Release Me

Christ’s sake. And let’s not forget the foot massage. Holy crap, girl, I’d totally fuck a guy who gave me a foot massage. Hell, I’d probably marry him.”
    I can’t help but smile. Sadly, Jamie probably isn’t exaggerating.
    “Not every guy is an asshole like Kurt,” she says, and for Jamie her voice is surprisingly gentle. “You can’t keep pretending you’re wearing a damn chastity belt.”
    I cringe. “Just drop it. Please.”
    She looks at me, then bites out a sharp, “Dammit.” She draws in a breath. Her eyes are sad, and I can see that she knows she’s gone too far.
    She stands up and moves to the fireplace. Since a fireplace in the San Fernando Valley is an absolutely idiotic concept, Jamie has converted it to a bar. Bottles instead of logs. Glasses on the mantel. She grabs the bottle of Knob Creek. “Want some?”
    I do, but I shake my head. I’ve had enough of alcohol for the night. “I’m tired,” I say, pushing myself up off the sofa.
    “I’m really sorry. You know I wouldn’t—”
    “I know,” I say. “And it’s really okay. I just need sleep.”
    A sly smile touches her mouth, and I know that we’re okay again. “I guess so. You have a meeting tomorrow, don’t you? And who’s that meeting with, exactly?”
    “Give it a rest, Jamie,” I say, but I grin as I head toward my bedroom. She’s right. I do have a big meeting. With Stark. In his offices. With my boss standing right there with the two of us.
    I think back over the events of the evening.
    I dwell on the panties I left in the limo.
    And as I collapse facedown on my bed, only one thought goes through my mind:
What the hell have I done?

10
    My arms are stretched above my head, my wrists bound by something smooth but firm. My naked body is stretched out on cool silk. I cannot move my legs.
    My eyes are closed, and yet I know what binds me. A red ribbon twined around my wrists. Wrapped tight around my ankles. I struggle, but there’s nowhere to go, and I don’t really want to escape anyway.
    Something cool brushes my erect nipple, and I arch up in surprise and pleasure.
    “Hush.” His voice seems to brush over me like a caress.
    “Please,” I whisper.
    He doesn’t answer, but once again I’m sweetly assaulted by a burst of cold. This time, he doesn’t pull away. It’s an ice cube, and he traces it over my nipple, down the swell of my breasts. I feel the trickle of water down my cleavage as the ice melts. He traces patterns on me with the melting ice, his hands never touching me, just the cold hardness that’s melting against my skin.
    “Please,” I whisper again. I arch up, wanting more, but am stopped by my bindings.
    “You’re mine,” he says.
    I open my eyes, needing to see his face, but everything around me is gray and out of focus. I am lost in an imagined world.
    I am the girl in the painting. Aroused and on display for all the world to see.
    “Mine,” he repeats, his body a blurred gray shape above me.
    His hands on my breasts are calloused and strong, yet so tender I want to cry. He eases them down, touching every inch of me, tracing my breasts, my rib cage, my belly. I tense as he approaches my pubis, suddenly afraid, but his hands lift and settle again on the outside of my thighs. I am in heaven from his touch. Lost. Floating. Dancing in a haze of pleasure.
    But then his hands shift. He takes my knees and gently forces my legs apart. And slowly, so slowly, he glides his palms up my inner thighs.
    I tense, and it’s no longer a pleasurable dance but a frightening maelstrom. I try to pull away, but I’m trapped, and he’s coming closer to my secrets.
To my scars
.
    I struggle more. I have to get away, and warning bells are ringing, echoing through the room like red-hot klaxons—
    Away
,
    Away
,
    Away
,
    “—awake?”
    I’m jolted out of my dream by the sound of Jamie’s voice. “What? I’m sorry, what?”
    On the nightstand beside me, my phone is screeching. Outside my doorway, Jamie is shouting.
    “I said, ‘Are you awake?’ Because if you are, you need to answer your damn phone.”
    Frazzled, I reach for it, and see Carl’s name on the display. I snatch it up, but the call’s already rolled over to voice mail.
    With a groan, I slide my legs off the bed and stretch, then glance at the phone again to check the time. Six-fucking-thirty.
    Seriously?
I mean, is the sun even up yet?
    I’m about to call him back when the phone rings yet again, and Carl’s name flashes like