Own This Body Page 7

  Rolf erupted before I could mount any form of protest. His hands at the back of my neck held me fast, compelling me to swallow his hot, thick load. I kept on sucking till after he’d finished his groaning and convulsing, and then, as he zipped himself up, I awaited his command.

  “Get up,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “You’ll ride in the car now.”

  The journey was silent. I was alone in the back seat, left with my thoughts, which were growing increasingly gloomy. As we entered the expressway into the city he actually asked me where I wanted to go. Without much enthusiasm, I named a hotel I knew of.

  He let me off at the front entrance, and I went round to thank him. “I hope this won’t mean trouble for you,” I asked solicitously. “From Baines, I mean.”

  “Trouble with Baines?” he exclaimed. “What on earth for?”

  “For helping me escape.”

  Rolf smiled. “You don’t honestly think you were a prisoner, do you? Actually, you were free to go at any point.”

  “B—but, we made a deal,” I sputtered like a motorboat. “Sex in exchange for your help.”

  Rolf shook his head. “Sorry for the misunderstanding,” he grinned slyly. “I thought you knew we were only playing. If all you wanted was a ride, we’d have called you a cab.”

  He left me with a wink, standing like a zombie underneath the portico of the Excelsior Arms. I’d just been made a fool of—tricked, manipulated and used like an animal, and all for naught.

  “Can I help you, miss?” asked a doorman, eager to be of service.

  “No,” I snapped, with far too much intensity. “I can find my way inside all by myself, thank you very much.”

  Chapter Four

  After half an hour in the shower I began to feel human again. When I stepped out of the show, I noticed with dismay that enough steam was produced to peel the wallpaper. I’m not sure if I would be liable for this, but the credit card I was using would probably be cancelled before too much longer, anyway. What I needed was a good dinner and a stiff drink or two downstairs in the lounge. I had one good dress to my name, a little black cocktail number that I decided to put on for the occasion over my black lace underwear and a pair of wispy black shoes.

  I checked the mirror to see if the combination worked. Finding a man was the last thing on my mind, but I wasn’t about to turn away a good opportunity if it arose. I don’t play off my looks too often, but like I’ve been saying, I’m way past desperate, well on my way to cataclysmic.

  The lounge was pretty much empty, with the exception of a table full of business types in polyester suits drooling over a redhead in a tight blue dress who was either a hooker or else a wigged-out divorcee making up for a whole hell of a lot of lost time.

  The redhead sipped on a martini, while the businessmen took scotch. Ambling up the bar, a slab of polished oak some twenty feet long, I ordered my old standby, a Rob Roy. The barkeep was in his thirties, kind of cute, with that sheepish ‘what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this’ look in his eyes. There wasn’t a ring on his finger, and given the slim pickings, there was half a chance I’d be inviting him up to my wallpaper-denuded room after closing time.

  Glancing around the smoked glass-dark green interior with ceiling fans and decorated pub mirrors for inspiration, I raised a toast to myself—and to that famed mother of invention, necessity, which in my case ought to be siring some really brilliant life saving inventions any minute now.

  The barkeep gave me space to brood, which I appreciated. I’d pour my heart out, if push came to shove, but for the moment, I wanted the dignity of my own little pity party. Things like this shouldn’t happen to wholesome, ambitious young entrepreneurs, even if their fathers did raise them amidst a life of crime. The worst thing I’ve ever done is keep a video overdue, but somehow I was being made to pay for his sins and Jeremy’s besides.

  Not fair, not by a long shot.

  I felt a pang of guilt at running out on Jennifer. Some friend I’d turned out to be! Fucking her soon to be husband’s bodyguard to save my own ass, leaving her to the man’s wrath. Rolf had told me I was free to go, but I could hardly imagine he’d be very pleased at my defection. Would Jenn-Jenn pay the price? Would it be her ass that would feel the belt, cane or whip or whatever else he might use on her?

  I swallowed the rest of my drink and signaled for another.

