She freezes, her body stiffening, and I wonder for a moment if I’ve scared her. “A release?”

    “Yes.” I undo the button on the back of her skirt and pull down the zipper. She’s wearing pink lace panties that match her bra, and my arousal kicks up another notch. “But it can be achieved in many ways. Some people just come here for the sensual experience and then go home and relieve the sexual tension with a partner or on their own.” With slow, gentle movements, I ease her skirt down over her hips. Penny’s breaths come in short pants, and her teeth chatter.

    “I can’t do this.”

    “You don’t have to. I’m doing it for you.” I release the skirt, and it hits the floor with a soft thud.

    She shakes so violently the chains rattle overhead. I wrap my arms around her, pull her back into my chest.

    “Relax.” I brush my lips over her ear, inhale the light scent of her perfume. “What happens here stays here.”

    She relaxes slightly into my body, her ass a warm weight against my cock. I glide my hand over the curve of her hip, trail my fingers down her thigh.

    Soft skin gives way to raised ridges, slick and smooth.

    I steel myself not to react, but my voice catches in my throat. “Ah, Pen. That’s how you let the pain out, isn’t it?” I draw my finger along what feels to be the worst of the scars. “You do it yourself.”

7

    Maybe I’m too close

    PENNY

    Oh God. He knows. Or if he doesn’t know, he will as soon as he stands in front of me. In some ways it was actually easier with Master Damien. I didn’t know him that well. There was little chance I would be bumping into him at the gym or partying with him on the weekends. I wouldn’t have to see him working out or talking with my friends. And even if he saw the scars on my legs, there would be no risk of him telling anyone I knew.

    Over the years, I’ve become adept at hiding my scars: avoiding pools and beaches, or swimming in wet suits, sex with the lights out, no showers or baths with my boyfriends, and pleading modesty whenever people expected me to bare what I couldn’t stand for anyone else to see.

    Jack walks around and crouches in front of me. My body flushes with embarrassment, not just because he can see my scars but because I have been pulled out of the fantasy, of the arousal he made me feel, of the momentary illusion of safety I had in his arms. Now, I’m hanging from the ceiling in a cold, impersonal room, with Jack, my friend from the gym, in front of me, his face level with my pussy, his eyes on the scars no one except my ex-boyfriend, Adam, has ever seen before. Adam who thought I was broken. Adam who shattered my heart.

    “How long?” He traces a thick finger over one of the long silvery lines on my thigh.

    “Since I was thirteen.” My throat tightens. Will he end this? Tell me I can’t have what I want because I’m too badly damaged for anyone to touch?

    He gently turns me side to side, inspecting every inch of my scarred skin.

    “When was the last time?”

    I press my lips together and look away.

    “Answer me or we’re done. And I want the truth.”

    Emotion wells up in my chest, and I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Last week.”

    “Here.” He presses hard on the most recent welt, and I wince.

    “Yes.”

    “Have you seen a therapist?” He stands in front of me, arms folded over his massive chest, studying me intently.

    “Yes. But not for a few years. There wasn’t much more she could do. Part of it is just how I am, and part is…daddy issues.” I give a laugh, trying to shrug off years of my father’s controlling and abusive behavior and my desperate attempts to please a man who never wanted me.

    “If you’re looking for help…”

    God. Can this get any worse? “I’m not looking for help,” I bite out. “I don’t need help. I need pain. I saw you with that woman, and I thought maybe you could do that for me.”

    He is silent for so long I give up hope. Suddenly, I’m done with this whole thing. “Just let me down.”

    “Not yet,” he says, his voice rough. “I’m going to give you what you want.”

    He walks around me. Touching. A brush of his hand through my hair. Fingers feathering over my jaw. A stroke of his palm over my ass. My body tenses, ready for a blow, a slap, a strike. But it never comes. Instead, his soft touches arouse me, make me hot. Wet. And my cheeks burn, knowing he can see what he does to me.

    “You are beautiful.” He cups my breasts, squeezes and strokes just enough to feed my desire but not enough to hurt. Everything south of my belly button tightens, and I let out a soft moan.

    Jack lifts an eyebrow. “That’s not the sound I like to hear.” He pinches my nipples so hard my eyes water, and I jerk in the restraints. And then his warm hands are back, soothing the pain away. “Give me your pain, darlin’.” He pinches my nipples again, giving them a cruel twist that makes me cry out. I’m on a roller coaster of sensation, one moment rocking with pleasure, the next moment writhing in pain. Blood rushes down to my core, and I can feel my pulse throb between my legs. I am wet. So wet. I can’t remember the last time I was this aroused. So desperately needing to come.

    His callused, rough fingers run down my body and over my hips. He cups my ass, his fingers sliding over my knickers, and then he releases me to explore my curves again. I try to anticipate his touch, swaying toward his hands.

    “Don’t move.”

    I freeze in place. Is this how to get more of what I want? Maybe if I move, he’ll punish me. I lean toward him again, and he lifts his hands.

    “What did I say?”

    I hear none of his soothing, Southern drawl in the cold, sharp tone of his voice. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my heart pounds against my ribs.