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As she wanted.
As I didn't want to ever want.
And now with Annie. Annie who wanted to be punished, as if she also blamed herself for what had happened with Vincent. Or maybe it was only guilt. Or humiliation. Maybe she was getting back at herself or, obscurely, at me. But she was hurt and vulnerable and trying something new and I was in a rage that seemed incapable of ending.
While I beat her tonight, she'd accepted every thing I did to her and then let me take her.
That wasn't the Annie I knew.
That wasn't the Cole St. Martin I knew either.
It was a bad combination of things.
I needed to get Annie out of here.
17
Annie
I came to, and panicked.
My wrists were still tied to the bed and I still hung from them. My shoulders felt torqued. My mouth tasted old and dry and used.
I wanted to feel better. Like something had changed. Like even if I couldn't forgive myself, Cole could.
I didn't feel any of that.
What I felt, and what I felt was a problem, was that I wanted to be with Cole. I wanted him to come find me, to apologize and to rub lotion on my abused backside and the places on my thighs where he'd struck hard enough to bruise or to cut the skin.
What I didn't want to feel was any of that. I wanted to be free of the past and look forward to the future. That strange, flying sensation I occasionally got when he did those things to me.
I wanted him to come back. I was still tied, still strung up, still positioned for his use.
I wanted him to come back and do more to me.
And for that reason I needed him not to come back.
And me not to be here.
18
Cole
"Annie."
She looked up bleary-eyed, obviously in subspace. Her shoulders were torqued back and her hands were probably asleep from the position but she seemed unaware of it.
Her ass was bruising. There were places the canes had drawn blood. There was stippling on her calves from the switches.
I'd gone too hard on her. She hadn't said a word. She hadn't fought back or used her safe word. She did have one, even if she was warned to only use it in actual emergency.
"I'm going to untie you and then we need to talk."
She nodded at that. Didn't move. And when I had her untied, she sank into my arms like I was a safe haven. I accepted her weight – she felt feather light – and carried her to the couch on the far side of the room, away from the bed.
"Do you need medical attention?"
For an instant I didn't think she understood the question. Then she smiled and touched my face. I frowned and snatched her hand away as if I'd burned her. Before I could ask, she said, "May I touch your face, sir?"
