Page 49 of Wicked Games

None of it was real.

At the threshold, I was given a little shove between the shoulder blades, then the door was closed behind me with an ominous twist of the lock.

As usual, my eyes found Richard first.

His back was to me. It looked as if he were pouring himself a drink.

Unlike any of the other rooms I had seen in this dreadful place, this room could have been at his estate. The space radiated warmth with its large black marble fireplace and oak-paneled walls. Instead of cold white tile, the floor was covered in a large silk-embroidered rug. There were the ubiquitous gilt-framed portraits and sconces with cream-colored beeswax candles. While there were several tapestry-covered chairs placed against the wall, the center of the room was dominated by a very strange piece.

It almost looked like an elegant gynecological table. It had a metal frame that was covered in white enamel and gold. The upper portion had a heavily padded brocade cushion covered with a floral pattern in rich golds, blues, and greens. Jutting upward near what I thought was the head part were two brass bars that almost looked like handles. Near the feet were definitely brass stirrups. Then several feet beneath was another heavy brocade cushion the length of a person, as if someone would lie below the person restrained above. As I looked closer, on this cushion directly below the stirrups were actually two brass plates in the shape of feet!

“Siege d’amour.”

“What?”

“The siege of love,” said Richard as he walked toward me holding out a glass of some kind of amber liquor. I shook my head at first. “Take it.”

Giving a little jump at the sharp bark of his words, I willed my fingers to unclench so that I could grasp the glass. Raising it to my lips, I sniffed. I was more of a white wine and Cosmo martini girl so I had absolutely no idea if this was brandy or whiskey or scotch. All I knew was that all three of those liquors were strong and burned a path down your throat to your stomach, at least if the movies were to be believed. I watched as he took a sip of his own. Still I hesitated.

“Poison?”

Again, I jumped at the strong sound of his voice in the small, quiet room. Trying to quell my rising anxiety, I bit my lip as I tried to focus on what he was saying.

“Are you worried it is poisoned, my love?” asked Richard, the corner of his mouth rising with an amused smirk.

This got a rise out of me. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” I quipped. While I was brave enough to say it, I wasn’t brave enough to boldly meet his eyes as I did so, instead keeping my eyes lowered.

“Touché.”

His warm fingers briefly closed over mine. I thought he was going to take the glass from me but he didn’t. Keeping his grasp on my hand, he pulled me closer so that he might raise both of our hands to his lips. As if in a trance, I watched as he tilted our hands and took a sip from the glass. A small amount splashed onto my fingers. His dark eyes stayed trained on mine as the tip of his tongue traced the tops of my fingers to lick away the drops.

I licked my own lips in response.

Damn this man. How was I supposed to fight against this? He was too handsome. Too self-assured. Too confidently seductive.

He then placed the tip of his tongue between my two fingers and flicked it suggestively, his meaning clear. Heat pooled between my thighs as I stifled a moan.

With a shaking hand, I pulled away, and raising the glass to my own lips, I took a long, hard swallow. As soon as I lowered the glass, I began to choke and gasp for air as fire burned my stomach and lungs.

A soothing hand patted my back and rubbed it in circles. “Easy, little one. One shouldn’t guzzle brandy like that. It’s meant to be enjoyed slowly, savoring each sip with pleasure.” His voice was dark honey.

When I had regained my composure, Richard was still standing close. The spicy scent of his cologne mixed with the rich, charred scent of the burning logs a few feet away. Everything about this room radiated warmth… and danger.

Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

I became conscious of every harried breath I took as I waited for his next move. He didn’t keep me in suspense for long. Without saying a word, he took me by the hand and led me closer to the strange chair.

“As I was saying, the chair is called the siege d’amour. Bertie, Prince Albert to you, designed it to the great embarrassment of our Queen I assure you.”

Richard’s hands were at the belt to my robe. He slowly pulled on the ends. It slipped open, exposing just a hint of my breasts and upper thighs between its fur-lined folds.

He prowled around me. I inhaled sharply when I felt his hands on my shoulders, sliding on the upper slope till they circled my throat from behind. I could feel just the barest hint of pressure from his index fingers and thumbs as he pressed in threateningly before slipping his fingers into the collar of the robe and pulling it off my shoulders.

The heavy fabric slipped down my body to pool at my feet.

After spending half the evening feeling frigid to the bone in both body and spirit, I was surprised to realize that I didn’t feel any chill. With a sinking heart, I also realized it had nothing to do with the blazing fire in the room or the brandy now coiling and unfurling in my empty stomach.

It was him.

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