He was right though: I’m wobbly on my high heels so drinking more would be foolish. I whip around, by some miracle not stumbling, and hand him my glass. He merely smiles with approval and places it on a small table near a sofa crowded with people, some seated, others kneeling on the floor. Subs. I shake my head.
“Ariel, I should warn you: if you found my small dungeon disturbing, the things you’ll see here will give you nightmares. Are you sure you’re up for this tour?”
“Sure, why not? I should also take this opportunity to say thank you for dropping the lawsuit. I was surprised… but grateful.”
“So grateful you didn’t bother to call me, I noticed.”
I gape up at him. “I wasn’t sure if you would have deemed it appropriate. My attorney told me to refrain from doing anything.”
“Your attorney probably didn’t welcome the competition. Jackson told me he seemed more than professionally interested in your welfare.”
I roll my eyes—he always did think every man wants to sleep with me. “Jackson?”
“My attorney. Anyway, I do appreciate your gratitude. You’re welcome.”
“Hmm. Will you tell me why?”
“Why?”
“Why you dropped it?”
“After you explained how it all happened, my sense of betrayal and outrage dissipated. I didn’t want to hurt you.” He turns and puts his hands on my arms. I want to throw myself at him, embrace him, kiss him, and in my mind’s eye I do it. In reality, I stand there stiffly and wait for his cue.
“I care about you, Ariel. I wanted you back in my life but blackmailing you into it didn’t seem the right way to go about it.” He laughs.
Wanted? His use of the past tense stabs me in the chest. “I care about you, too, Ian. I’m sorry if my book hurt you, truly I am.”
He leans in and kisses me gently. “Come on, let me show you just how mild a Dominant I really am. Maybe you’ll look more favorably upon me.”
We walk down a long hall. On either side are rooms where people are doing… things. Various things. Terrifying things.
“The whip frightened you so much that it might be prudent to show you just what punishments are available, to show you how lightly you got off—and by got off, I mean got away with.” He grins wickedly at his dirty little joke.
I blush on cue, as he knew I would. Just then I hear a woman scream—I wouldn’t call it bloodcurdling—but it was bad enough to scare me. I must have turned white as a sheet because Ian moves his body closer to mine as if my terror beckoned him.
“Okay?”
I nod.
He leads me deeper into the darkness. I don’t care to examine the reasons why but I feel completely safe with Ian. When I was with Mariah and Naomi, I still felt like prey sitting there at the bar, but I feel protected with him by my side. We hear a woman sobbing and we follow the sound.
My eyes are taking in the scene but there is a sharp disconnect between the images being absorbed by my retina and my brain’s processing of the information. What in hell is going on? I glance up at Ian.
He must feel my eyes on him or he just anticipated my confusion. Without taking his eyes off the scene, he explains it to me. “That submissive’s crime must have been severe—accordingly, so is her punishment. She’s riding what’s called a wooden pony.”
He turns and whispers in my ear. “As long as she remains on her tiptoes, she can hold herself off the pony. Once her calves become strained and she is forced to put her weight on her full foot, she will come down on the pony… and it will hurt her most tender parts.” He says that with a smirk but his eyes look troubled. I look again in sheer horror.
The girl is stark naked. Her arms are chained overhead and she is holding onto something—I suppose for balance. Her legs are straddling a piece of wood about two by four inches with the narrow part turned up. Apparently she was on it long enough to have to come down on the wood already and she is weeping pitifully and continually adjusting her position, seeking to escape the pain, no doubt. Her movements mimic riding an actual horse and I suppose that’s how the torture implement got its name. I want to rescue her but the man standing right next to her, observing or perhaps providing her punishment, is big and very mean looking. I feel like a criminal just standing there and doing nothing but what could I do? God, these people are cruel bastards.
“Do you know what she did to deserve something so harsh? She didn’t violate a CA, by any chance?”
A beguiling smile is my response. Why does he have to be so damn beautiful?
“No. I don’t know what she did—I just arrived a minute or two before I saw you. This is the first time I’ve been to the club in well over a year.” He looks at me pointedly as if that’s meaningful to me. Does he mean that he hasn’t been here since he met me? If that’s supposed to make me feel better, well, it actually does.