Strange that I would feel safer bound and gagged. But I did, because I knew he was looking out for me. He was in charge of me, and all I had to do was rest in his strong embrace.
Supper had been light with fresh tamales from a nearby street vendor, a triangle of Gruyere cheese, and a bunch of plump green grapes. I worried that it wouldn’t be hearty enough for Ian’s appetite, considering the burger and shake he’d wolfed down at the diner. But he hadn’t balked at the meal, and I remembered, too, the more subtle, wholesome dishes he’d served me in captivity. He’d filled his roles, the cultured criminal and jaded agent, so completely that even his dietary preferences were pre-selected—along with his clothes, his mannerisms, and his sexual predilections. It made me sad. It made me want to know the real him.
He showed that to me when dinner was over. He washed the dishes while I dried them, and when the last plate was put away I turned to him, mouth open around a word, caught by the desire in his expression.
“Shh,” he murmured. “I love your sweet voice. I want to hear everything you can tell me. But not right now. Now I need a good little whore to use. You can do that for me, can’t you?”
He pressed his thumb on my tongue. My eyes widened, my heartbeat raced. But I didn’t fight him. Just let him invade my mouth, tasting the faint tang of soap on his skin. I nodded.
He didn’t need the coarse ropes or chains to bind me. He found a silky rope tying back the curtains in the kitchen to bind my wrists behind my back. My cheeks heated painfully when he dug through my nightstand and found the purple vibrator that fit inside me perfectly. The dishtowel I’d used to dry the dishes served as a gag, damp and thick on my tongue. Most of my clothes stayed on, but he opened the buttons of my sheer pink blouse and pulled my breasts from the peach-colored camisole. The feather-light ruffles framed my breasts, their color matching my nipples.
As I lay on the couch in his arms, his heart beat steadily beneath my cheek. He stroked my breasts and pinched my nipples with lazy movements, staring into the distance. I would have thought him completely unaffected, except I could feel his thick erection at my hip.
On a particularly cruel twist of my exposed flesh, I whimpered against the damp fabric.
“You like that, don’t you, pretty girl.”
Not really a question. I wasn’t fully a person like this. I was an object for him to use, to see. I was like the vintage milk jug on the mantel with its potted daisies. Something nice to look at. Something to care for.
“No,” he continued, “I don’t think it will be much of a sacrifice for you at all. I bet you’re already wet for me, aren’t you? Already drenching that smooth plastic. Getting yourself lubed up like a good girl.”
Remote in hand, he flipped on the television. My eyes closed in mortification. God. I wasn’t even enough of a distraction for that. He needed more entertainment than me, tied and bared to him. We watched a few minutes of a cooking competition where the chefs put modern twists on ethnic classics. I could have been interested in it if he weren’t constantly touching, plucking, smoothing my sensitive skin.
His hands were skilled, knowledgeable, and they brought me to a fever pitch with a few flicks. Not only that, I had to admit. The way he tied me up, the way he used me—that turned me on as well.
He glanced down at his watch and changed the channel again. He didn’t check with me to see what I wanted to watch. I wasn’t even in the equation. Just a thing, with no preferences, no wishes of my own. It was an old action flick this time. We watched a few minutes while he rolled my nipple between forefinger and thumb.
Slowly, I got the impression he was waiting for something. The clock beside the daisies showed eight seventeen. Not really a time that something typically happened. But then, Ian was far from typical.
When the minute hand moved once…twice…an interruption came over the screen.
Breaking News, it said in block letters across the top of the screen. A pretty reporter spoke seriously into a microphone. Behind her, swarms of people crowded a podium set up beside the courthouse. And at the bottom of the picture, a blue information bar claimed, ‘International Criminal Presumed Dead in Aggressive FBI Raid.’
In smaller letters beneath it, it read: Laguardia has been on the Most Wanted list for 10 years.
My body jerked in place, unable to move, unable to think. Dead? Of course, he was warm and very much alive beneath me. His hands continued to stroke me but their tenor changed. More calming now.
Soothing.