  In one year I’d seen my business ruined, my reputation flushed down the toilet, my life span reduced to that of a blue tailed butterfly, and now to top it all off, I’d just yesterday beaten my best friend’s ass raw with a cane while her fiancée watched.

  “To wedded bliss,” I toasted aloud with my empty glass.

  Bondage bliss, that is, I amended, complete with a cage, three by five, a dog collar, a bowl with one’s name engraved on it and all the whippings and dehumanization a body can bear.

  “Want to talk about it?” the bartender asked, a slanted smile lending warmth to his soft brown eyes.

  “No,” came the answer, the words spoken not by myself, but by an ominous sounding man standing behind me. “She doesn’t.”

  I turned to see what the bartender was looking at so avidly: a ruggedly handsome, dark haired man with fierce, coal black eyes in a navy blue suit, red tie.

  “NBI,” he explained, looking straight at the bartender as he flashed an official looking idea. “Would you mind giving the lady and me a little privacy?”

  The bartender looked at me, a subtle shift in his manner. “Certainly,” he nodded, having reclassified me from beautiful, needy stranger to potential crook and scumbag.

  “Whisky,” the agent called out, not bothering to ask if he could take the stool next to me. “Neat.”

  “Should you be drinking on duty, Agent…?”

  “It’s Reynolds,” he supplied, giving me the once over. “And who said I’m on duty?”

  I stiffened, liking the man less and less with each passing moment. “If you’ve something to ask me, Agent Reynolds, I’m sure the answer will come from my mouth, not my bosom.”

  Reynolds downed the freshly delivered scotch. “Maybe,” he acknowledged, setting the half-empty glass down pointedly. “Then again, we both know you want me to look down there, don’t you?”

  “You flatter yourself,” I scoffed. “I don’t even know you, and if I did, I’m sure I would think even less of you than I already do—and that would be going some, I assure you.”

  “Yes,” he challenged, his eyes burning holes in mine, “but you’d like me to fuck you just the same.”

  My mouth hung open. The combination of the liquor and his heady, masculine cologne mingled with his endless supply of rude remarks was making me slightly faint. “Any reason I shouldn’t slap you in the face?” I demanded.

  “Because,” he replied without blinking, “I would slap you back, twice as hard.”

  I studied him, making no secret of my blatant hatred. “Who are you?” I asked at last. “Really?”

  He raised his hand to the bartender. “Another whisky, and I’ll have the lady’s tab.” When his eyes returned to mine, they were like a cat’s, having sniffed out appropriate prey. “I’m your savior, Raven; your goddamned knight in shining armor, so if I were you, I’d think about treating me with a little more respect.”

  Agent Reynolds paid my bill and escorted me from the bar. Before I knew it we were in the elevator and I was turning over my room key.

  “That’s a little hard,” I complained as he clamped my upper arm to lead me down the darkened eighth floor hall.

  “This is nothing,” he assured me, ratcheting up the pressure even more, “compared to what lies ahead if you don’t cooperate.”

  Reynolds dragged me the rest of the way down the corridor, me half-stumbling, half running. Twice I tried to knock on doors to wake someone up, but he was moving me too fast. The whole thing was making me furious, but it wasn’t till we were safely inside my room and he’d locked the door from the inside that I became concerned for my
safety.

  “You can’t do this,” I told him, standing my ground in the middle of the carpeted floor. “I have rights.”

  Reynolds unclipped his gun holster from his belt and tossed it onto the dresser along with his jacket. His waist was slim, and his abs well defined under the dress shirt. “Rights to what? To become one of Silvio Galentano’s sluts and spend all day and night on your back—or maybe wind up face down in some alley in a pool of your own blood?”

  His words frightened me, though I was determined not to show it. “I can take care of myself.”

  “That so? Then why don’t you grab that gun over there and shoot me with it?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” I snorted, not liking the direction of the conversation one little bit.

  “Why not?” Reynolds wanted to know, rolling up his sleeves to reveal well-worked forearms. “I thought you could take care of yourself? Let’s test that hypothesis, shall we?” He took a step closer. “Let’s say I’m one of Galentano’s goons, and I’m here to rape you. You’re going to disable me, with or without that gun.”

