After that she had erotic dreams of him giving her orders and punishing her if she didn’t obey. Sometimes he would take her outdoors where they would almost get caught. He would force his cock down her throat in a club while the music pounded around them and people danced. She would have multiple orgasms just fantasizing about him holding her in place but shielding her with his body even as he insisted she suck him dry. Other times, he would spank her with his belt. Still other times, his friends would come over to the house and into the bedroom while he had her handcuffed and her bottom presented. They would start a conversation with him, ignoring the fact that he spanked her with his belt. She liked when he was tender and gave her a million orgasms after he treated her as if she was his toy. That was all part of the fantasy. In every fantasy, her partner had been Elie.
Fortunately, she hadn’t disclosed those fantasies to her potential husband. Only that she preferred to be submissive in the bedroom and she liked pain on a limited basis—a very limited basis. She agreed that she would be willing to try exhibitionism, bondage and a host of other things but she wrote down clear limits as well. Knife play was an absolute no. Cheating was an absolute no.
Under certain circumstances she had a very strong sex drive. Elie and anything to do with him were those circumstances. She couldn’t stop shaking, but at the same time, the longer she waited for Elie, the more every nerve ending in her body was alive, begging for relief. What would he do next? The uncertainty was such a turn-on.
She stood in front of the one mirror in the master bedroom and stared at herself, for a moment unbelieving that the woman looking back at her could really be her. Her hair was wild, her skin flushed. She looked aroused, her full breasts jutting out, nipples stiffened into hard peaks. She turned slightly to catch a glimpse of the darker red staining the cheeks of her bottom. The heat had spread straight to her sex, making her channel throb and burn.
Brielle moved to the very large bed she’d been avoiding. Just looking at the various cuffs hooked to the decorative wrought-iron spindles on the headboard caused another flush of heat to spread through her body. At the same time her heart accelerated. She’d said bondage. She glanced up at the sheets laminated and pinned to the wall right beside the bed with her answers on her sexual preferences.
She’d agreed to bondage but she’d also stated she wanted to get to know her partner. She had stated plainly she thought it necessary to be given the time to work up to trusting him before entering into that kind of play with him. Involuntarily, she reached up and touched one of the three scars on her body, running her finger over the faint reminder of her stupidity.
“Let me see.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. How could the man possibly sneak up on her that way? She had been trained like every shadow rider to know when there was danger, and Elie Archambault was a very dangerous man. Very slowly, to give herself time to get her breathing under control, she let go of the cuff and turned to face him.
“Elie.” Just saying his name made her ache even more. Seeing him, barefoot, dressed only in his trousers, chest bare, heavy muscles rippling as he approached her in that stalking way he had, increased her hunger for him tenfold.
“Let me see,” he repeated. This time his much larger hand reached out, fingers shackling her wrist, pulling her hand away from the upper curve of her left breast and holding her arm out and away so there was no hiding from him.
His gaze moved over her breasts. He frowned, stepping closer, leaning down, examining that faint white slash on the upper curve just on the side of her breast. The pad of his finger traced the mark and then his gaze lifted to hers.
“Do you have any other scars like this one?”
Before she could answer, he leaned down again and brushed his lips over the white slash that had hurt so bad when it first had ripped her open that she thought she might die. Just the touch of his lips, the feel of his tongue sliding along the slight dip where her skin had been gouged out, set butterflies soaring in her stomach. She lost her ability to speak. To breathe. To function. She was back in brain fog.
Elie straightened again, his dark, nearly black gaze meeting hers. “Brielle, focus for me. Do you have other scars made by a knife? Ones like this one?”
That low commanding voice snapped her out of her haze. She nodded and pulled at her hand. He let her wrist go and she pointed to another faint mark on her lower abdomen. “Here.” That one had her screaming until her throat was so raw, she couldn’t talk for hours. “And here.” She pointed to the third and longest one. It had been the deepest cut on her body, right along her ribs, under her left breast.