HurtMeHealMe Page 15

  Paul walked back to the living room and fell onto his sofa. Thank god he hadn’t destroyed it. He liked his sofa. “It fucking hurts, man. So bad.”

  “I know. It makes you want to scream and cry and laugh and celebrate and sometimes it makes you want to run far—and fast.”

  “What the hell would you know about it? You’ve never even been in love.”

  There was a look in Dante’s eyes that Paul had never seen before. It spoke of pain and longing. It was gone in a moment as Dante schooled his features into the usual cool façade he wore. Paul always suspected there was a lot more to Dante than the serene exterior he showed to the world. And Paul wondered if Dante was in fact in love with someone or had been once—and if so, who?

  Dante was one suave motherfucker. He was refined in a way Paul could never hope to be. He went to the opera and liked it, for fuck’s sake. He drank wine and could tell you a story about each one—something about an undertone of apricots and it was grown in the foothills of the Andes or some fucking shit.

  The Italian stallion also had women falling at his feet. They loved his long, black, wavy hair, his olive skin, and they went gaga over his unusual eyes. They panted for his stern authority and for his mad skills with a whip. But Paul had never seen Dante going gaga over any one woman.

  Dante smiled and shrugged with pure nonchalance. “I’ve heard all the songs, watched all the movies, read all the books, and that’s my conclusion of how love is supposed to make you feel.”

  Paul wasn’t fooled for a moment, but instead of questioning Dante, he found himself telling his own sorry-ass story from the beginning to the bitter end.

  “I just can’t seem to control myself,” he admitted. “I have everything planned out and then I see her and—god, I just fall on her like some sex-crazed animal. It’s appalling. All that time I spent training, all the lessons in keeping cool and staying in control, it’s all gone when I’m near her. I feel like a fucking Neanderthal, you know? Honestly, I feel like dragging her by the hair to my cave and fucking her until I pass out.” Paul slumped in his chair, totally disgusted with himself.

  Dante nodded and gave Paul a rueful smile. And Paul got that sense again that he knew from experience just exactly what Paul was feeling. “Did anyone ever instruct you on how to Dom a woman that you’re hopelessly in love with?” asked Dante. “A woman who gets under your skin? One you want so badly you can’t even think straight?”

  “No.” If there were such training, he was sure he would have failed miserably anyway. If someone were training him to be a half-wit, he’d probably bomb that too.

  “Then don’t get too down on yourself. Just go with your gut. Do what you feel and—the rest can come later.”

  “But that’s just what I’m worried about. I think I’ve fucked up so bad, I’m not sure if there’s going to be a chance for—later.” Paul clenched his teeth. He wasn’t going to cry like a goddamn girl in front of Dante. Instead he took a hefty swig of his beer.

  And another. And another.

  * * * * *

  Caitlin walked into Dante’s Purgatory for the second time. She would have been very scared after her last disastrous episode at the club, but Paul had informed her that the scary guy, Satan Junior—a.k.a. Randall—had been kicked out of the club after complaints were filed against him by some of the female members.

  Caitlin was nervous though and she fidgeted with her hair. She was wearing a new tiny skirt, a new bustier, new fishnet stockings and the same five-inch heels she wore last time she’d visited the club. All in black, of course. From the looks she’d been receiving from the club patrons since she’d arrived, Caitlin assumed she must look all right. But she felt awful. She felt guilty, as if being there was cheating on Paul. Even though she’d left him, it felt wrong.

  If she could just find a Dom who could whip her, dominate her without taking things further. “Further” being no penetration. God, she felt as if she were going to be sick. She didn’t want anyone else but Paul touching her. But she needed to come. Just one orgasm to keep her sane until she figured things out. She’d read about some people for whom domination didn’t have to include sex, it was all about the control. If she could just find one of them, someone who wasn’t too weird and creepy. Who didn’t have a problem with hurting her. Who wouldn’t kiss her or want to be too intimate.

