His Property(33)

Liam pulled me close and tipped my chin up to the sky.

“Venus,” he said, pointing it out.

“I remember,” I said, “when you showed me that first night.” I remembered the statue in his office, the one of Aristotle, the way he seemed so into the sky, how all his offices and living areas were above ground. How he’d told me that being down in that basement punishment room had something to do with what had happened when he was younger.

“I want to know everything about you,” I said.

We sat there for a few minutes, watching the planes whisk over the sky, the glittering lights like the promise of a new day.



* * *

When we got back to the plane, he pulled out the handcuffs.

“No.” I shook my head.

“Emery.”

“No, Liam. I’m not going to be handcuffed to the bed.” I was standing at the foot of the bed, looking at the clothes he’d laid out for me -- a lacey pair of red boy shorts and a matching camisole. “Clothes, too?”

He came to me, running his hands up my bare arms.

“You promised to try,” I said.

“I know. And I meant it. But this is what I need.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

I swallowed. “So this…the handcuffs…it wasn’t about the kidnapping?”

“It’s about my needs,” he said, and I knew he meant his need to control. He was watching me carefully, and he’d already given up so much. The phone, the dates… If he was trying, I could try.

“Fine,” I said, grabbing the clothes off the bed. “But this is a subject open to ongoing negotiation.”

I slipped back into the bathroom and pulled on the boy shorts and camisole. The skimpy outfit was sexy, bordering on obscene, but the material was soft and silky against my skin. It made me feel sexy, him dressing me like this. Even the thought that he wanted me to stay with him so badly that he was going to cuff me to the bed sent a dull ache through my body, a heavy pounding of desire and lust. It turned me on to be controlled.

“You are complicated as fuck, Liam Rutherford,” I muttered. “I’ll give you that.”

When I got back to the bedroom, he was crouched by the side of the bed, installing a hook into the wall.

“You always come prepared with hooks for your handcuffs?”

“Just for you.”

I crawled under the covers and he cuffed me to the bed.

I thought we would talk about what had happened, but instead, he turned away from me, and I reached out and ran my hand down over his bare skin, but he didn’t turn back around.

I waited a few moments, wondering if I should say anything.

I couldn’t tell if he was asleep.

But it didn’t matter.

For the rest of the night, at least, he was gone, his walls up again, impossible to penetrate.



* * *

I woke to the stillness of the room, the darkness surrounding me like a heavy blanket. Even the planes in the distance couldn’t be heard anymore, and I didn’t know if it was because they’d stopped taking off for the night, or if the walls of the jet were so impenetrable that even the sounds of other planes couldn’t get through.

“Emery.” His voice was a rough whisper in the dark.

His body wrapped around mine.

“Was I having a nightmare?” I usually remembered my nightmares, but I wondered if I’d been freaking out, if I’d woken him with my screaming or thrashing.

“No.” He shook his head.

I turned to face him and he tangled his legs with mine. He was still wearing his soft pajama pants, but he was shirtless, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I couldn’t help but notice his biceps, his triceps, the way the tiny bit of light that shown in through the windows bounced off his golden skin.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Did something happen?” I tried to sit up, suddenly worried that Robbie was back, that Liam had heard something. But my arm was stuck in the handcuffs, making it hard to move.

“No, no, everything’s fine.”

I settled. “Then what is it?”

“I can’t stop thinking about what you said outside.” His fingers moved to my thighs and lingered over my scars. I wanted to ask him what I’d said exactly that he couldn’t stop thinking about, but since he was the one initiating the conversation, I didn’t want to push him, didn’t want him to shut down. So I waited, letting his fingers skate over my skin.

“Who did this to you?”

“I told you. A doctor.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t remember.” This, at least, I was thankful for. I had no memory of his name, even though I could see his face clearly, could smell the antiseptic of his office, could smell the sweet anesthesia and feel the coldness of that room sometimes so clearly I thought nothing would get me warm.