Page 49 of Their Cruel Love

He has predicted my move and pushed his chair outward to accommodate her.

The drop is a little high, and he grunts at the impact.

“Her wrists,” I snap, and she whips her head around, startled by my abrupt move into bondage, domination, and possible sex.

“Fuck, Marcus!” Razor might be annoyed by the dick-jarring drop, but he’s grabbed her wrists.

I cuff her hands behind her. The clicks as the cuffs fasten down are so very familiar and speak straight to my dick.

Cuffs fastening are like a trumpet to a centurion on the frontline of his legion.

Like the clack of the starting gate to a racehorse.

Or the snap of a belt on a woman’s naked ass to a Dom.

Crap. I realize I forgot her dress. I may have to cut it off her, and I don’t have scissors.

20

Phoebe

Razor kisses my hand then lifts his fork to my mouth before he says, quietly, “Taste this.” He slides it between my lips in a display that feels sexual—as if I’m being fucked by this fork.

I chew the morsel of steak, swallow, and nod when he asks if it’s good.

Marcus still isn’t here. His chair is a mute reminder of his absence. Dessert is next, and the violinist finishes his rendition of something classical. My stepmother would slap me for not recalling it. I’m feeling more than a little horny, courtesy of our bedroom frolics, and the fucking, and of Razor handling me whenever he wants to.

His hand slides over my thigh and he squeezes the muscle, his fingers far too close to my pussy. I’m hyperaware of my lack of underwear and have to draw a breath to steady myself.

Is it shameful that I’ve discovered a love for being kissed in public while he fingers me, discreetly, beneath the table? I will be leaving this chair wetter than it was at the start of this meal.

A man steps onto the stage that’s beside our table, and the violinist bows and walks away, unhurried. He is serene and has perfectly acted the part of a musician performing at an upmarket restaurant, as if this is not some secret island that may have been the location of snuff films.

The food was divine too.

Rock lobster, wood-roasted in saffron rice was my main, though I made myself eat cautiously, in small quantities. Whenever I looked up from eating, I found someone staring, as if they wait for me to do something. I don’t think I will like what thatsomethingmight be if it goes beyond discreet fingering.

Though what I have allowed is a few rungs up the ladder of exhibitionism compared to my past. I am thoroughly shocking myself.

Razor chose porchetta with buttermilk braised leeks and spiced roasted cauliflower. He also picked a scotch fillet steak with field mushrooms for Marcus. We shared some rather than let it remain untouched. I can’t fault the food, only the people.

I suppose I’m a novelty.

“Do you know any of them?” Razor nods at the fifteen or twenty people in here. There seems more than arrived on the helicopters.

“I vaguely recognize a few from financial deals with my parents when I was a teenager. Assholes, every single one,” I add quietly “The nice ones were the ones whose names I memorized, not these. None of these.”

“It figures.”

“What do you think Marcus is doing?”

“Whatever he wants to. He must have come across something useful.”

“Or he’s been murdered.” I say it lightheartedly, but I am getting fretful.

“That’s a little too morbid this early in the week.”

I only shrug. “You haven’t seen my dreams.”

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