Page 97 of Captive Ruin

Van Wyk starts walking again, and I pass a set of legs, then two more. I can’t see anything but Van Wyk’s back and carpet. None of the men say anything, but I know what they’re staring at. What must they think of me, bound and gagged over his shoulder?

We step into the elevator, and I resume my struggles, kicking and crying out as much as the gag will allow.

“I’ve warned you already,” he says as the doors close and we begin to descend. “But if it wasn’t enough, stop now, or the spanks you’ve earned won’t be on your ass. They’ll be on your tight, wet little pussy.”

I whimper against the gag, ceasing my struggles. I know him well enough that he always follows through on his threats. The images his words create make my body clench, my breathing catch. It doesn’t help that his hand is still on my ass, and it’s as if his words inspire him too, because he starts stroking and squeezing.

We ride the elevator down to the basement, and Van Wyk carries me out into the parking garage. He opens the door of a car, bundling me unceremoniously onto the back seat, then leans over and clips a seat belt in. With my hands cuffed, it’s as effective a restraint as bondage ropes.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmurs, booping my nose. “Time to go home.”

I glare at him with as much venom as I can muster, but it doesn’t have any effect.

He walks around to the driver’s seat, slipping behind the wheel. That’s when I recognize the car: it’s the Maybach Haynes brought me home in.

There’s some irony there, being driven away in the same vehicle.

Van Wyk puts some music on, a soft classical piece, and together, we drive out into the night.

Twenty-Three

Amelia

As we leave the city, Van Wyk reaches back and tugs my gag down.

“Don’t give me a reason to stop the car and put that back in,” he warns.

I find his eyes in the rearview mirror and glare. “Do you get off on threatening me?”

“I’m sure it’s not the first time someone’s been spanked at the side of this particular road.”

My breath catches and I look out the window as my face heats. He’d do it, too. I know he would.

“Amelia.” He’s still looking at me in the mirror.

“What?”

“Be my good girl from now on.”

I roll my eyes. I’m not his. “No.”

We drive to an address in Dutchess County north of Millbrook. There’s a gated entrance that he opens with a remote, a guard waiting within—who has a guard?—and a long drive leading to an enormous white house. It’s too dark to see much, but the car headlights roll across lawns that stretch in all directions, with other buildings hinted at beyond.

This place must be worth at least twenty million.

It must be Fournier’s.

“I thought we were going to your house?”

“This is my house.”

Huh. Places like this belong to men worth hundreds of millions, and I’ve lost everything I own. I can’t help but feel very small. “Don’t you work security?”

There’s a pause before he barks a laugh. “I do, but it’s not all frisking gatecrashers at art galas.”

“Frisking?” I echo. “Is that what you did?”

“It’s what I intended to do,” he mutters. “You pushed me further.”