Own Me, My Love Page 2

  Such insolence and presumption both startled her and thrilled her. Carrie had not felt anything like this in a long time. Surrounded by sex in the city, thousand dollar an hour male bodies for hire all around her and nary a twinge.

  But this one. With his dark tan, sharp cheeks, narrow waist and broad shoulders, the firm muscles so well displayed in the tank top. And the way he filled out those faded jeans. It made a girl—a woman—just want to fall to her knees and claw at his zipper to expose him.

  Carrie knew she was evil to feel these things, especially here. She was still Roger's slave; she'd never felt properly released, despite their final conversation. She was still collared. And no one could take that away or make her forget.

  "Hey, baby,” she heard a light feminine voice.

  The young woman was running in her cut offs and halter-top, long legged and blonde, her hair, silky, wild and free. The young man on the ladder grinned down to her. Obviously she was his girlfriend. He descended, taking her with a passionate kiss. No resistance was offered as his hand slid into her pocket, coveting her ass. Clearly this was familiar territory.

  Turning her slightly, the eager, barefoot blonde utterly enthralled, the young man inclined his head. Carrie felt her pulse quicken. He had his sights set straight on her. Was he reading her thoughts? Did he know what she was wanting, how at this very moment, she would scratch the younger woman's eyes out for a chance to be in his arms ... his bed?

  Carrie blushed, beating a hasty retreat.

  Back in the kitchen, she poured a glass of cold tap water, swallowing it whole. Was she losing her mind? How could one guy have that kind of effect? For a split second she'd actually felt jealous of the girlfriend. Maybe it was just the lack of sex. So far it hadn't been a problem to be celibate in spirit and body but maybe her female urges were resurfacing.

  Oh, god, now what? Out the kitchen window. Yet another man come to disturb her peace. This one in uniform, riding up the driveway in a Town of Man O’ War police car. Carrie eyed warily out the kitchen window. It was the chief's car, but she didn't recognize the driver. Had old Joe Hannity retired since last summer?

  The new chief was no doubt swinging by to introduce himself and offer condolences on behalf of the town, something she was about as enthused about receiving as a cat anticipating a session in a Jacuzzi.

  He was a tall one, that was for sure. Close to six feet with short-cropped dark hair, trimmed military style. He wore mirrored shades under the brim of his Stetson, a nice compliment to his dimpled chin, square jaw and solid cheekbones.

  She pegged his age at around forty. He wore the uniform well, a hell of a lot better than Joe Hannity. There was a crispness to him, the way the nine millimeter pistol was slung at his narrow waist, the way the epaulets sat upon his broad shoulders. The man oozed authority. Ex-military, unless she missed her guess.

  He seemed proud, not boastful. Confident not arrogant. You could just tell from the way he walked that he took his job with deadly seriousness. So what the hell was he doing in a backwater place like Man O’ War Beach?

  Not that she cared one whit. At this point she wanted the man gone and that meant getting over whatever lame introduction he had in mind.

  Carrie made it to the door in time for his knock, crisp and precise as a Swiss clock.

  The man was even more imposing close up. Just looking at him made her feel vaguely guilty, like she ought to be confessing to skipping math way back in the seventh grade.

  "Sorry to disturb you,” he began, his voice low and smooth. “We've been conducting an investigation in this area, following up on reports of teenagers squatting in beach houses. Have you noticed anything unusual since your return?"

  "Other than the unexplained disappearance of Joe Hannity, you mean?"

  He pursed his full, wine colored lips. “Sorry, ma'am. I should have introduced myself better. Joe's taken a well-earned retirement. I'm Grant Conner, his replacement. I assume you're the new owner, or are you merely renting?"

  Carrie felt her blood pressure rise. Who did this man think he was, assuming anything?

  "Actually it was my husband who died,” she replied. “I am still alive ... at least technically."

  He narrowed his gaze. “You mean you're—"

  "Mrs. Carrie Renfrew,” she supplied curtly. “Owner of this house."

