the TV being turned on. The TV, for Christ’s sake. She struggled harder, and made as much noise as she could, which wasn’t much with the scarf tied over the gag in her mouth. She tried not to cry, but she’d never had much luck at that when she felt hurt and abandoned.
Tears kept sliding down, tickling her face. She tried to blot them on the pillows. Her nose was blocking up with snot. What an alluring picture she’d be once he finally decided to pay attention to her.
A woman’s got to cut loose and take some chances sometime, right? God, had she really said that?
Within limits. As long as you’re having fun, Abby had replied.
She struggled harder for breath. She was not having fun. She’d been in a state of dazed incredulity since this affair began, she’d been excited, titillated, dazzled, but she had never had one ounce, not one pinch, not one speck of fun. She never relaxed with Mark. Never.
She was too afraid of him.
She knew herself, after years of therapy. She knew her weak spots and her defects like the back of her hand. She might have no clue how to overcome them, but damn, did she know them. And she knew that this was not fun. She should not be afraid of Mark. Not if this was true love.
Then again, she was afraid of everybody. Her own mother, her own boss, who wasn’t she afraid of, other than maybe Abby?
She was so pathetic. How typical, that she had to be bound, gagged, screwed, and forgotten to get a clue. Tears of shame oozed out.
It had been so exciting, finally having an affair, like normal women did. Actually having sex, after all those depressing years without. Good sex, too. At least at first. For about a week, it had been perfect. Then something strange had crept into it, so gradually.
It had gone rotten from the inside. As usual, she hadn’t wanted to let go of her fantasies. She waited until they were wrenched away, like a bandage off a scabbed wound. So that it hurt as much as possible.
Last night she’d started facing reality. Tonight, she had no more doubts.
The most awful thing about it was that she’d consented to this treatment. She had no one but herself to blame for being so eager to please. She’d even bought rope, at his request, so that they could play his games at her house. She was a willing accomplice to his cruelty.
Her therapists said that her problems with men were a direct result of her problems with her father, issues of abandonment, blah-blah, tell her something new. She understood the dynamic. Now all she wanted was out. She wanted to fly away. To be somewhere else, someone else. She wanted out of this bed, out of these silken ties.
She couldn’t run away to Spain with this man, as she had promised him. He would destroy her. He was destroying her now.
Mark appeared, silhouetted in the door to the bedroom, still talking on his cell phone. His voice was so beautiful, speaking Spanish. It still thrilled her, even bound and shivering. The light behind him lit up the bulb of the glass of wine in his hand. It glowed like a chalice full of blood. The Cabernet she had ordered to accompany their meal.
She shuddered, so deeply she felt like it should shake the bed. Mark clicked his cell phone shut and flipped on a row of the muted track lighting recessed into the paneled rafters of the bedroom. He wandered over and stared down at her. He put something in his mouth, chewed it as he stared. He washed it down with wine.
Snacking, while she lay here gasping vainly for breath.
More tears welled up, blocking her nose. She started to choke.
Mark sipped his wine, his eyes moving slowly over her body. Wretched as she was, she was still stupefied at how beautiful he was. Chin-length dark blond hair waving around a Greek god face. That broad chin with the sexy cleft, the cruel sensuality of his full mouth. And his body. So amazingly strong. He could immobilize her with one hand. Had done so, in fact. On many occasions.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “I bought those sheets because I imagined you glowing like a pearl, black satin as a backdrop. Perfect.”
His voice was dreamy and absent. Elaine writhed and mewled for air. She was starting to panic at her complete inability to communicate with him. She began to flail wildly. His penis had started to lengthen, but as her movements grew more frenzied, his smile faded. He put his glass of wine on the bed stand and climbed onto the bed, straddling her.
He trapped her wrists. “Stop,” he commanded. “You’ll leave marks on your skin. I don’t want that. That’s why I used silk.”
She heaved ineffectually beneath him. He frowned into her wet, staring eyes. “You’re upset,” he observed, his voice puzzled.
No shit, Sherlock, she wanted to shriek, through wads of silk.
Mark peeled the scarf off the bottom of her face and plucked the damp, wadded cloth from her mouth.
She gasped in huge gulps of air, coughing. Mark lifted off her, snagged the wineglass, and held it to her lips, tipping Cabernet into her mouth. What didn’t slosh down over her chin hit her dry windpipe, and she choked and gasped, tears of humiliation streaming down her face.
Mark kissed her tears away. “Why are you crying? You’re beautiful like that.” He licked the wine that dribbled down her chin.
“You left me like this to watch TV. And talk on the phone. Like you’d forgotten me,” she blurted. “I couldn’t breathe. I was scared.”
He frowned. “You can’t expect me to pay attention to you every second of the day, love. Did you buy your ticket today?”
She nodded, docile as a cow. She had to tell him that she’d changed her mind about going, but a nervous little voice inside her whispered that maybe now wasn’t the best time for that announcement, bound hand and foot, with Mark sitting on top of her. He was so heavy.
“First class, for Barcelona.” Her voice was a cracked whisper.
He kissed her eyelids. “My driver will take you to the resort. You wait there, shopping and getting a tan, while I finalize my divorce. Then I come to you a free man. And we start our life together. In paradise.”
She tried to speak, but he continued without noticing.
“You told me you wanted to fly away from it all,” he said. “I’ll send those photographs to my contact in Spain. He’ll arrange for an EU identity card and passport. Spanish citizenship. Your name will be Elena in Spain. Beautiful like you. My sweet Elena.”
“Mark,” she faltered. “I…I—”
“You can forget all of it. Your parents, the hospitals. Everything painful in your past. You’ll be free.”
Yeah, tied hand and foot? She opened her mouth, but he kissed her deeply, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, blocking the words she wanted to say. She jerked away, feeling suffocated.
“Mark, untie me. Please,” she begged.
“No,” he said. “Can’t risk that. You’re mine now.”
“But my arms are asleep,” she protested. “I have pins and needles in my hands. It hurts. And I have to use the toilet. Please, Mark.”