  She thought of the way Paul kissed her. Those kisses where he would feast on her, where he ate at her mouth, tasting every inch of her. Kisses that felt as if he were devouring her, eating her alive. Hot kisses, so deep it felt as if he were trying to taste her soul. Gentle, loving kisses that made her weep.

  The pain in Caitlin’s belly made her stop in her tracks. She wrapped her arms around herself. She wanted Paul’s kisses. How could she survive without them? Without him?

  He had said he loved her. It was something she had secretly longed for all her life. For the first time, someone had told her that they loved her. And what did she do? Basically ignored it and ran away. God, she was so messed up. How could a man like him love her?

  Caitlin struggled not to break down in the middle of the club. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths. He loved her. She couldn’t get that fact out of her head. And she loved him. God, she loved him. Finally she’d admitted it to herself. She’d had a lot of time to think since leaving his apartment on Saturday morning.

  There had been something inexplicable, some kind of immediate connection from the first time their eyes met when he’d stood on the stairs at the club. But she thought perhaps the second time she saw him, when he’d climbed up that ladder and brought her safely down, and later when he’d teased her and flirted with her, she fell a little bit in love. And she’d been falling deeper and deeper in love with him every single moment since then.

  “Oh god, I can’t do this.”

  “Can’t do what, Caitlin my dear?” came a familiar voice from behind her.

  Caitlin gasped and spun around.

  “Thomas? What are you doing here?” She stared at him incredulously.

  Thomas smiled and his gaze traveled slowly over her, from her hair down to her heels and back again. “I’ve been waiting for you.” His voice was rougher than she’d ever heard it before.

  Thomas looked different. For a start, he was dressed differently—this was the first time she’d seen him out of a suit. He was wearing black jeans and a charcoal-colored button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms. He seemed more imposing, larger somehow. And he looked as if he were keeping an extremely amusing secret.

  Caitlin tilted her head. “You’ve been—waiting for me?” Caitlin hadn’t seen Thomas for a little while and thought perhaps he’d finally given up on the idea of pursuing her.

  Thomas smiled a cat-with-the-canary grin and nodded. “Yes. But first I want you to come with me and tell me all about it.”

  “All about what?”

  “The reason you’re standing there, holding on to yourself like that,” his eyes flicked down to where her arms were still wrapped tightly around her middle, “looking as if you’re trying to keep from shattering into a million pieces.”

  Caitlin hung her head and grimly tried not to fall apart. Thomas’ smile disappeared and his face filled with concern. He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her to a small table in the corner of the club, far from the dance floor. He sat her down and pulled up a chair, rubbed her back and asked her to tell him what was troubling her.

  She told him. Everything.

  He didn’t interrupt except when she mentioned Paul’s name. Thomas asked her about him, and she admitted she’d first seen Paul at the club, that he was a friend of the owners and he sometimes did training and demonstrations.

  At that, Thomas shook his head and grimaced, mumbling something about irony. When she asked him about it, he evaded and turned the focus back to her.

  After she had finished telling him the story of her untenable relationship with Paul, Thomas just sat and stared at her for a long t
ime. Eventually, he reached up and gently caught a stray lock of her hair, tucking it back behind her ear. He slowly brushed his thumb under her eye, catching her tears, and to her surprise, he brought his hand to his mouth and sucked the salty liquid from his thumb. His eyes flickered closed and he made a low sound of approval from deep in his throat. When he opened his eyes, he smiled at her.

  “You can’t help what you need, my sweet girl.” He tilted his head. “I think I can give you what you need.”

  “But how? I mean…you don’t do that sort of thing.”

  His predatory smile was back. “I do now.”

  Caitlin looked at him questioningly.

  “You see, I’ve been training with some of the men here. I’ve been learning a lot about dominance and submission. I’ve been learning to use a whip,” he raised an eyebrow, “among other things.”

