Page 42 of Their Cruel Love

I’m blushing, but maybe the summer heat will disguise that.

Marcus barely moves but around his eyes crinkle. “I’d say it did.”

“We match well.” Razor spreads his feet a little further. The sand creeps up the bottoms of his boots. “Her kinks are ours, so far. Aren’t they?”

He’s addressing me. I swallow, feeling my teeth shift on each other as I wonder how to answer. Then I say it, begrudgingly. “Yes.”

“After you walked out, she said what we did to her in Spain…pleased her.”

He’s spewing what seem like my secrets, and I frown. “Can I get up now?” And why am I even asking?

“Jesus, fucking no.” Marcus steps in and waits for me to do something. The challenge is there.

I lick my lips and then, I subside. I’m curious, and I want to feel his hands on me, fastening that collar.

“Seems we’re in the good-girl phase again,” he says, wryly. Before I can think of a comeback, he goes to one knee and begins to circle my neck with that collar, to buckle it on, his thick fingers sliding over my skin, along my jaw. Then he runs those fingers up my neck to my mouth.

Heart thudding, I part my lips enough for him to slip his fingertips inside. He brushes them along my lower lip, and the world shushes while he does so, barely telling me of the seagull noises and the wash of the sea as he hooks those fingers into the corner of my mouth.

His voice is soft in my ear, and the hairs on the back of myneck rise in goosebumps. “Now you are ours. Our little fucktoy for a whole week. Ours to fuck. Ours to bite.” And his teeth graze my neck. My breathing stutters, stills. “Ours to needle, to tie up, and cage. Ours to show off to the others here, stripped bare. My turn,” he adds and then…and then he kisses me.

Oh, my.I find myself holding him, my hands on his back, clutching at his muscles through the shirt.

When he rises, I’m breathless again, and aching, and I’m imagining all the perversions that this week might hold.

“Come.” He holds out his hand, and I take it. He pulls me to my feet then picks up his luggage. To my surprise, Razor has my other hand in his. We continue our journey to the main building ahead, using the timber walkway.

Everyone else has passed us, which is a blessing. It means no one else gets to hear all the rude suggestions being batted back and forth by these two men.

My men? I guess they are, temporarily.

By the time we reach the grand entrance, where glass doors allow us to see inside to a wide-spaced, two-story foyer, Marcus and Razor have decided I’m not allowed to wear panties with a dress, for the entire week. They release my hands and wait, arms folded, clearly expecting me to strip, here, now.

A receptionist sits behind a broad desk watching us through the glass, and another staff member waits just inside the double doors. This is almost a minor event compared to what I did and wore in Spain.

I hum for a second, staring back at them.

Fuck this. I may as well give in now. I fear they will bend me over something and spank me otherwise. So far the tiny USB has stayed inside me, and isn’t annoying me this time, butbeing spanked could be a problem. I’m sure they’d not resist fingering me.

My heated face is still an issue, but I reach under the dress at the back, edge down my panties, then I wriggle them lower and down my legs.

Marcus holds out a hand, and I give them to him, trying to ignore the hawklike attention I’m getting from the door attendant. We have a voyeur, it seems, who likes watching me be embarrassed. This is like a game, a very sexy, arousing, mind game.

And it is so fucking addictive it frightens me.

17

Phoebe

Reception is barely a formality and after we give our names and sign in, our room keys are handed over. Razor spends way too long reading the fine print before signing, of course. I can feel the assessment of the nosy doorman as I waltz away, deliberately waggling my ass. My nakedness under the dress feels odd and wicked, but no one here is going to mess with me, not while I’m escorted by these two guys.

I may as well amuse myself by teasing him.

The layout is straightforward—a central hallway with branches to left and right at each level. We are on the second terrace upward, reached through that central hallway that has a short flight of steps between each level. The ceilings are high; the air is cooler than outside but not freezing.

“They must have generators for all this, and a cellphonetower?” I muse as I walk past the men where they’ve stopped at the door to their room.

Razor snags my elbow, and I’m jerked to a halt. “You’re with us in here.”

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