  She'd nearly identified herself as Mrs. Roger Renfrew. It was one of those hard to break habits. The little things were the toughest in a lot of ways. She still hadn't brung herself to take his name off the answering machine at their apartment in the city.

  The chief appeared almost cross. “I'm sorry for your loss. He was a great man."

  "Thank you,” she said, not sure what to make of his odd condolence. “You knew him, then?"

  "We were acquainted,” he acknowledged. “Ma'am, I wonder if I might be allowed to search the place for myself? There are signs a trained eye would pick up that an untrained one might miss."

  She cocked her head. His entire tone had shifted. From painstaking politeness to borderline suspicion. “With all due respect, Chief, I'm not sure what signs you think I'd have missed. The place was locked when I got here, nothing was out of place."

  "If need be, Mrs. Renfrew, I can get a warrant."

  "A warrant? What on earth for? I haven't committed any crimes."

  "Mrs. Renfrew, you just need to trust me, this is for your own good. If anyone has been in here and covered their trail to fool you, they might be back. I'd also like to give a look and make sure your doors and windows are secure so no one can enter from this point forward. Do we have an understanding?"

  Carrie tensed her jaw. Something told her this man was more than merely assertive. Was it possible? Could he be a sexual dominant? If he was indeed a friend of Roger's, it was a strong possibility. But why hadn't Roger mentioned an acquaintance in law enforcement?

  "If you must,” she said, conveying as much displeasure as she was capable of given the man's naturally authoritarian position.

  He eyed her, looking for a moment like he wanted to say something else. “Yes,” he said with exaggerated patience. “I must."

  What was going on? How had she managed to offend this man so greatly? She dared not ask any further as he moved efficiently, from room to room. Her heart quickened as she thought of the bedroom. She wasn't expecting the painters inside for another week. Had she double-checked to make sure all the bondage paraphernalia was gone?

  She was pretty sure she'd worked ahead, taking down the hooks, even, but she might have missed something. Whatever it was, it would be too late anyway.

  "I don't think anyone's been in here,” he announced emerging from the master bedroom a few minutes later."

  "Thank you for checking,” she smiled as steadily as she could.

  He nodded. “I locked all your windows, but you'll want to get some safety locks, too."

  "Yes. I will, Chief.” She smiled, hiding her relief as he moved towards the door.

  "Tell me something,” he asked on the way out. “You and your husband are the original owners, aren't you?"

  "Yes. What of it?"

  "Nothing,” he shook his head. “Nothing at all. Good day,” he tipped his hat, then paused to clear his throat. “One, one more thing..."

  "Yes?"

  "I couldn't help noticing the cage. You and your husband had a ... large dog?"

  Carrie held her breath. The cage...

  Not for any four legged animal but for a pet of a different sort. We'd intended to make use of it,” she replied trembling, her voice close to cracking.

  If only this cop knew the story of that cage—the sexual energy, the conflict and torment represented by that innocent-looking metal cube. Seeing it on her arrival here she'd fallen into hysterics. Roger had wanted to see her in it, to use it for his fantasies, but she'd shown too much resistance. A stubborn pride on her part that had denied her love, her Master of so much.. It was her intention to throw it away before the painters arrived, but she
hadn't been able to bring herself to do it. It's hold was too strong. It wanted her. Her naked body, her soul.

  "I see.” His face was readable as stone, his tone as flat as slate. Was he disapproving of something? She could be anything in the man's book from a candidate for sainthood to a mass murder suspect for all she could determine.

  Maybe he knew something. About her; about what a bad slave she was.

  Could it be Roger had complained to his friends—to this one in particular—about her lack of accommodation to his desires? Did he hold her responsible for short-changing his life, too?

  "Aren't you going to advise me not to leave town?” She asked dryly. “Or aren't I under suspicion for anything?"

  "I already gave you my advice. Buy better locks.” With that he turned his back, his behind moving in a most satisfying and female pleasing way as he returned to his car.

  She could only imagine what that behind of his looked like naked.

