Plata barely registered on the scale, and then only if the whole, international scope of the gang was taken into consideration.
For her, he’d dealt with the Uzbek, Gul Rashid, and given him a premium price on a shipment of Afghan opium.
For her, he’d broken his golden rule—he’d felt pity, then suffered as pity had turned to empathy and the death stroke of love. Nothing about the fact made him happy. So he fought it with the arrogance of his wealth, with the power of his intellect, and with the icy coolness of his most disdainful regard.
And yet he was there, always…for her.
Behind her, she heard Travis rise from the bed. The angel didn’t know about Kendryk. No one did, not Skeeter, not Kid, not even Superman.
But it was the angel who would be hurt the worst.
She let her eyes drift closed and took another soft breath.
She could still feel him, still feel where Travis had been inside her, could still feel the pleasure he’d given her. No one made love like the angel boy, and certainly not the devil named Kendryk.
And yet … and yet …For a moment, no longer, she halted her breath, held it inside, then released it gently back into the night.
And yet Kendryk was a part of her, too, for better or for worse, and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that it was going to be for worse, that someday he would demand a price it would kill her to pay—and she would pay it anyway.
She took another breath and slowly opened her eyes. The shadows were deepening across the garden, melding into one darkness, the veil of night spreading out from the horizon.
Sometimes she didn’t like herself very much, and the weeks she’d been with Kendryk had been the worst of those times. She didn’t know for sure, couldn’t know for sure, but she didn’t think the woman she’d been before the XT7 would have made the choices Red Dog had made. Or maybe the will to live that beat so strongly in her heart had always been there, the bone-deep conviction that she would do anything— anything —to survive. Having “died” once, it was not an experience she wanted to repeat.
So she’d done what she’d had to do. She’d made her deal, sealed the pact, and reaped the unexpected rewards of having Sir Arthur Kendryk at her back.
Smoothing her hand low across her belly, she let out a sigh and waited. Travis moved quietly, but she could sense his growing nearness, sense the warmth of his desire and the warmth of his body reaching out to surround her. When she felt him come to a stop behind her, when she felt his hand slide around her waist and draw her close, another, softer sigh left her.
He was shameless, this boy who loved her. All of twenty-four years old when they’d met, he’d known more about her body than she had, known more about what she’d needed, more about what she’d wanted. To this day, he knew more about giving her pleasure than he should.
“Close your eyes,” he said quietly, his mouth brushing across the back of her neck.
Yes …she let her lashes fall and inhaled the scent of a thousand flowers.
“Bow your head.” His voice was so sure, so gentle, and yet so undeniably male.
She obeyed.
“Submission,” he whispered with a soft laugh, and she felt his teeth graze her skin, so lightly at first, then harder, never enough to mark her, but enough to let her know he was there, in control, and that if he so chose, she would be helpless … helpless .
Poor little Gillian Pentycote, so helpless, bound and gagged. So frightened. So terrified.
The angel slipped a loop of soft rope around her wrist and drew it tight. Then he wrapped the rope around one of the brackets he’d set into the wall above the French doors and pulled, surely, steadily, until she was stretched taut with only her toes touching the floor, her arm raised above her head.
“I’m not…I’m not sure I want—”
“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice so calm.
And he was right.
The blindfold came next, tight enough for her to feel,
For her, he’d dealt with the Uzbek, Gul Rashid, and given him a premium price on a shipment of Afghan opium.
For her, he’d broken his golden rule—he’d felt pity, then suffered as pity had turned to empathy and the death stroke of love. Nothing about the fact made him happy. So he fought it with the arrogance of his wealth, with the power of his intellect, and with the icy coolness of his most disdainful regard.
And yet he was there, always…for her.
Behind her, she heard Travis rise from the bed. The angel didn’t know about Kendryk. No one did, not Skeeter, not Kid, not even Superman.
But it was the angel who would be hurt the worst.
She let her eyes drift closed and took another soft breath.
She could still feel him, still feel where Travis had been inside her, could still feel the pleasure he’d given her. No one made love like the angel boy, and certainly not the devil named Kendryk.
And yet … and yet …For a moment, no longer, she halted her breath, held it inside, then released it gently back into the night.
And yet Kendryk was a part of her, too, for better or for worse, and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that it was going to be for worse, that someday he would demand a price it would kill her to pay—and she would pay it anyway.
She took another breath and slowly opened her eyes. The shadows were deepening across the garden, melding into one darkness, the veil of night spreading out from the horizon.
Sometimes she didn’t like herself very much, and the weeks she’d been with Kendryk had been the worst of those times. She didn’t know for sure, couldn’t know for sure, but she didn’t think the woman she’d been before the XT7 would have made the choices Red Dog had made. Or maybe the will to live that beat so strongly in her heart had always been there, the bone-deep conviction that she would do anything— anything —to survive. Having “died” once, it was not an experience she wanted to repeat.
So she’d done what she’d had to do. She’d made her deal, sealed the pact, and reaped the unexpected rewards of having Sir Arthur Kendryk at her back.
Smoothing her hand low across her belly, she let out a sigh and waited. Travis moved quietly, but she could sense his growing nearness, sense the warmth of his desire and the warmth of his body reaching out to surround her. When she felt him come to a stop behind her, when she felt his hand slide around her waist and draw her close, another, softer sigh left her.
He was shameless, this boy who loved her. All of twenty-four years old when they’d met, he’d known more about her body than she had, known more about what she’d needed, more about what she’d wanted. To this day, he knew more about giving her pleasure than he should.
“Close your eyes,” he said quietly, his mouth brushing across the back of her neck.
Yes …she let her lashes fall and inhaled the scent of a thousand flowers.
“Bow your head.” His voice was so sure, so gentle, and yet so undeniably male.
She obeyed.
“Submission,” he whispered with a soft laugh, and she felt his teeth graze her skin, so lightly at first, then harder, never enough to mark her, but enough to let her know he was there, in control, and that if he so chose, she would be helpless … helpless .
Poor little Gillian Pentycote, so helpless, bound and gagged. So frightened. So terrified.
The angel slipped a loop of soft rope around her wrist and drew it tight. Then he wrapped the rope around one of the brackets he’d set into the wall above the French doors and pulled, surely, steadily, until she was stretched taut with only her toes touching the floor, her arm raised above her head.
“I’m not…I’m not sure I want—”
“Yes, you do,” he said, his voice so calm.
And he was right.
The blindfold came next, tight enough for her to feel,