  I looked at the pistol, about a million miles away over his left shoulder. “I know karate,” I informed him, “don’t make me hurt you.”

  He waited for me to take off my heels, hands on his hips in exaggerated patience. “Any time you’re ready.”

  “Go for it,” I snarled.

  I was crouched into a basic fighting stance, my eyes intent on his crown jewels. He’d be singing soprano for a week by the time I was done with him.

  My first kick ended up slicing the air as Reynolds performed a neat sidestep. It was a sidekick which left me in position for a second try, in the form of a combination power punch. This time he leaned into me, managing to hook the back of my leg. Next thing I knew I was staring up at him from the floor on my back.

  “Had enough?”

  “Haven’t even started yet,” I kicked up at his crotch. “How about you?”

  Reynolds went down to one knee, which gave me the chance to drive the tips of three fingers into his jugular. He cursed me and did the only thing a man could in these circumstances: he pinned me, driving his knee between my legs. I could feel the hardness of his cock and I knew this wasn’t going to be about martial arts for long.

  “Well?” I challenged, my eyes wasting him like lasers. “Why don’t you go on and rape me; that’s what this little game is about, isn’t it?”

  Reynolds was red-faced, breathing hard. I’d put up more resistance than he’d expected. “I’m not your enemy,” he growled. “You’re going to have to learn the difference.”

  I ground my pelvis against him and wrapped my legs round his tight

  buttocks. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the battle of the sexes, it’s that the tables can always be turned by a woman willing to play her whole hand.

  “Fuck me and let’s find out.”

  Reynolds punished me with a kiss; hard and fast, designed to subdue and arouse all at once. I stifled a moan. If I wasn’t careful I’d wind up begging and crawling for him like I had with Rolf. That was something I couldn’t allow. This Reynolds was my best hope yet, but I’d have to maintain control.

  The second kiss kept on going. I could feel my pulse racing, the blood in my captive wrists surging through the grip of his steel-hard hands. I was creaming in my panties, and as hard as I was trying to fight it, I’d begun to press against his hardness, my pelvis thrusting rhythmically, to the beat of a tune he was creating, with the force of his lips, the surging plundering tongue.

  God, but he was well muscled. Not overbuilt, but sculpted under the silk of his shirt. My nipples yearned to be free against his pecs, my breasts squashed against him, or better still, in his hands, being kneaded and manipulated.

  Reynolds tongue moved deeper, and I was lost.

  It was too late to resist. I was being fucked with my clothes on; being had like a whore, or whatever else he wanted me to be.

  “I guess,” Reynolds stopped abruptly, leaving me on the brink of one of the biggest orgasms of my life, “that it wouldn’t be rape any more.”

  Through half shut eyes, I appealed to him, woman to man, for mercy. “Please?” I whispered, the air of surrender thick in the room.

  “No,” said my assailant grabbing up my wrists and hauling me to my feet. “We have work to do.”

  I was like a child in his arms as he pulled the dress over my head. With nothing to protect my modesty now but stockings, bra and underwear, agent Reynolds sat me down in a chair, which he’d rolled over from the desk and placed in the center of the room. He stood in front of me, then, hands on his hips firmly re-established in the mode of interrogator.

  Seeing the dreamy look still in my eyes, he administered a short, efficient slap to my cheek, stinging my skin and savaging my pride in the process. “Snap out of it, Raven. You’ll have plenty of time to act the part of hot tramp later on.”

  “How dare you?” I challenged, my eyes tearing. “No one talks to me that way, no one!”

  Reynolds snorted. “Drop the Scarlett O’Hara routine, Raven. It doesn’t suit you. You’re going to be working for us, now, so listen real closely to what I have to say. You’re going to be a good little girl and do everything we tell you to do. You’re gonna go where we say, do what we say, wear a wire if we say…hell, you’re even gonna take your clothes off and fuck if we say. And if you can do a good enough job with all that and help us land the convictions we need, then maybe, just maybe, you’ll be able to go free and start a new life. Would you like that, Raven? To have all this behind you, to have a brand new identity, a fresh start?”

