Page 11 of Married to My Master

Chapter Five

Dane

She might have been a heartless bitch who was willing to do anything to protect herself and her career, but Dane could say one nice thing about Emily: she had a great liquor cabinet.

He dug through and found a seventeen-year-old bottle of bourbon on his first rummage. He pulled it out and went into the kitchen to find a glass. Something this good deserved to be sipped from a tumbler.

Glass in hand, he went into the living room and sat down for the first time since he’d left the car. He set the bottle and tumbler down on the coffee table, side-by-side, then grabbed the bottle and poured till the tumbler was half-full. When it still didn't look full enough, he poured another few fingers. Hunched forward on the couch, he took a sip of the smooth liquor, relishing the strong oak flavor and the way it burned on the way down.

The liquor must have brought him some sort of drunken clarity, because, as he slowly sipped the liquid gold, an idea began to crystallize in his mind. Maybe, just maybe, this didn't have to just be about revenge. Maybe he could convince her to do the right thing.

He took another drink of bourbon and held the glass up in such a way that it caught the light, refracting the ray all around the room. With his other hand, he loosened his tie, pulling it away from the collar and down in front of him. He slipped it over his head and tossed it on the couch beside him, immediately forgetting about it as his mind remained focused elsewhere.

Emily had hurried him out the office, Dane remembered, because she had a flight to make to an out-of-state conference. Conferences usually lasted a few days.

That meant he had a few days, at least, before someone realized she was missing. And, even then, they might not come looking for her at the house.

That was it, he decided. He was going to convince her to be on his side.

But, first, Dane needed to think about what he'd done—the way he had laid on top of her like that.

Of course, then there was the way she'd enjoyed it, too.

He shook his head. “No,” he said aloud, the alcohol already swimming in his veins, “That was . . .”

He was already getting drunk, he realized. He needed to slow down. He set the glass on the coffee table and slid it away from himself.

First, he needed to get her cleaned up by washing the semen from her body. That was the most important thing. He got up from the couch and went back into the master bedroom.

She still lay there, the collar attached to the chain and the chain wrapped around the bedpost. Her ankles and wrists were still bound together.

He walked past her, ignoring her excited and questioning mumbles, and headed into her well-appointed, elegant bathroom. There was a shower stall in one corner and a giant bathtub in the other. From all the candles and half-empty bottles of bubble bath and bath salts, Dane figured she tended to use the bath more often. He went over and leaned down into it, closing the drain, then turned on the faucet and started to draw a bath for her.

Dane stayed there for a minute, just thinking. He could get her to change her mind. He knew it.

With the water nearing the top, he stuck his hand down into it. It was just this side of hot. Not scalding, but definitely soothing.

With the bath drawn, he walked back into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, reached up, and put his hand on the duct tape. “This is going to hurt,” he warned. as he slowly began to peel it away.

“Ah!” she groaned as he, centimeter by centimeter, tore the tape away from her lips. “What are you doing to me now?” she asked, her voice quavering.

Ignoring her, he reached down and undid the duct tape around her ankles. When he finished, she already had her wrists presented in front of her. He started to unwrap the tape from her wrists, his eyes glancing up to meet hers occasionally.

“What's going on?” she asked again, her voice still full of trepidation and fear.

“You're getting in the bath,” he said curtly. “Come on.” He beckoned with one hand. “You need to get cleaned up.”

An uncertain look on her face, she got up from the bed and followed after him into the bathroom. “A bath?” she asked.

“Yep. Come on, get out of those thigh highs and heels.”

She eyed him warily as she stripped out of her remaining clothes, leaving her nylons in a slinky pile around her ankles. She went over to the bathtub and glanced at him.

“Don't worry,” he said, as reassuringly as he could, “you're fine.”

She stepped with both feet into the water and sat down in it, groaning a little as the water seemed to soothe and comfort her. She stayed curled up, her knees drawn to her chest.

“That nice?” he asked, as he found a loofah and squirted some shower gel on it.

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