Unraveled by Him (8 page)

Silently, I congratulate the Master on his showmanship, the way he has orchestrated everything, almost as if he were art directing a carnal dream.

But I don’t voice my thoughts, as I am fully aware that I must not speak without permission.

Just as Elvis vows to be as weak as a baby, or as wild as the ocean, there is a click, then nothing.

“No more music,” the Master says, “Just the sound of your moans . . .”

And then the night begins for real.

The night seems to go on forever, and through it all, I feel like a Stradivarius played by a virtuoso violinist, a Ferrari driven by a champion, or a mustang broken in by a seasoned cowboy, who understands every nuance of the stallion’s innermost nature and how to use that knowledge in order to break him.

The Master subjects me to an irresistible combination of passionate sex and domination, as, by turns, he chastises me, soothes me.

Sometimes I feel the bulging muscles in his arms, then the tenderness of his caresses.

Enthralled by him almost beyond reason, I bend to his will.

And over a desk, whereupon my legs are spread wide, my wrists attached to the collar around my neck.

I am now unable to protect any part of my body from the assault that awaits me.

Truth be told, I don’t want to.

For the first time since I started reading to him, Robert Hartwell gives a sharp intake of breath.

I hear the whistle of the cane slice through the air, and I cower.

The cane cuts into my flesh and almost takes my breath away with its force.

“The cane does hurt a great deal, doesn’t it?” Robert Hartwell says suddenly.

I start, unsure of the reason behind his comment, but say nothing.

“I know, because of my time at a strict school in England,” he says finally.

“You got the cane, Mr. Hartwell?”

He nods.

“You probably deserved it!”

“Definitely . . . but I still felt like killing the headmaster for administering it.”

“I don’t blame you,” I say, then regret it, knowing that he might well now jump to the wrong conclusion. Or the right one . . .

As the Master punishes me, he chastises me verbally.

He has gagged me so I am unable to protest.

Besides, as much as my mind and my intellect and my sense of self-preservation inwardly rebel against his words, against what is being done to me, I also revel in all of it.

Even though I am looking down at the page, determined not to meet Robert Hartwell’s hypnotic eyes, at this moment I feel the heat of them so strongly that it is as if his gaze has set my skin ablaze.

As the Master applies the whip to my body, I instinctively arch to welcome each lash.

Easy for me to do, as I no longer feel it.

Only a deep sense of serenity, of peace.

I am floating, trancing, dreaming.

And when we are finally in bed together at last, I fall into a deep sleep, drained, and still blindfolded.

When I awake and remove my blindfold, dawn has long since broken, and the man I slept the night with, but never once set eyes on, has left.

On the bed, an envelope.

Written on the front of it, the words: “Our next rendezvous: My yacht. St. Barths.”

Judging by the weight of the envelope, three or four sheets of paper are inside.

I put the envelope into my snakeskin bag, unopened.

In the corridor, I glance at myself in the mirror.

Unnaturally pale, with big eyes, a girl in a white mink coat with a fox collar, boots over her bare legs, her hair tangled in knots.

The white-gloved elevator attendant says good morning to me from what seems like a great distance.

I find that I am unable to answer.

I am locked in my dream, in my trance.

It’s over!

I shove the manuscript into my purse, snap it closed, and right on cue, the waiter brings us our lobster.

When he’s finished serving us, I meet Robert Hartwell’s eyes and hold his gaze, determined not to flinch.

“You’ve had your way, Mr. Hartwell. Now will you please explain why getting it meant so much to you?”

“Ah, but I always insist on having my way, Miss Stone, and you should know that about me,” he says, and gives me a conquering smile so powerful that I feel as if he is about to invade my thoughts, my heart, my body, and occupy all of me forever. And the deepest, most secret part of me can’t wait to surrender to his relentless conquest of me. But I’m not ready to let him know that yet.

“Remind me never to play poker with you, Miss Stone,” he adds, when he realizes I am not about to react to his statement.

“As this is the last time we shall be playing a game together, Mr. Hartwell, I think you ought to put all your cards on the table,” I say.

He smiles his devastatingly seductive smile.

“Very well, Miss Stone. This once, I shall allow you to win. I summoned you to Hartwell Castle to read
Unraveled
to me out loud because I knew that if you obeyed me, I would enjoy it immensely.”

“Enjoy humiliating me, Mr. Hartwell?”

His answer is to take both my hands in his and squeeze them.

“Exactly, Miss Stone,” he says, and squeezes even harder.

I make no attempt to free my hands from his iron grip because I truly don’t want to.

He increases the pressure, then gives me his hypnotic stare again, as if he can see into the heart of me.

At that moment, I almost believe that he can.

“No reaction, Miss Stone?” he says, watching me intently. Then he lets go of my hand.

“Not so fast, Mr. Hartwell, I’m not ready yet,” I say.

“Don’t play games with me, Miss Stone. I only play games of my own choosing,” he says, and it’s as if all the air in the restaurant has been sucked dry by his menace.

If in doubt, say nothing . . .

So we spend the next five minutes staring at each other in a Mexican standoff.

To my surprise, he is the first to break the silence between us.

“Tell me the truth, Miss Stone. Is your novel the product of your overactive imagination? Or is it autobiographical?” he says.

“I’ll answer that question, Mr. Hartwell, if you agree to answer another one of mine,” I say, playing for time.

“Listen carefully, Miss Stone: I never negotiate. Not with anyone,” he says.

“And I don’t plead with anyone either, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he says with a chuckle, which spurs me on.

So I ask the question which, now that he has made his dominance crystal clear to me, is foremost in my mind.

“As you are obviously a dedicated dominant, Mr. Hartwell, why did you marry Lady Georgiana, who clearly wasn’t in the least bit submissive?” I say, then hold my breath.

“What gives you the impression that she wasn’t, Miss Stone?” he says.

“Because she was a strong, determined, and independent woman,” I say.

“Have you looked in the mirror recently, Miss Stone?” he says.