How strange. Feeling like a child playing hooky and straying into the forbidden forest, I walk in. It’s dark. I flick the switch and the lights under the cornice light up with a soft glow. It’s as I remember it. A womb-like room.
Memories of the last time I was in here flash through my mind. The belt . . . I wince at the recollection. Now it hangs innocently, lined up with others, on the rack beside the door. Tentatively I run my fingers over the belts, the floggers, the paddles, and the whips.
Sheesh. This is what I need to square with Dr. Flynn. Can someone in this lifestyle just stop? It seems so improbable. Wandering over to the bed, I sit on soft red satin sheets, gazing around at all the apparatus.
Beside me is the bench, above that the assortment of canes.
As I pull open the top drawer I realize my blood is pounding through my veins. Why am I so nervous? This feels so illicit, as if I’m trespassing, which of course I am. But if he wants to marry me, well . . .
Holy fuck, what’s all this? An array of instruments and bizarre implements—I don’t have a clue what they are, or what they’re for—are carefully laid out in the display drawer.
I pick one up. It’s bullet-shaped with a sort of handle.
My scalp prickles and I glance up.
Christian is standing in the doorway, staring at me, his face unreadable. How long has he been there? I feel like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
“Hi.” I smile nervously at him, and I know my eyes are wide and that I’m deathly pale.
“What are you doing?” he says softly, but there’s an undercurrent in his tone.
Oh shit. Is he mad? I flush. “Er . . . I was bored and curious,” I mutter, embarrassed to be found out. He said he’d be two hours.
“That’s a very dangerous combination.” He runs his long index finger across his lower lip in quiet contemplation, not taking his eyes off me. I swallow and my mouth is dry.
Slowly, he enters the room and closes the door quietly behind him, his eyes liquid gray fire.
My inner goddess doesn’t know whether it’s fight or flight time.
“So, what exactly are you curious about, Miss Steele? Perhaps I could enlighten you.”
“The door was open . . . I—” I gaze at Christian as I hold my breath and blink, uncertain as ever of his reaction or what I should say. His eyes are dark. I think he’s amused, but it’s difficult to tell. He places his elbows on the museum chest and rests his chin on his clasped hands.
“I was in here earlier today wondering what to do with it all. I must have forgotten to lock it.” He scowls momentarily as if leaving the door unlocked is a terrible lapse in judgment. I frown—it’s not like him to be forgetful.
“Oh?”
“But now here you are, curious as ever.” His voice is soft, puzzled.
“You’re not mad?” I whisper, using my remaining breath.
He cocks his head to one side, and his lips twitch in amusement.
“Why would I be mad?”
“I feel like I’m trespassing . . . and you’re always mad at me.” My voice is quiet, though I’m relieved. Christian’s brow creases once more.
“Yes, you’re trespassing, but I’m not mad. I hope that one day you’ll live with me here, and all this”—he gestures vaguely round the room with one hand—“will be yours, too.” My playroom . . . eh? I gape at him—that’s a lot to take in.
“That’s why I was in here today. Trying to decide what to do.” He taps his lips with his index finger. “Am I angry with you all the time? I wasn’t this morning.” Oh, that’s true. I smile at the memory of Christian when we woke, and it distracts me from the thought of what will become of the playroom. He was such fun Fifty this morning.
“You were playful. I like playful Christian.”
“Do you now?” He arches an eyebrow, and his beautiful mouth curves up in a smile, a shy smile. Wow!
“What’s this?” I hold up the silver bullet thing.
“Always hungry for information, Miss Steele. That’s a butt plug,” he says gently.
“Oh . . .”
“Bought for you.”
He nods slowly, his face now serious and wary.
I frown. “You buy new, er . . . toys . . . for each submissive?”
“Some things. Yes.”
“Butt plugs?”
“Yes.”
