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  “You have pretty breasts, for a spy,” Emory said casually. “I’d like to see more of them.”

  Pinching the nipple, he pulled, hard. Her breast lifted away from her chest, her nipple burning with sweet fire. Addie took tiny, sharp breaths, biting her tongue to keep from crying out. Finally her nipple slipped from between his fingers, the last pinch sending tiny shock waves up her arms. Emory was left holding a gather of black lace.

  He lifted the knife, tracing the lower curve of her breast with it before slicing off the gather of fabric. A ragged hole in the center of her bra exposed her red nipple. Emory placed the cold flat of the blade against her and she shivered. Her areola drew up tight.

  He repeated the process with the other breast, first pinching the nipple until it slid from his fingers, then cutting away the fabric.

  Out of his pocket, he drew a delicate bundle of silver chain with clamps dangling from the ends.

  “You’re going to tell me what I want to know, woman,” he said, shaking the chains to straighten them. There were at least five lengths of chain, which met at a large silver ring.

  “Nothing you can do to me is worth the price of betrayal.”

  “You think not?” Hooking his pinky through the ring, he let the chains dangle except for one, which he looped around her waist. He fastened it to the ring, making a belly chain. The ring, and the rest of the chains, dangled just above the band of her panties.

  “You think you’ll frighten me with…jewelry?” Addie cocked her hip to the side and looked Emory up and down. “It’s going to take a bit more than that, comrade.”

  Emory smiled, a wide grin that came and went, lightning fast. “Do I look Russian?”

  Addie shrugged.

  Then the moment was gone, and everything was frighteningly series. There was no sound except their breathing, and the click of the camera.

  “I think an American dog needs a collar.”

  Emory moved out of sight, only to grab her hair, forcing her head back. Something thick and cold slid around her neck. Addie swallowed as Emory tugged and pressed, fastening it in place.

  “Much better,” he said when he was in front of her.

  The most frightening thing about the high collar was that now she couldn’t look down. Addie tried to look at her body—her exposed nipples, the chain around her hips, but her jaw hit the top edge of the collar. She licked her lips.

  “You’re going to tell me what I want to know.” Emory put his hand in his pocket and when he took it out and shook his fist there was a jingle of metal. He opened his fingers to show her the little metal devices he held. “Do you know what these are?”

  The oval-shaped pieces of worked metal and springs could be only one thing. “Clamps.” She lifted her chin. “I’m not scared of clamps.”

  “You should be.”

  One by one he lifted the dangling chains, attaching the clamps to the end. Addie caught her breath, expecting him to reach for her breasts, place them on her nipples, but he didn’t. Instead he let the chains fall. The clamps swung between her legs, tapping her ankles and calves.

  Emory lifted the knife from the chair where he’d set it and slit her panties at each hip. She was so wet that the fabric clung to her sex. He reversed the knife, running the blunt end between the lips of her sex to push the lace against her clit. The handle pushed against the entrance to her body, hovering there as if he would fuck her with it.

  Then he turned and set the knife aside. Taking a wad of lace in his fingers, he rubbed it against her clit, her labia, roughly stroking her with the fabric that seemed as harsh as sandpaper against her sensitive flesh. Addie’s fingers were woven into the chains that held her up. They clinked and jingled, a sound almost as delicate as wind chimes as she thrust her hips forward and back, grinding down against his hand. With her head thrown back, the collar dug into the base of her skull, her shoulders.

  Emory stepped back. “You’ll tell me what I want to know.”

  “I…I…” Addie could barely remember the game they were playing. Her body was alive, on fire. She was bound, exposed, chained and collared. Her sex thrummed with her heartbeat, her nipples ached with each stray draft.

  She didn’t notice Emory had left until he reappeared, this time holding a small bowl and a…paintbrush?

  “What is that?”

