Page 79 of Snow Bound

“It’s cold in here, dickhead,” she said, managing to infuse the words with icy disdain rather than excitement.

“It’s a bit cool, I grant you, but not enough for this.” His fingers pinched down hard, and her hiss of pain was nearly lost in his mocking laugh.

“Yes, I do believe you’re turned on.” He released her breasts abruptly, making them bounce. He circled the chair to stand in front of her, his gaze mocking. “Isn’t that interesting?”

She was spared from having to come up with an answer when he strolled over to the sheet-covered table to her left.

“I think you understand by now, Ms. Goodwin, that you can’t get free. And that I’m very, very motivated to get my money back.” He laid a hand on the sheet, then turned to look at her. “This is your last chance to tell me. Otherwise...”

He let the sentence trail off and drew the sheet aside, and she got her first look at what lay under it.

There were clamps, a crop, a thick leather belt. Paddles of wood and leather. A thick length of chain stained red with rust lay next to a hacksaw with several teeth missing from the blade. A pile of miniature plastic clothespins in bright colors spilled over the handles of several pairs of pliers. There was a roll of duct tape, three squat, white candles in glass jars next to a box of wooden matches. A ball gag sat in the middle of the table, its bright red ball standing out like a beacon amid all the dull and rusted metal, and a car battery with jumper cables.

He struck a match, the stench of sulfur dioxide stinging her nostrils. He picked up the candles in turn, lighting them one by one, then shook out the flame.

He carefully shrugged out of his jacket, laying it next to the monitor where Michael continued to observe, face impassive. She realized with a jolt he was looking right at her, bared by her ruined dress, and though he’d seen her in far less at the club, blood rushed to her face.

His lips tilted up into a faint but unmistakable smirk in response.

“Now then,” Grant said and she jerked her gaze back to his. He’d undone his cuffs and rolled them to his elbows, exposing his muscular forearms. His tie was undone, hanging around his neck. Her mouth went a little dry at the tantalizing glimpse of his throat framed by the open collar, and part of her yearned to nuzzle there and just breathe him in.

Then he picked up a handful of clothespins, and her mind snapped back to the present.

“I’m going to amuse myself—and Mr. Rogan,” he added, nodding to the monitor where Michael watched with that smirk still in place, “until you tell me what I want to hear.”

She forced herself to coolly arch a brow when what she wanted to do was beg for him to touch her. “Do you really think you scare me?”

“We’ll see,” he said and moved toward her.

She tensed when he reached for her breast, braced for the bite on her nipple. She blinked in surprise when he instead clipped the clothespin to the upper curve of her breast.

“That’s pretty,” he decided, and gave it a flick. His eyes laughed into hers, as though he knew she’d had to bite back a screech. He probably did.

Michael’s voice came from the monitor. “Let’s have more of those.”

“Mr. Rogan wants more, Anna.” Grant smirked and picked up another. “Let’s accommodate him, shall we?”

She gritted her teeth when he placed a second clothespin, then a third. By the time he was done she had a circle of them surrounding each breast and her skin was slick with sweat. She noted dimly that he’d done the colors in order of the rainbow, two clips for each color, so her tits looked like a kinky advertisement for a Pride event. Deciding it fit with her character, she let the laugh loose and lifted her gaze to his.

“Oh, Mr. Grant,” she said in the crisp, faintly British accent, keeping her voice at a dead monotone and her smile mocking. “Ouch. Please. No more, I beg of you.”

There was a cough from the monitor, and Grant’s eyes danced over his grim mouth. “You’ll be begging before I’m done, believe me,” he promised darkly, and turned back to the table.

He returned with more clothespins, though this time he ignored her breasts in favor of the tender skin of her inner thighs. He tore through her stockings, shredding the delicate silk to get to the soft skin beneath, and left her with a rainbow running almost from crotch to knee.

“Well, now, what’s this?” he purred, and raised a brow. “Your panties are wet, Anna.”

Struggling to breathe through the pinch, the burn, she nonetheless managed to roll her eyes. “Don’t take it personally.”

He chuckled richly as his hand slipped higher between her thighs. She barely kept from jerking when his knuckles brushed against the very wet gusset of her panties. “Yes, very wet.”

“How wet?” Michael drawled. “I can’t quite see.”

“Well, we’ll fix that.” Grant stood and walked to the table to fiddle with the keyboard in front of one of the monitors. Suddenly the view of her right side refocused, swiveling around and zooming in between her thighs. For a moment the monitor was a blur of colored clothespins, like a watercolor bleeding in the rain, then the picture sharpened and her black lace panties, with their damp crotch, were sharply displayed on screen.

“Ah, much better. My, that is wet,” Michael said silkily. “I don’t think we’ve chosen the correct method of torture, Grant. Ms. Goodwin seems to get off on pain.”

“We’ll soon see.”

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