  I crossed my arms self-consciously over my straining, silk-covered breasts with their pointy little nipples. I was still aroused and needy and the man was making me feel way too vulnerable. “What exactly do you mean, ‘work for us’? I don’t even know what this is all about.”

  Reynolds scowled at my show of propriety. “Put your arms down, Raven. Modesty isn’t something you can afford any longer.”

  “Go to hell!” I spat, bound and determined to deny him the slightest evidence to confirm his judgment of me as a sexually eager tramp. “You can’t control me, or my body.”

  Reynolds leaned down over me, his face an inch from mine, the smell of his cologne, and his manhood wafting my nostrils. “You will put your hands down, Raven, or I will duct tape them to the arms of the chair.”

  He probably would, too, the bastard.

  “That’s better,” he nodded as I gripped the arms with whitened knuckles. “Now I’ll need you to spread your legs for me.”

  This one was a no-brainer.

  “Fuck you, Agent Reynolds.”

  I’d intended to leap out of the chair, but not surprisingly, the man didn’t play fair. Yanking my left breast from the useless bra, he applied his thumb and forefinger, vise-like to the tip of the protruding bud. I tried to grab at him, but his wrist and arm was too strong.

  “You’re hurting me,” I squealed, powerless to dislodge him.

  Reynolds was unmoved by my sickening display of female whining. “Sit still, then, and maybe I’ll stop.”

  My breathing was heavy; the man had my full attention. “Will you let go if I do?”

  “I don’t negotiate with women,,” he ratcheted up the pressure, making me see stars. “You were given instructions. It’s your call.”

  I planted my butt firmly. My hands went back down onto the chair arms. I had no choice.

  “Wider,” he said as I tentatively parted my crotch for his inspection. “Knees to the legs of the chair.”

  I only hoped he could not smell my arousal; my thighs had nearly stuck together as I’d separated them. I’d never felt like this, not with Rene or even with Rolf. This was for real—Reynolds was playing for keeps and I had yet to figure out his rules.

  I grit my teeth against the pain, the surging, delicious punishment.

  “You like this, don’t you?”

  When I hesitated, he slapped me a
gain, his grip on my poor, tortured nipple unrelenting.

  “Yes,” I moaned piteously, fearing the power I was giving him over me with my outrageous confession, “but I swear, I don’t know why.”

  Reynolds released me, the sudden drop of pressure affecting me nearly as strongly as the pain itself. “You’re a little slut, that’s why.”

  I held my tongue as he moved to the desk to open a black gym bag. It wasn’t mine and I’d never seen it before. Had he been in my room already?

  “You held position,” he noted approvingly on his return. “That will be included on your report. I’ll still have to restrain you, though.”

  I looked down, embarrassed to see that I hadn’t even bothered closing my legs again. Was I losing my mind?

  “It’s nothing personal,” Reynolds announced as he tore loose a screeching strip of gray tape from a thick roll of tape. “Take a deep breath,” he advised a moment later, kneeling behind me.

  The tape was cinched round my belly and attached to the rear of the seat. With two more, smaller strips, he secured my limp, passive wrists. For a finishing touch, he attached each ankle to the corresponding chair leg.

  “Go on,” he half grinned, allowing himself a brief minute of job satisfaction. “Try to free yourself.”

  I tried, and couldn’t.

  “Just think, Raven, a few lowly pieces of duct tape, and you are rendered completely helpless.”

  “Wonderful,” I blew strands of hair from my face. “You ought to go on the home improvement channel.”

  Reynolds chuckled as he rummaged through the bag. “Ever the comedian, eh, girl?”

  I swallowed hard as he presented the next items out of his bag of tricks. A pair of gleaming steel scissors and a set of nasty looking clamps connected by a tiny chain.

  Reynolds snipped the scissors in the air. “You’ll be reimbursed,” he informed me, “for clothing damage.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” I demanded, panic overtaking me. “I have rights, you know. Whoever you think you are, you’re not above the law.”