  “Something you might like, you look like you’d enjoy spicy food.” He dipped the tiny paintbrush into the bowl and painted it along her lower lip. It tickled. Addie started to draw in her lip, lick away whatever he’d put there, when the smell hit her. She coughed.

  “That’s chili oil, or jalapeño juice.” Each breath held a hint of fire and her eyes watered slightly. It was strong, really strong. “No, not jalapeño, something stronger.”

  Emory nodded. “Lick your lip, try it.”

  It took everything Addie had not to lick her lip, which was tingling maddeningly.

  “I can’t beat the information out of you,” Emory said, dipping the brush into the bowl, “broken bones would lead to questions. I can’t drug you and make you tell me, because the information might not be reliable.”

  She could see the bristles glistening with oil as he pulled it out. The brush headed for her left nipple. Addie shook her head, eyes wide. He wouldn’t.

  With exquisite care he painted her entire nipple with oil, stroking the bristles over every inch of flesh, pressing them into the center. The burn started a few breaths later. As he dipped the brush into the oil, she gritted her teeth, body hunched in the chains.

  “It burns,” she hissed, eyes closed.

  “Tell me what I want to know.”

  “No.”

  “Then I will keep hurting you, tormenting you.”

  “Yesss.”

  Her other nipple received the same careful painting of chili oil. Soon Addie couldn’t remain still. She was thrashing in her chains, desperate to brush her nipples against something to alleviate the burn.

  “Next I’m going to paint this on your pussy.”

  Addie’s eyes flew open. Emory stood before her, tall and calm. With his sleeves rolled up and shirt open at the throat he looked like a businessman at the end of a hard day, or the model on a cover of a gentlemen’s magazine, trying to look casual, but too elegant to ever really relax.

  “No, please.” She didn’t think she could take this hot burning on her sex. When she spoke her lips rubbed together, the oil he’d applied on her lower lip spreading to her upper lip, creating a fresh sensation.

  “You could tell me what I want. To stop this all you need do is tell me where it is.”

  “It’s…” Did she want this to stop? “I’ll never tell you.”

  With calm deliberation, Emory set down the oil, picked up two of the chains that dangled from her waist and opened the clamps between his index fingers and thumbs.

  “You shouldn’t taunt me like that. You’ll only make me punish you.”

  She could just see the clamp where it hovered around her nipple, waiting to close around the already screaming flesh. “Do your worst.”

  He snapped the clamps into place. Addie screamed. It hurt, oh, it hurt, and yet her pussy throbbed with a violent need to be filled. Emory grabbed her, holding her by the waist and head, spearing his fingers through her hair.

  “Look at me, no, don’t sink into sub space, I can’t take you there. Look at me.” When she blinked and focused, Emory nodded. Energy radiated off him. He held on to her as if he worried she would float away or shatter. “What do you need, tell me, don’t think about it, just tell me.”

  “More. And to finish, I want to come.”

  “Good.”

  Emory released her. His fingers played across her waist as he found another of the chains. With his gaze still holding hers, Emory reached between them and spread her pussy lips with two fingers.

  “No,” she pleaded.

  “Yes,” he commanded.

  The clamp bit into her clit, gripping the swollen bud. Addie shuddered, har
d. It was almost enough to take her over, almost enough to release the ferocious ball of tension in her belly. He attached a final clamp to one of the lips of her sex, just above her clit.

  “Are your nipples burning?”

  “Fuck you.” The fire had barely subsided. With each breath she was sure the sensation would fade, but it didn’t.

  Emory didn’t respond. Instead he picked up a little cat-o’-nine-tails.

  “Y-you said you weren’t going to really t-torture me,” Addie stammered as she looked at it. The handle was wood wrapped in strips of leather, the strands soft black.

  “This is just to warm up your skin. The tails are velvet.” He trailed them across her upraised arms so she could feel.

  Velvet or not, when he drew his arm back and brought it against her thigh, she screamed, more from fear than anything else. He struck her belly. The chains connected to her nipple clamps caught on the velvet, jerking her nipples. Addie hissed and threw back her head.

