Page 22 of Feel Me

I don’t blame him for being surprised given her success. She’s head of marketing at a prestigious firm and has accomplished a great deal. But like many who’ve been part of the foster care system, she didn’t escape unscathed.

In fact, she’s pretty screwed up.

“She was,” I answer slowly.

Declan doesn’t miss my cautious tone. He raises his thick brows. “This is why you wanted to meet with me, isn’t it? There’s more to her than meets the eye.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I agree.

“She seems so normal. I should have known a somewhat stable victim was too good to be true.” He looks at me. “Should I have another roll before we delve into her dirty little secrets?”

I think about what I have to tell him and place the entire container directly in front of him. “Christ,” he says, reaching for it.

“Now, I’m only telling you what I am because it pertains to her case and it’s highly probable the defense council will try to use it against her.”

“I’m listening,” he says when I hesitate.

“Tricia is a submissive at Club Hurt.” For a moment, he simply freezes. “A sexual submissive,” I explain.

“I understood you the first time,” he says. He tosses the container on the desk and leans back in his chair, covering his eyes until every swear word I know spews from his lips. He drops his hand away. “You’re serious?” When I nod he adds, “You think she might have mentioned this sooner?”

“It’s a lifestyle she doesn’t want her coworkers and clients to know about, but considering Morris Miller has one of the best defense attorneys in the state, with a reputation for hiring private P.I.s to dig up dirt on lead witnesses . . .” I wrinkle my nose. “I just thought you should know.”

“It’s going to be harder to prove Miller raped her,” Declan mutters.

I’m not sure if he means for me to hear him or if he’s simply talking to himself, either way I struggle to catch his words. Regardless, I need to assure he’s on Tricia’s side. “But he did rape her,” I say. “You believe her, don’t you?”

“It’s not that I don’t believe her, Mel. But if this comes up?which it will, given defense council’s pit bull approach to winning cases?it’ll give the jury the wrong impression of Tricia. They’ll ignore her accomplishments and the professional standing before them, branding her a slut who asked for it, especially if the defense spins it as consensual BSMD or whatever the fuck the acronyms are.”

“BDSM,” I clarify. “Bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism.”

He raises his brows. “You seem to know a lot about this kind of thing.”

This time, my smile comes a little easier. “And you don’t seem to know enough.”

He lifts one of the rolls. “Care to educate me?” he asks, a playful grin spreading across his face. “I mean, given my role here at SACU, I should know all the ins and outs, don’t you think?”

He pops the roll in his mouth with his chopstick. His smirk is in place, positive he’ll stir another blush out of me. Not this time, big boy.

I lean against the desk and fold my arms in front of me, my stare wistful, longing, or at least that’s what I’m going for. “The pain inflicted when bound is not meant to harm or punish, Declan. It’s meant to stimulate and free.”

Declan stops chewing, honing in on my face. My hand drifts to my hair to play with the ends, before I lower it slowly and avert my chin as if embarrassed. “The pliable whip teases a woman’s most intimate parts, enticing them to tense and strain.” My gaze grows distant as if I’m remembering. “At first it’s like a cool breeze you’re not expecting. But in each lash there’s a promise.”

He swallows hard. “A promise?”

I bite down on my bottom lip. “Yeah,” I whisper.

My fingertips trail along the exposed skin above my breasts. “With each lash the intensity surges, creating a light sting.” I shudder. “It burns sometimes, creating a heat that reaches deep.”

“How . . . deep?”

With dreamy eyes I meet his face, holding his focus like our lives depend on it. “As far as you allow it, until you’re screaming with need, your body begging for that release. But it’s not domination, Declan.”

“It’s not?” he asks, his voice low.

“No,” I say, my voice more a purr. “It’s freedom. Freedom to dig into a primal need women are forced to suppress.” I lean forward, forcing myself not to react when he responds in turn, erasing the distance until only inches remain. “We’re told to be good girls, to keep our legs closed and our fantasies to ourselves. We’re taught sex is wrong, and only meant to reproduce. It’s not supposed to feel good?”

“No?” he asks.

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