“Anything too tight?” He clicks on a spotlight above the chair, and my eyes widen at the formidable sight. In his dark shirt and leathers, massive black boots, the heavy security vest, and the cap I made him wear, he looks at once terrifying and breathtaking, like he has let his darkness free.

    “No.”

    He folds his arms over his chest, his massive biceps swelling above his hands. “You are being retained on suspicion of withholding information that should have been disclosed to one Jack Caldwell. What is your name?”

    “Penny Grace Worthington.”

    He scowls as if I’ve just said the name of a serial killer. “What were you doing in Club Sin at the time of your arrest?”

    A smile tugs at my lips. “Sitting in the dark.”

    Without another word he reaches into his bag and takes out various toys and implements, placing them carefully on a table at the edge of the circle of light.

    My mouth goes dry as I look over the array of toys, from two-pronged vibrators to whips and floggers, and from clamps to things I can’t even identify.

    Jack picks a pair of scissors and stands in front of me. “You will tell me everything I want to know.”

    “What if I don’t?” The words drop from my lips before I can catch them, and I am surprised by my own audacity. But with Jack I feel strong, bold, wanted. And worthy.

    His lips quiver at the corners, and he runs the edge of the scissors very gently down my neck to the collar of the shirt. With slow, deliberate movements, he snips the collar and cuts a line down to the crescents of my breasts.

    “I’m disappointed at your refusal to cooperate.” He places the scissors on the table.

    Shocked that he would cut my T-shirt, I can only stare when he grasps either side of the cut and violently tears the shirt in two.

    Oh. My. God.

    Before I can speak, he slides the scissors between my breasts and cuts my bra away.

    “Jack.” I whisper his name in horror as my shredded clothes fall to the floor. But even as fear slides up my spine, arousal coils deep in my core.

    He tosses the scissors aside and squeezes my breasts. “Why are you here?” He tightens his grip, twisting until I’m squirming and panting in my seat.

    “You bastard. I can’t believe you cut up my clothes. I’m not telling you anything. I liked that T-shirt. I thought it was a gift.”

    With a grunt of annoyance, he releases me and picks up two clothespins from the table. “Maybe these will change your mind.” He clamps a clothespin on my right nipple, and I yelp in pain.

    Jack studies me for a long moment before clamping my other nipple. I yelp again, struggle against my bonds, trying to breathe through the fire. After what seems like forever, the pain turns into a dull ache, which turns into an erotic burn that shoots down to my clit. I moan, and Jack gives a bitter laugh.

    “Now she’s talking.”

    “Piss off.” I glare, torn between anger and arousal, fear and disbelief.

    Jack shakes his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He slides the cold metal scissors over my hip and inside my knickers. With a snip on each side and a vicious tug, he tears them free.

    Bared, exquisitely vulnerable, I whimper.

    Jack stares down at me, his face taut and hard, barely recognizable. “You are totally open to me. There is nowhere you can run. Nowhere you can hide. No part of your body I can’t access. This is your last chance to tell me what you’re hiding.”

    I don’t know where I get the courage to defy him or why I want to do it. With my nipples clamped and my breasts sore and aching, my pussy engorged and throbbing, my body desperate to come, part of me wants to end this now, tell him what he wants to know so we can get on with the fucking and I can get the climax that is hovering just out of reach. “No.”

    He raises an eyebrow, and that controlled, limited response carries with it a heavier threat than any implement ever could. “You are forcing me to take drastic measures,” he says as he pulls on a pair of latex gloves. The impersonal snap of latex does strange things to my stomach, and heat surges through my veins. “I will break you, Penny Worthington. I will make you talk.”

    With his eyes on me, he crouches down and shoves two fingers deep inside me through the cut-out in the seat.

    “Oh God.” I am drenched with need, my pussy hot and pulsing around his fingers. I stare at him, silently begging. In this moment, his face is severely handsome, half hidden in the shadows, his eyes dark and glittering, his hair mussed, his mouth both sensual and cruel. I want to touch him, kiss him. I want his mouth on my burning nipples, his tongue licking between my thighs.

    “You will crack. It’s just a matter of time.” He adds a third finger, stretching me. I try to relax to accommodate the intrusion, but before I can soften my inner muscles, he curls his fingers and rubs them over and over against my G-spot, pumping his hand so hard, I jerk on the bench. I feel pressure building low in my womb, my body tightening. Without warning, liquid gushes from me, not urine but something else. It gives me only momentary respite, not the kind of release that comes from an orgasm, and then he starts again, fucking me hard with his hand, his fingers pounding against the same spot. The pain is excruciating and at the same time intensely pleasurable, and I don’t know whether to cry or moan. He pushes hard, and more liquid gushes from me and with it a scream.

    “Please,” I beg, panting when his fingers push deeper inside me. “Not again.”

    “Your cunt is swollen and wet,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Your clit is engorged, your nipples swollen. I can be cruel, but I can be kind. Tell me what I want to know, and I can give you as much pleasure as I give you pain.”

    I want to come, need to come, would do anything in this moment for relief, but I do have a secret, a real secret, and some stubborn part of me is not willing to let go, even if this is just a game. I want to go as far as he will take me. Bend but not let him break me.