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Obey me.”

  “What…what do you want?”

  “More than you can give.”

  Emory worked her over with the cat. Her front and back, her already abused ass, her legs and belly were all whipped. When she was panting, teetering on the brink of something she couldn’t understand, Emory planted himself in front of her and brought the whip up between her legs.

  Addie screamed. Again and again he brought the soft strands up, brushing her thighs, her pussy lips and sometimes, sometimes, her clit.

  “Please, please,” she begged.

  “What do you want?”

  “More.”

  “More of this.” There was a gentle hiss, and then he struck her pussy with the flogger.

  “Yes.”

  “Beg for it, spy.”

  “Hit—”

  “Whip,” he corrected.

  “Whip me, my pussy, whip my pussy.”

  Emory tucked the flogger in his belt and quickly undid the chain around her belly. Holding the ring that connected all the chains, he pulled, applying tension simultaneously on her nipples, clit and pussy lip.

  Addie took shallow breaths, watching him with wide eyes. He brought the flogger up between her legs, striking her pussy. One tail of the flogger curled back against her ass, many of them struck her thighs, but at least one licked her clit. Addie’s eyes fluttered closed.

  Again, then again he brought the soft strands of the flogger up to meet her delicate flesh, balancing that sensation with the pain in her nipples, the tug of the clamp at her clit.

  Like a tiger uncurling from a nap, something inside her was waking, stretching. The orgasm that he’d denied her for hours was prowling inside her, waiting for something strong enough to let it out.

  “Fuck me, please fuck me,” she begged. Addie no longer cared who he was or where they were. All she wanted was to come. She was a creature of sensation and longing, a sexual being as fragile as glass and as strong as steel.

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “Look at me.” Emory brought the cat up one last time in a hard blow, harder than all the others, making her gasp and shiver. With their gazes locked, he ripped the clamps off, all four of them at once.

  Addie screamed through gritted teeth, the sensation—she no longer distinguished pain from pleasure—was so acute that it was too much, too strong. Emory stepped into the cage, pulled her body tight against his, and delved two fingers between her pussy lips.

  “I can’t, I can’t,” she chanted, shaking.

  “You will.” Fingers circling her clit, he proved her wrong and himself right. Her body high on the pleasure-pain he’d brought her, he forced her to orgasm with a few strokes of his fingers.

  And when she’d come once he didn’t stop. He fisted a hand in her hair, forced her head back and kept playing with her. His fingers danced over her clit until she came a second time, and then a third, her legs quaking so hard she fell off her high heels.

  “No more, no more,” she begged.

  “Your pussy and nipples deserve a rest,” he conceded, “but your ass is unmolested. I’ll get what I want from you.”

  “No more. I can’t. I really can’t.”

  Addie didn’t want to do this anymore. She felt stripped raw, naked to her soul. His grip on her hair loosened and Addie tipped her head forward to see SJ kneeling two feet away, taking pictures of Emory holding open her pussy lips. As she watched, SJ switched the focus up, to Addie’s breasts and her heavily abused nipples.

  “Where is the map, spy?” Emory voice was soft, reminding her that if she was at her limit she had a way out.

  “Paris.”

  Chapter Seven

  She ignored the knock on the front door. Addie closed her eyes and sank down to her chin in the bath, knees poking above the waterline. A tub full of minerals, Epsom salts, and some supposedly healing oils was doing wonders for her body. Now if she could just get her mind to shut down she’d be fine.

  After a few minutes the knocking stopped. Not long after that her phone started to vibrate. She’d left it on the closed lid of her toilet and the vibration echoed in the bowl, the sound obnoxiously loud. Reaching over the edge of the tub, she dried her fingers on the bath mat, plucked her phone off the toilet, and stuck it between two towels on the shelf under the tiny window.