  Caitlin was stunned. Thomas had been sickened by what she’d told him about Ivan and what he used to do to her in his basement. Which was now Thomas’ basement. “Why? Why have you been learning how to use a whip?”

  He reached out and stroked her face from temple to jaw and back again. “For you, my sweet,” he said in that clipped English accent. He stared at her intently with those dark, almost black eyes. “For you.”

  Caitlin blew out a loud breath. “For me. Ah—”

  “Shhh.” Thomas silenced her by pressing his finger against her lips. “I told I wanted you, and I would wait for you until you were ready. In the meantime, I’ve been getting ready for you.” He stroked the back of his finger from the hollow at the base of her neck to her jaw. “I want to give you everything you need, Caitlin.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I will give you everything.”

  “But Thomas, I’m not ready for—you know. I…”

  “It’s okay, little one. I’ll give you what you need right now. And the rest, well…we’ll talk about the rest later, all right? Just trust me. Let me give you what you need.”

  * * * * *

  Paul was lying on his sofa, one arm over his face, thinking. About Caitlin. What else? Ever since Dante had left a couple of hours before, Paul had done nothing but think about her. Trying to figure out his next move.

  For the first time in his life, he was in love with a woman. And she was the one woman who kept running away from him. He’d gone over the questions endlessly. Should he give her some space? Should he just go over and haul her out of her apartment, bring her back and tie her to his bed? Indefinitely?

  He preferred the second option.

  His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was Dante. “Hey, Dante, it’s only been two hours. You miss me already?”

  “Ah, Paul, you have to come to the club.”

  “Nah, like I said, man, I’m really not in the mood tonight.”

  Dante swore a string of curses in Italian. Paul understood every word only because he’d asked Dante to teach him how to swear in Italian. Paul was surprised. It wasn’t like Dante to get worked up. Ever.

  “Wait, just calm down. What the hell’s going on?”

  “It’s Caitlin.”

  Paul sat bolt upright and his heart started pounding. “What? What about Caitlin?”

  “She’s here—at the club. And I think you should come now.”

  Paul was already up and running before Dante finished the sentence. “Don’t let anyone fucking touch her,” he warned.

  “You know I can’t do that, my friend.” Dante sounded apologetic. “If they’re consenting, I can’t interfere unless someone needs help.”

  Paul yelled into the phone. “Do. Not. Let. Anyone. Fucking. Touch. Her! Or I will fucking kill somebody!” He disconnected the call and ran to his car, taking off in a squeal of smoke and rubber.

  * * * * *

  Caitlin was in a daze. Thomas had led her to one of the public play spaces behind the glass. She was cuffed by her wrists and ankles to a St. Andrew’s cross. She was barely aware of how she’d gotten there. Thomas’ promise to give her what she needed had started a buzzing in her ears and she became oblivious to everything else, following him like an automaton.

  Now with her face pressed against the cool, smooth wood of the cross, her body began trembling with anticipation, her panties soaked through. And she realized that somehow, without her noticing, Thomas had divested her of her skirt, bustier and shoes. All she wore was a tiny black lace thong and stockings that came to mid-thigh. Caitlin had never been involved in a public display like this, but she found to her surprise that she didn’t care. She just wanted to come.

  Please let him make me come, please, please, please.

  She heard voices near the door to the room and turned her head to see Dante and Thomas conversing in the corner in harsh whispers. Both men looked angry. Dante kept casting furtive looks at Caitlin. She didn’t know what was going on and she strained to hear them.

  Dante’s voice became louder. “She belongs to another.”

  Thomas argued. “It’s over between them, mate. She needs something he can’t give. I want to give her what she needs.”

  Dante scrubbed his hand over his face. “Merda.” He took a couple of steps away and then spun on his heel, turning back to Thomas. “You should give her some time.”

  Thomas replied, his voice a little more subdued. “It’s not your call, Dante. This is between Caitlin and me.”

  Dante took one last look at Caitlin and shook his head. He stalked out the door, cursing under his breath in Italian.

