Page 10 of Candy Cane Chains
She nods frantically, a tear already squeezing out and running down the side of her face. I've clearly wrung more out of her body than she's ever experienced. "I'll give you everything."
As I line myself up with her entrance, plunging back in, I wonder how true that statement will stand in the light of day.
5
IVY
Iwake slowly, consciousness drifting back like morning fog. Silk sheets whisper against my skin as I stretch, feeling deliciously sore in all the right places. Sunlight filters through heavy drapes, casting the unfamiliar room in a soft glow.
Julian's scent lingers on the pillows along with the smell of sweat and sex that has my body reacting in a way I didn't expect. My fingers trace over the marks he left - tender spots along my neck, shoulders, the inside of my wrist where his grip held me. All down my body. Each one sends warmth through me as I remember how they got there.
I've never experienced anything like last night. Never knew I could feel so much, want so desperately. The intensity in his ice-blue eyes as he wrung every bit of pleasure from my body.
I never knew that I liked pain with my pleasure. No one has ever treated me like that, like they wantedeverypart of me. But Julian wanted everything I had, all my pain, all my pleasure, and he took it. It was…intoxicating.
The bed feels empty without him. I sit up, wrapping the sheet around me, and scan the vast bedroom. Dark wood furniture,minimalist decor, everything expensive but impersonal. No sign of Julian.
"Hello?" My voice echoes in the silence.
Maybe he's making coffee. The thought of seeing him again makes my heart race. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing at the pleasant ache, and pad across thick carpet. I find his shirt on the chair by the door and I slip it on, hoping he won't mind, and I go to the door.
The handle doesn't budge.
Ice replaces the warmth in my veins as I try again. And again. The door is definitely locked.
"Julian?" Louder this time, less hopeful.
I rush to the windows, bare feet silent on the floor. The handles there don't move either. Through the glass I can see Chicago sprawled below - I must be at least twenty stories up.
I don't have my phone, I realize. It's still in my car, parked at the bar from last night.
All the pleasant feelings I had this morning transforms into something else entirely as reality crashes in. I'm locked in a stranger's penthouse, no way to call for help, no way out.
What kind of man locks someone in their bedroom?
Suddenly, the door clicks open and Julian fills the frame, his presence commanding the room. He's already dressed in a crisp black suit that makes his pale eyes more striking.
"Do you want to shower?" His deep voice wraps around the word like silk-covered steel. It doesn't really sound like an option.
I clutch his shirt tighter around me. "Oh, hey. I was starting to think-"
"The bathroom's through there." He gestures to a door I hadn't noticed. "Fresh towels are waiting."
I nod, knowing it's not really a suggestion. Everything with him is like this, a command. But I don't mind it. I'm a mess and I really do need a shower.
My legs shake as I walk past him, catching a whiff of his cologne. The same scent that's all over his shirt, all over me.
The bathroom is bigger than my entire apartment's living room. Marble and chrome everywhere, a shower big enough for four people. Maybe the locked door was just... rich people being paranoid about security? He probably has the whole place on some automated system.
Hot water cascades over my shoulders, washing away the evidence of last night. Steam rises around me as I use his expensive body wash, replacing sex and sweat with sandalwood. My mind drifts to the way his hands felt on my skin, how commanding his voice was when he told me exactly what he wanted.
I panicked this morning. The door wasn't locked on purpose. It couldn't have been. Not with everything that happened last night.
I step out onto heated floors, wrapping myself in the softest towel I've ever touched. On the counter sits a pile of clothes I didn't notice before - designer jeans, a silk blouse in deep burgundy, even matching underwear. All in my size.
The tags are still on everything. Brand new. He must have sent someone shopping while I slept. That's what rich people do, right? Make problems disappear with money?
I slip into the clothes, each piece fitting like it was tailored for me. Much better than that ridiculous Santa dress that I'm not sure I want to see again. The one currently lying somewhere in his bedroom.