  Was he playing some sort of game of cat and mouse? she wondered. The cage would like have confirmed any suspicions or information he had of the true status of her relationship to Roger.

  Suppose he stepped forward and tried to impose himself. As a Master? In theory she had the right, the obligation to refuse any unwanted domination, especially while in the grieving process, but supposing she couldn't resist the strong-willed cop?

  Especially given the frame of mind she was in thanks to the young painter, her, insides turned out. Talk about insane, he was making her feel like a horny teenager, ready to give it up in the nearest back seat.

  I need a drink, she thought. Something a whole lot stronger than water.

  * * * *

  Grant cursed himself as he sped down the old coast road. It should have dawned on him he'd run into the woman here sooner or later. Roger had gotten him this job through his contacts on the town council. On account of his owning a house out here. And now his widow was here putting things in order.

  He hadn't recognized her off the bat. She'd changed since that infamous night down at the club. Her hair was longer. She was a little thinner now, maybe too thin, though still sexy as hell. She had on clothes, too, which was another major difference. The last time he'd laid eyes on her she'd been wearing nothing but a collar and blindfold and leather cuffs.

  Roger had secured her in the public dungeon, arms over her head. She'd been left available for kissing, fondling, whipping, even fucking, if you could get your cock into her hole in a standing position.

  Grant had managed to climax in her ass, with the use of lubricant. She'd moaned into her gag as he grasped her breasts from behind, thrusting himself, deep and with total abandon. She'd been incredible, the most passionate, purely expressive submissive he'd ever make use of.

  She wasn't a slave, though. He and Roger had debates about that. Once, after a few too many beers they'd nearly gotten into fisticuffs.

  "Jeezus, Grant,” Roger had chided. “You'd think you had a crush on her or something."

  "It's not that at all,” Grant had denied stubbornly. “I'm just telling you, some women are natural slaves and others just enjoy the submissive role during sex. If you try and turn a sub into a slave you'll end up with heartache, guilt and conflict."

  "She's my wife,” Roger replied curtly. “I think I know how to deal with her. She didn't ask me to become her master so she could call all the shots. I'm teaching her, deepening her submission."

  It wasn't the public sex, or the humiliation that was a problem. Carrie got off on that, it was obvious. It was the other things that Roger wanted. The way he expected Carrie to subordinate herself mentally. The way she was supposed to get just as aroused by not talking at the dinner table or by kneeling in a corner for an hour with nothing to do as she was by the kinky sex.

  Not that Grant was any kind of a saint. Did it make him hot and aroused—seeing Roger control this beautiful woman? Did he get hard-ons watching Roger play his games? Sure, it did. Carrie was incredible—like this glowing ball of energy, so intelligent and alive ... what man wouldn't want to have her all for his own?

  He wasn't jealous, though. Roger had accused him of it, but that's where Roger was wrong. Carrie wasn't his kind of woman at all. For one thing, she was the sort who needed a steady man in her life. She was a one-woman man, and while Grant was hardly a player, he had no real interest in the commitment of a marriage.

  He'd had submissives before, and serious girlfriends, and he would never cheat on any of them. It's just that they'd never held his attention. He needed excitement, he needed a challenge. Yes, he wanted a woman who would fall to him, but not too easily. She would have to accept ropes, even chains on her body, and she would submit—but only in the full passion of her womanhood.

  He shifted in his seat, the blood rushing to his cock as he thought about taking Carrie to bed. Really bedding her and having his way, slow and easy, over a long, ocean swept night.

  How long would she end up staying? Hopefully not too long. The last thing he needed was to get involved with the likes of her. His life was simple now and he intended to keep it that way.

  She was a temptation, all on her own. Doubly so in that house. To a trained eye, it represented a dominant's paradise. Sweet Carrie could be quite well controlled and used in such an environment, what with the eyebolts and hooks. He'd wager Roger had left some chains about, too. And the cage ... why the hell didn't Carrie get rid of it? She'd never wanted to be put in it, she'd fought like hell. Roger had told her as much. He wouldn't give up, though. He'd felt it was the key to her real slavery, to her real freedom.