  Thomas moved out of Caitlin’s field of vision and after what seemed an eternity of silence, she sensed his presence behind her. He reached under her hair and touched the nape of her neck and she jumped a little.

  “Shhh, luv. Easy now,” he whispered, caressing her nape. Lifting the weight of her hair in his hands, he twisted it and draped it over her left shoulder. He slowly trailed his fingertips along the curve of her arched spine. He pressed into the two indentations in her lower back, circling there, and then skimmed down to caress the globes of her mostly naked ass. His fingers gently smoothed and kneaded her flesh.

  After being so worked up and on edge for so long, someone—anyone—touching her like this should feel good. Shouldn’t it?

  It didn’t though.

  Caitlin closed her eyes against the tears that suddenly welled up. It wasn’t Thomas’ touch she yearned for.

  She tried to harden her heart to the feelings, the pain squeezing her chest, the knot in the pit of her stomach.

  Thomas’ hand dipped farther forward and traced over her sex. He gasped and cupped her firmly. “Oh little girl, so wet. So deliciously warm and wet,” he breathed in her ear, his English accent even more pronounced, his voice rough.

  Thomas’ touch felt wrong to Caitlin. Oh god. I want Paul. I want Paul to touch me like this. Only Paul. She wanted to scream it out. I only want Paul.

  Thomas pressed one finger harder against her and rubbed into the space between her labia. The textured lace grazed against her sensitive flesh. Oh god. “Thomas, I-I don’t want—”

  “Shhh.” She was silenced when his other hand pressed against her lips. “No more talking, little girl. I’m going to give you what you need. I’m going to take care of you. You just have to trust me and let go—and feel.”

  When Caitlin opened her mouth to protest, Thomas inserted a ball gag and deftly fastened it. The ball was large. It stretched her mouth wide open. She was stunned. She’d never been gagged before.

  A blindfold was placed over her eyes and everything went black. That was when she began tugging futilely at the restraints.

  “Mmmm. Hmmmm. Mmphm!” Her garbled protests went unheeded.

  She couldn’t make him understand that she wanted him to let her go. All she could manage were incoherent sounds and grunts around the rubber ball lodged securely in her mouth. Thomas kept stroking her, as if he were trying to calm her down. He whispered nonsense in her ear. Her body strained to get away, her hands tugging desperately at the leather cuffs that secured her to the cross.
Please, Thomas, please let me go!

  She wanted Paul with an intensity that shook her. Oh god, Paul, I need you. She struggled in her bonds and tears began to slip past the blindfold that was already too soaked to absorb any more.

  Thomas unclenched the fingers of her right hand and pushed something into her palm. A pliable ball of some sort, her mind absently registered. She clutched it, insensible now to the words he was saying. All she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears and her own inner monologue.

  Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul…

  In her panic, Caitlin flashed back to the last time she was tied up and helpless in the presence of a man wielding a whip.

  When Ivan whipped her, he never put a blindfold on her because he loved to see the pain in her eyes. Loved to see her tears. He also never put a gag in her mouth because he loved to hear her cries and screams.

  He didn’t say it in so many words, but she knew it from the way he watched her and from the immense pleasure he got from seeing her suffer.

  If he whipped her from behind, he would always come around to see her face. He would spend long moments just watching her as she cried with the pain, before he returned to dole out more. And no matter how many times he’d already used her, he would always get rock-hard while he whipped her.

  After a whipping there’d be no reprieve, because without fail, Ivan would fuck her immediately. If he fucked her from behind, he would squeeze, slap and rub the burning skin he’d just whipped. If she was on her back, he would fuck her so roughly it would push her along the bed, or the floor, or wherever he threw her down, so she’d be sure to feel every lash and every cut in her skin.

  And he would look down at her with that extremely satisfied smirk he always wore whenever he tormented her. He would smirk while she cried and struggled. And then he would grit his teeth and grasp her around the neck while he came.