Page 66 of Sinister Games

The bed was impossibly large. Swiveling around to look at the headboard, I realized it was a massive mahogany sleigh bed. I had seen them before in furniture stores but never one so big. Stretching my arms wide, I realized the mattress continued on for several feet on either side, way bigger than a king-size bed.

Did they make beds just for emperors? No, Richard wasn’t an emperor, maybe a czar; that name implied wealth and ruthlessness. But no, he was neither. He was, however, a very rich and powerful duke and I was firmly in his clutches.

Lowering my head to my hands, I tried to make sense of the last few hours, from the kidnapping to allowing myself to be whipped and fucked over a desk.

This had to be another one of his games, right?

He was just keeping me off-kilter, like the time in the restaurant where he made me believe I was sucking his cock in front of a room full of people, when I wasn’t, not really.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to remember our conversation but all I could think about was the feel of his belt on my ass, the way his cock filled me to the point of pain and my incredibly intense orgasm.

Flopping back onto the bed, my hand closed over a piece of paper. Opening the heavy cream envelope, I read his note.

We dine at eight p.m. Everything you need is in the dressing closet.

—R

My heart skippedat just seeing his familiar, confident black scrawl. Fuck, this man had me tied up in knots. I literally didn’t know my own mind anymore.

Pulling the top sheet free from the rest of the covers, I wrapped it securely around me as I rose and went in search of a bathroom.

The room was dripping in sensual luxury from its red silk fabric walls, to the black crystal chandelier, to the red velvet matching chaise lounges in front of an elaborately carved black marble fireplace so large I could stand in it.

Despite the luxury, all I could think was it made for a perfect villain’s lair.

There were two doors on either side of the fireplace. Picking the one closest to me, I swung it open and gasped.

It wasn’t a bathroom but rather a massive walk-in closet, but unlike any closet I had ever seen. The room was bigger than my damn apartment! Backlit shelves lined every wall. Rows upon rows of designer clothes with matching shoes and purses.

Walking slowly, I ran my fingertips over the dresses as I pulled out each one to examine it. A red velvet dress with thin straps and a deep plunge, a silver corset dress with full skirt, champagne silk under intricate black lace, all beautiful beyond my imagination. I couldn’t decide if my favorite was a Victorian riding habit-style dress with a gorgeous ink black taffeta skirt paired with a cream lace front blouse or the stunning emerald green silk with the tight bodice.

Fournié, Gaultier, Valli, Sorbier, Chanel, Dior, Givenchy, Margiela, Vauthier.

Each and every designer from the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture was represented here. Dresses and designs I thought I wouldn’t have been able to see except in my textbooks and magazines, let alone touch and admire.

What was even more astounding was each looked to be my size.

Before I could even entertain jealous thoughts of other women, I could see from each hanger small handwritten tags in different inks and penmanship with my name and measurements.

These were purchased and tailored just for me.

An entire closet full of couture gowns.

Turning, I began to pull out the drawers from the large, dark wood island in the center of the room. Each one contained elegant gloves, Hermès scarves, Gucci belts, and every other imaginable accessory.

Picking up the emerald green dress, I walked to the end of the closet to a small platform surrounded by ceiling-high gilt mirrors. Dropping the sheet, I held the gown before me. Imagining a strand of perfectly matched pearls at my throat and long silk black gloves stretched over my elbows. The gown would cinch in tight around my waist then flare around my hips to create the perfect hourglass shape.

Dropping the gown, I turned my back on the mirror and looked over my shoulder. My ass was striped with several fading red welts from his belt.

Evidence of our violent coupling.

Reaching back, I traced one of the welts, hissing as it stung.

There was no question I was in over my head with Richard. He was playing at a level far above me. The real question was… did I dare keep playing? Looking back down at the faint marks on my ass, I realized I probably didn’t have a choice.

After all, I wasn’t the one making the rules.

---