Mercy(White Collared Part 1)(22)

When they reached the landing, Jaxon stopped, his body taut with tension and his hands fisted at his side, showing he wasn’t quite as immune as he pretended to be. Instinctively, she rested her hand on his shoulder blade in an effort to comfort him. The hard muscles of his back rippled under her fingers.

“We don’t have to do this here,” she said.

They could have met at the law firm or in his hotel room, but he’d insisted on using his dungeon to give her the full effect.

He didn’t respond for what felt like minutes. Then he murmured, “Yes, we do,” and proceeded down the hallway.

The walls were decorated with bright, colorful paintings of landscapes. She didn’t claim to know the first thing about art, but this felt sterile and impersonal.

In the trailer where she’d grown up, the walls were covered with photographs of her parents throughout their marriage and every class photo of Kate through her freshman year of high school.

After her father had died, it had pained her to roam the halls with the constant memory of what she’d lost. But eventually, she was grateful she had documentation of a happier time. She clung to those memories like a toddler to a security blanket. The photos had given her the strength to find new dreams. She may have been victimized, but it didn’t mean she had to become a victim.

They passed several closed doors before Jaxon took out a key and unlocked one. She steeled herself, having seen a sex dungeon only on the news—a tiny, dark, decrepit basement with a couple of menacing whips hanging on the wall—and she was pretty sure the descriptions in the erotica she’d read were made up to sound sexier to the readers.

This dungeon was on the second floor of the house, and, from what she’d witnessed so far, there wasn’t anything dark about his home. Or, surprisingly, the man himself.

Weren’t Dominants supposed to be all broody and intense? Jaxon didn’t fit the mold she’d envisioned of a man who enjoyed the BDSM lifestyle. Yes, he’d just lost his wife and there was somberness in him, but even so, she’d never call him dark.

He was surprisingly . . . normal.

He pushed open the door and then flicked on the lights. His body blocked the view of the room, but the clean scent of pine greeted her. He strode inside, pivoted, and, with a crook of his finger, beckoned her to cross the threshold as if offering her a taste of forbidden fruit. She worried her lip between her teeth, her entire body trembling. Exactly why she wasn’t certain. But she did know, once she stepped inside, her life would never be the same.

The room looked nothing like she’d imagined. Rich caramel-colored hardwood floors warmed the space, as did the crème-colored walls. Except for the gorgeous wooden St. Andrew’s cross and what, at first glance, appeared to be a gynecological examination table, she could find the remaining furniture in any living room. A chaise lounge made of brown leather. A round, cushioned chair. A long couch with throw pillows. The beautiful armoire in the far corner of the room drew her attention, and she moved closer to admire it. She fingered its intricate flower etching. “When I thought of a dungeon, I thought of . . . well, a dungeon.”

“I prefer to call it a playroom.” He stalked across the floor until he stood immediately behind her, so close his warm breath caressed her neck. “What were you picturing? Chains attached to stone walls, concrete floors, and instruments of torture?”

She shivered. The scent of pine intensified, and she realized the entire room smelled like Jaxon. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but yes, I’d thought you would have whips and crops.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty of them, but I prefer to keep them organized in the armoire you’re admiring.” She stilled, the heat of his chest on her back. “I built it with my own two hands. Same as the St. Andrew’s cross. Gives me an extra thrill to know something so innocent can cause so much pleasure. So much pain.” His hair tickled her cheek as he whispered, “Go on and open it. You know you want to.”

Her stomach clenching, she gripped the armoire doors but couldn’t force herself to see what waited for her inside. Why was she afraid?

She trusted he wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want. The problem was . . . she didn’t know what she wanted.

Liar.

The problem wasn’t that she didn’t know what she wanted. The problem was she shouldn’t want it. Especially not with Jaxon.

Curiosity won. Lightheaded from the anticipation, she tugged open the doors, her heart galloping faster than a racehorse.

Her eyes scanned from top to bottom. Three shelves. Several iron hooks bolted into the back of the armoire.