  Her hair had fallen around her shoulders in wet clumps to float across the top of the water like a spidery fringe. Gathering the wet strands, Addie rolled them into a bun at the nape of her neck and settled back, her hair acting as a cushion.

  With grim determination, Addie thought about anything but Lane and Emory and what she’d just been through with both men. Instead she mentally sketched outfits, made lists and imagined what she’d do with the money she made from this modeling gig. Damn, now she was back to thinking about Lane and Emory, particularly Lane, when she’d meant to contemplate how nice it would be to make a lump-sum payment on her student loans.

  When the water was cold and her fingers were shriveled, Addie climbed out, wrapping herself in two towels and her hair in a third. Bundled up, she picked up her phone, which showed a total of six missed calls, all from Lane.

  In her bedroom, Addie dropped her towels and pulled on a pair of cotton leopard-print shorts and a matching tank top. The set was old and faded, seams coming apart, and not for the first time. She was too tired and sore to set her hair in foam rollers or rag rolls, so she pulled off the towel and braided it.

  Slipping her white silk pinup girl robe over her pjs, Addie padded into the kitchen. A nice cheesy pupusa with vinegary cabbage and hot sauce was, amazingly, not waiting in her nearly bare fridge. She stood for a moment, contemplating getting dressed and going out for a pupusa—her favorite comfort food—but that was too much effort. She settled for a yogurt.

  Spoon in her mouth, Addie settled into her chair, fishing in her sewing basket for something to keep her hands and mind occupied. She pulled out her knitting needles and the long-neglected scarf that dangled off one of them. Draping it over the arm of the chair, she plucked the spoon from her mouth and scooped up more yogurt.

  Thump.

  Addie’s heart leapt into her throat. Again, something hit her front door.

  Bare knitting needle in hand, she turned off the lights and crept toward the door. Where there should have been an unbroken line of light from the lamp in the corridor there was a dark shadow.

  An ass-sized shadow.

  Addie dropped to her knees, slid the knitting needle under the gap, and thrust.

  “Fuck! Damn, that hurt, Addie.” Lane’s voice was muffled through the door, but she had no trouble discerning who was sitting in her hallway, thumping against her door.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “I’m waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “For you.”

  Why did that make her heart flutter? Addie slipped from her knees to her butt and rubbed the heel of
her hand first against her heart, then her temple.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why?” he was whispering now, but his voice sounded closer, as if he were whispering against the crack in the door.

  “Because…” Why? He’d come before and it had been fine, all light and fun.

  That was before.

  “I can’t,” she finally replied, not knowing what else to say.

  “You can’t face me? Can’t understand what you’re feeling? Can’t face yourself in the mirror right now?”

  Get out of my head.

  “Lane, just go away.”

  “I won’t.”

  “This isn’t part of your job. You had your day with me.”

  “This isn’t about the job anymore. I thought I’d made that clear.”

  “Then what is this? You going to take me dancing?”

  There was a double thump, the door shuddering against her shoulder as he moved. “Fuck, Addie—”

  She knew what he was thinking. I don’t want to date you, I just want to fuck you. Can’t we just keep this light? Open the door and let me in and we’ll talk about it, and by talk I mean fuck.

  Addie gritted her teeth as anger boiled inside her. He was playing her, and what the hell had she expected? Considering the way they’d met, he’d never respect her, and respect was one of the things that meant most to her. She’d been a fool to listen to his talk of later.

  “I can’t dance.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said I. Can’t. Dance. I’ll take you dancing but we’re both going to hate it.”

  “You’ll take me dancing?”

  He must have heard the tears that tightened the back of her throat, because his voice was soft when he answered. “Of course I will.”

  Addie stood and opened the door.

  Lane was sitting in the hall, hands braced on her doormat, long legs stretching almost to the opposite wall.

  “You know that going dancing is a date?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Are you asking me out?”

  Addie started to slam the door, but he threw his upper body inside. The door rebounded off his shoulder. Lane scrambled to his feet.