Anything He Wants: The Betrayal(3)
I watched in wonder as a myriad of emotions played across his face. Despite learning to read his normally subtle body language and limited expressions, the sudden passion on his face struck me dumb. His own battle for control was obvious; he reached out to caress my neck, then checked himself, as if afraid to touch me. “My family destroys anyone outsiders who get too close; I’ve watched it happen to my mother, Anya, and countless others.” He swallowed. “Maybe I don’t deserve happiness, but you do, and I’ll get you through this.” One finger caressed my cheek. “I’m not a good man,” he murmured, staring at his hand fisted near my chest. “I should never have brought you into this. I almost got you killed, and now I need to see you safe.”
The pain in his eyes, revealing emotions that were always kept bottled inside, made tears spring to my eyes. I tried to touch his face again but grabbed my wrist, holding it beside my head. “You can’t do this again,” he ground out. “We don’t know who is after us or what means he has available to get close.”
My heart shattered into a million little pieces. Trembling, I searched for a way to show my remorse. “I’m sorry for leaving the house.”
“Sorry isn’t good eno…” Jeremiah retorted angrily, then stopped as I lowered myself to my knees. He released my wrist and stepped back, everything about him going still as he stared down at me. “What are you doing?” he finally said.
I’d never felt so helpless in my life, sitting there at his feet. I had no idea how he’d react, but somehow I knew he needed to be in control, the emotions coursing through him too much to process. “Asking for forgiveness.” I swallowed, then added, “Sir.”
The remaining wildness in his face drained away but he still hesitated. I stared at his feet, no longer having the courage to watch his face. He still wore the expensive business pants but instead of the dress shoes to which I’d grown accustomed, he wore a pair of rugged black boots. I wondered if they were the same ones he’d used while in the Army, but didn’t feel that moment was the right time to ask.
The silence stretched, making me nervous. I stayed where I was, praying I hadn’t made the wrong move. My biggest fear was his rejection, so relief shot through me when he finally said, “Stand up and raise your hands over your head.”
Swallowing again, I did as he ordered, my eyes moving toward the ceiling. A line of rope hung down from a large roll of cloth above me, likely an old sail, and my heart skipped a beat as Jeremiah wrapped the rope around my wrists. “Hold still,” he said, then fished around until he found a small piece of cloth nearby. He snapped it once to remove debris, the sound making me jump, then tied it around my head to cover my eyes. The world plunged to black, and when he tightened the rope above so it lifted me to my tiptoes, I gave a small gasp.
“So, you want to be punished.”
I whimpered, heart racing, but didn’t negate his question. Despite the heavy boots, he was surprisingly silent on his feet; I cast my head around blindly, trying to find him, then started as I felt his breath on my neck. “What should it be?” he murmured, fingers sliding along my raised arm. “Should I spank you for your disobedience? Whip you? What kind of punishment would teach you not to court death?”
My mouth worked silently but I didn’t respond. Somehow, given his current state, I doubt he’d be gentle with me in this situation. I remembered the flogger he used on me the previous night and, despite the current situation, felt an answering heat unfurl in my belly. Now is not the time for this!
“Perhaps a different form of punishment is required.” His hand left my arm and unsnapped my pants with deft fingers. They dropped to my feet as he grabbed one leg behind the knee, lifting it high and to the side until I was balancing on one foot, holding the rope around my wrists for support. My face flushed, realizing how I had to look exposed like this. All the underwear I had was of the sexy variety, something I secretly appreciated but that make unexpected moments like this awkward.
A finger slid across my panties and I jerked against my bonds in surprise. “You’re wet,” he said, his tone such that I couldn’t tell what he was thinking and longed to see his face. He let go of my leg, then hooked his thumbs around the band of my panties and slid them down to my ankles. My face burned as he undid the buttons of my shirt, pulling it open to reveal my torso. Rough hands skirted the edge of my bra, then slid beneath the thin material as he spoke. “Perhaps nipple clamps, they can be painful. Is that punishment enough for you risking your life?”