Page 14 of Their Cruel Love

Milli has gonesomewhere, though, and the CNC Fraternity must have the answer to her disappearance. Either way, I have a mission. I have a thing to do. No matter how embarrassing.

“Here is where we take some time to discover what you know about CNC,” Razor says in that smooth voice I’ve seen him turn so delightfully underground gritty and menacing. He’s a kinky chameleon.

The eye make-up is gone. Up close, his eyes are hazel. The tattoos and the muscles you could use in an anatomy lesson remain. There’s no fat on him, and his physique is what I’d classify as ‘rock star on a month-long drug bender’.

“What do you want to know, exactly?” I hedge to buy myself time, smoothing the material on the lap of my dress.

Razor is lean but useful.I amuse myself with that analysis of his type.

Mmm.And with him sitting beside me, radiating body heat, my insides are liquifying. There goes my preference for muscle men.

“What is CNC to you?”

“Consensual non-consent.” I should elaborate. “Where you consent ahead of time to something and generally sayingno does not make them stop.”Them.Fuck, that thrills me even—thinking it could be these two men. Even if Brutus is likely a twat. I’m more twisted than I ever assumed. “Them being whoever is your partner. And you might have a safeword?”

He nods. “You match up desires. Usually, you don’t ask for something you hate. You can still have limits, which brings me to that. What are yours? What won’t you do, sweetheart?”

Why does that pet name work for me? It’s like being patted on the head, and my toes have curled in my shoes. Wide of eye, I resist answering for a few seconds, in case I splutter out some stupidity.

“I don’t exactly know?” I frown. “I haven’t done any real kink yet.”

“Nothing?” He leans in a little, watching from under his brow. “Not been tied up for example.” He picks up my hand and circles my wrist with fingers and thumb, letting them meet, locking them like a bracelet. Or a cuff.

The intimacy. The presumption. I pull away, and he holds me for a moment, then allows me to slide loose. That I liked it, that it sent a shiver through me, is not something I’m telling. I’m guessing he knows anyway.

“No.” That is way too husky a voice. I shake my head vigorously, ignoring the elephant in the airplane. “Not that even. I’ve had someone be commanding, I guess. They held my throat and pinned me against a wall, then pushed me to my knees and he…” I’m blushing, but I suspect that if I don’t offer the details, he will still make me. “He made me give him a blow job.”

“Thank you for saying.”

So polite.

“I didn’t say no. I didn’t say yes. I just allowed it to happen.”

The seat behind me squeaks. Mr. Brutus Skull-face. I assume he, too, is into BDSM. Are we fascinating him? Am I? To be more pertinent.

It strikes me, for the nth time, that I’ve allowed myself to get on this plane with two men I don’t exactly know, and we’re heading for a destination I don’t really know. I might be fucked. I hope not.

On the other hand…actual fucking is starting to appeal. I’m probably screwed either way.

“Your limits? You must have something you would hate?” Razor prompts me.

“I’ve heard of scat play? Poop. That’s a hard no. Pony play too. I mean that one I could…but it does nothing for me.” He nods. Okay I’m revealing my online research here, but this man plans to make me…do someactivities. I need to be honest. In this anyway, if not in the package inside me that’s got my pussy scared. I rattle off a few other things I consider odd then pause to think.

He stops me in my tracks with. “Needle play. Blood play. Those?”

Fuck. I’m frozen considering myself with needles in me, in places horribly intimate and probably painful. Blood trickling down my skin in red tracks. I swallow as unobtrusively as I can, aware of my clit rising. “I don’t know.” Even I hear the squeak in my voice.

“A maybe then, not a hard limit.” He sounds satisfied and his eyes stay on me, unmoving. I dare not shift in the seat. “Good.”

What have I done?

8

Phoebe

By the time the plane nears Madrid, I am squirming in my seat, but not due to the men around me, although that does not help. The internal package is making itself annoying and niggles that it might just drop out to sayhi. In a timely distraction, the one stewardess onboard comes over, bearing a tray of drinks. Brutus Skull-face rises from behind and studies the goblets, and I can imagine him growling, as if he’s detected poison. Perhaps he prefers the blood of his enemies. I swear the room drops in temperature whenever he glances my way.

The bubbles percolating upward speak of champagne—the good variety, judging by theDom Pérignonon the bottle. How can I resist?

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