as if they’d been left in place following their last use.

I wanted to run, but I didn’t. I don’t know why I didn’t, the leather bench on the left side of the room should have chased me off, especially the array of straps, whips and paddles that hung on the wall above it. Carefully creeping forward, I eyed the large wood and leather cross that was attached to the wall in front of me. Not really a cross as Vincent had called it, more of an X with cuffs attached at the top and bottom. Stepping up to it, I could smell the wood polish, the leather - I could imagine the helplessness one would feel when fastened to it, the absolute relinquishing of control.

I was turning to leave by the time the door opened again, Vincent stopping to lean a shoulder against the frame and watch me. “Are you reconsidering your decision now that you see the truth of what this can become?”

My voice shook as I stood naked, exposed. “Will you hurt me?”

His eyes caught mine, the low lighting of the room casting a shadow over the jewel green, cutting sharp, ominous edges over his cheekbones and jaw. “I will.”

The depth of his honesty startled me. “Will I die?”

“No,” he promised, “Not by my hand. This is about pleasure, not death. Control, not destruction. Fear, but not terror.”

Scrabbling for a way to understand it, I asked, “So more like a horror movie than a slasher film?”

His eyebrows tugged together. “What?”

“Nothing,” I breathed out, every muscle in my body tense with anxiety. “Never mind.”

Silence had a beat, a chorus, the white noise of the air conditioning punctuated by the soft fall of his steps over the carpet. “Will it be easier for you to be blindfolded...like last time?”

Strangely , I thought, it would .

I was learning rather quickly that I wasn’t the type of woman who would face down monsters, I was the type who would hide in the closet, peeking through clothes, hoping like hell they’d pass by. “Maybe.”

Vincent nodded and changed direction to pull open the doors of the large dresser that stood near the bench. I only caught site of a few odd, (what-the-fuck-are-those?) objects before he slipped a red stretch of silk from a hook, closed the doors and faced me again. “Turn around, Penelope.”

Memories of last night were a wash of flutters in my stomach, a tightening in my core, a force so utterly inescapable that I found myself obeying him without thought or question. The silk was soft over my eyes, the knot he tied at the back of my head pulling at the individual strands of my hair that it caught. His fingertips were a whisper down my spine, slowly grazing the skin and stopping just above my behind.

His breath collided with my cheek, his mouth close to my ear when he whispered, “I’m going to direct you in place. I’m going to restrain you. And then I’m going to leave you to think about the loss of control, the loss of opinion, the loss of the ability to fight.”

My teeth chattered, my fear a noxious thing.

“And then I’m going to show you how pleasure comes with pain.”

The warmth of his hand caressed my shoulder, and I was led to stand with the cross at my back, my arms lifted in locked in place, my legs parted as cuffs were locked over my ankles as well.

His mouth covered mine, his tongue sweeping in, his taste filling me as my body relaxed despite being restrained. Vincent must have felt it the second I’d given in. Trailing light kisses up my cheek until his mouth pressed against my ear, he said, “C’est à regret que je te le donne... ”

I was beginning to despise French. But I didn’t have the strength to ask what he’d said, didn’t have the ability to conjure thought when my words were lost to fear, to want, to oblivion.

The room went silent around me, the constant hush of cool air rushing through the air conditioning vents growing louder with nothing to compete against it. I would have settled for anything to pull me from the trance brought on by my inability to see, my inability to move, the fear that I’d made a huge mistake by trusting a man who’d already hurt me.

It was the door opening that drew my attention, my head turning toward the sound, my lips parting to say something - anything - but in the silence, I’d lost my voice.