  That fine line bullshit he always talked about, between love and power.

  Jesus, he missed the son of a bitch.

  Maybe tomorrow he'd take a ride back out there, come up with some good excuse to make Carrie leave. Some official reason. A safety thing, to do with the break-ins. She'd be better off out of here, to be sure. Back in the city. Getting on with her life. She was a big shot in the fashion world. She needed some vanilla boyfriend. Kink needed to be a part of her ancient history.

  Could he order her off the island? Not really possible in a free country...

  Still, he'd think of something. Perhaps he'd give her a different kind of order. Dom to sub. Nothing sexual, just a lifestyle thing. Get away from here, he'd instruct her, and don't come back.

  The trouble was, it wasn't really her doing anything, was it? She wasn't the problem—it was his own emotions. His own desires. That's what needed to be banished.

  For starters, he would take a nice run. Down the beach. A good three or five miles to get his libido in order. Make that ten, he sighed, getting another look at that irrepressible erection of his.

  Damn, but he'd love to be sunk deep inside Carrie now, between her spread thighs, filling her sweet canal, watching the expression on her face, ecstasy written in her every pore, the look of an angel, the body of a Venus, precious, open and lovable.

  Her limbs prettily cuffed, encased in steel or rope, her breasts rising and falling, her soul and heart captured. But would it really be him capturing her ... or her capturing him?

  CHAPTER TWO

  By the second shot of whisky, Carrie was feeling bold, easy and sassy. She didn't usually drink like this, least of all when apart from her closest friends. She told herself it was just to unwind. Things weren't getting to her. Not the house, or the painter or the strange visit from the police chief. Everything was under control. All she had to do was handle things, step by step. In a few days, this would all be a memory, she'd be back in the city. Safe and sound.

  Fuck. Who was she kidding? The world was unraveling right before her eyes. That chief had seen through her, she was sure of it. That look of contempt in his eyes—as if to say, who are you to pretend to be a free person? Your kind belongs on her knees, chained, subject to the discipline of a belt or the flat of a man's palm on naked ass cheeks.

  She'd half expected punishment just for pretending in front of him. For posing. Part of her would ha
ve accepted it, gratefully. The thought of being set free from the burden of choice ... filled her with amazing peace. At the same time, she would have fought him.

  And that confused her. This man was a Master, she was sure of it now. He had the right to claim an unattached slave like her. She had no grounds, no basis to refuse. He could have made an easy test—checked her hard nipples, fingered her sopping cunt and seen what she was made of.

  "Get the whip, Carrie.” That was Roger's version of foreplay and it had worked, too, like magic.

  Whatever mood, whatever resistance she had would be instantly broken, all the tension shattered from her day, from the stresses of her job. No vanilla woman would ever understand such a thing. Only another slave.

  A wave of pain passed over her, the deep, not-good kind that is generated only from within. Roger could take this away from her, no one else had ever been able. Beating her own ass didn't do it. Maybe if she could crawl into that little cage...

  Was her ass narrow enough? He'd teased her about dieting to fit it, though truthfully she'd been the right size all along.

  God, this was getting so maudlin. No wonder people didn't drink. She needed something, a diversion. Maybe she'd head into town. Grab some seafood. A nice steaming plate of crab's legs and a frosty mug of beer, just like Roger always loved.

  "Excuse me, ma'am?"

  Carrie started, her body reacting as if lashed with a tiny, electric filament, long and whip-like. The painter was behind her. A picture of youth and beauty. He'd taken off the tank top. His sweaty, bare chest was far too close for comfort. She blinked in the twilight, seeking to keep her bearings. Had the day disappeared already?

  "I'm calling it a day,” he said. “I'll be back in the morning."

  In the morning ... that seemed a lifetime away. She cursed herself for not wanting to be alone tonight. What was one more night in isolation? She'd borne so many already—far more painful ones, ever so much closer to the point of actual loss. “You're done, then?” She said, quite vapidly.