week. But now I think it’s best for us to let some time pass so that you can fully recover,” he says, and I have to admit he’s right, for many more reasons than he knows.
“I love you for all eternity, Miranda,” he murmurs in his rich and powerful voice, then he pulls me to his chest.
His body feels so hot through his shirt, and his eyes are dark and hypnotic. He puts his hand on the curve of my back, holds me even closer, and kisses me passionately. Then he unbuttons his shirt, so that I can feel the hardness of his body, the roughness of his chest against the softness of my body.
I look up at him, as always aroused by how tall he is, yet simultaneously intimidated by his size and height.
And in my eyes I know there is an unmistakable message. No more tenderness, Robert, no more gentleness. Fuck me hard, fuck me now, bend me to your will, punish me, hurt me, love me.
Instinctively he knows what I want but shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he says.
And strolls out onto our private lawn. I follow him and gasp at the beauty of the great expanse of sky above us, and the sun about to set.
Then he engulfs my hands in his own.
“Elegant hands, Miss Stone, and if I were an artist, I would paint them,” he says, and I instantly flash back to our first meeting, when he said those same words to me before we tossed for whether or not I read a salacious chapter of Unraveled to him. I lost, then handed him back the coin.
“The Double Eagle coin . . .” I murmur.
“Exactly, my angel. Now, do you feel like another flutter?” he says.
“Here? On the lawn, by the ocean?” I say, bemused.
“Very much so,” he says in a voice that brooks no contradiction.
I nod, full of anticipation of what he has in store for me.
“Look up,” he says.
I do.
And above us, a hot-air balloon.
Which lands just a few feet from us.
Then a handsome, silver-haired man in a top hat, white tie, and tails who looks as if he belongs at the Paris Opera climbs out of the basket and, one at a time, unloads two Vuitton trunks, one large, one small.
“Close your eyes, Miranda,” Robert says.
I do and keep them shut for what seems like an eternity while right beside me, I hear the bump of the trunks as they hit the grass.
“You can look now,” Robert says.
The first Vuitton trunk is next to me, and unopened. On top of the second one, a large roulette wheel now rests—but it’s a roulette wheel with a difference. A wheel with only ten numbers on it.
“Spin the wheel, mademoiselle,” Robert says, with a challenging smile.
I spin it and the ball lands on the number 9.
Whereupon he opens the first trunk and hands me a small blue velvet box with a gilded 9 engraved on the lid.
“Will you open it? Or shall I?” he says.
I know I should say, “Your choice, Master,” but the great thing about my relationship with Robert is that he can shift so effortlessly from dominance to vanilla romance, then back again.
Which gives me the freedom not to defer to him on this momentous occasion: “I’d like to open it myself,” I say.
Inside, an engagement ring with a pink diamond so large that it must be at least a hundred carats. But I don’t really care how big it is. All I care about is that I am marrying Robert, and that this is the symbol of his love and a pledge of his intention to make me his wife.
So vanilla, so conventional, but I want the fairy tale along with all the rest: the dungeons, the whips, the chains, the ropes, the welts, the bruises; the romance of love and marriage.
He takes the ring and places it on my engagement finger.
And then kisses me with so much passion that I become dizzy with pleasure, and if he didn’t hold me so firmly and so tightly in his iron grip, I might easily fall into a swoon like the heroine of some Victorian melodrama.
When he finally lets me go, I pick my words carefully and say, “If the roulette ball landed on any other number but nine, I would have had to remain single, wouldn’t
“I love you for all eternity, Miranda,” he murmurs in his rich and powerful voice, then he pulls me to his chest.
His body feels so hot through his shirt, and his eyes are dark and hypnotic. He puts his hand on the curve of my back, holds me even closer, and kisses me passionately. Then he unbuttons his shirt, so that I can feel the hardness of his body, the roughness of his chest against the softness of my body.
I look up at him, as always aroused by how tall he is, yet simultaneously intimidated by his size and height.
And in my eyes I know there is an unmistakable message. No more tenderness, Robert, no more gentleness. Fuck me hard, fuck me now, bend me to your will, punish me, hurt me, love me.
Instinctively he knows what I want but shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he says.
And strolls out onto our private lawn. I follow him and gasp at the beauty of the great expanse of sky above us, and the sun about to set.
Then he engulfs my hands in his own.
“Elegant hands, Miss Stone, and if I were an artist, I would paint them,” he says, and I instantly flash back to our first meeting, when he said those same words to me before we tossed for whether or not I read a salacious chapter of Unraveled to him. I lost, then handed him back the coin.
“The Double Eagle coin . . .” I murmur.
“Exactly, my angel. Now, do you feel like another flutter?” he says.
“Here? On the lawn, by the ocean?” I say, bemused.
“Very much so,” he says in a voice that brooks no contradiction.
I nod, full of anticipation of what he has in store for me.
“Look up,” he says.
I do.
And above us, a hot-air balloon.
Which lands just a few feet from us.
Then a handsome, silver-haired man in a top hat, white tie, and tails who looks as if he belongs at the Paris Opera climbs out of the basket and, one at a time, unloads two Vuitton trunks, one large, one small.
“Close your eyes, Miranda,” Robert says.
I do and keep them shut for what seems like an eternity while right beside me, I hear the bump of the trunks as they hit the grass.
“You can look now,” Robert says.
The first Vuitton trunk is next to me, and unopened. On top of the second one, a large roulette wheel now rests—but it’s a roulette wheel with a difference. A wheel with only ten numbers on it.
“Spin the wheel, mademoiselle,” Robert says, with a challenging smile.
I spin it and the ball lands on the number 9.
Whereupon he opens the first trunk and hands me a small blue velvet box with a gilded 9 engraved on the lid.
“Will you open it? Or shall I?” he says.
I know I should say, “Your choice, Master,” but the great thing about my relationship with Robert is that he can shift so effortlessly from dominance to vanilla romance, then back again.
Which gives me the freedom not to defer to him on this momentous occasion: “I’d like to open it myself,” I say.
Inside, an engagement ring with a pink diamond so large that it must be at least a hundred carats. But I don’t really care how big it is. All I care about is that I am marrying Robert, and that this is the symbol of his love and a pledge of his intention to make me his wife.
So vanilla, so conventional, but I want the fairy tale along with all the rest: the dungeons, the whips, the chains, the ropes, the welts, the bruises; the romance of love and marriage.
He takes the ring and places it on my engagement finger.
And then kisses me with so much passion that I become dizzy with pleasure, and if he didn’t hold me so firmly and so tightly in his iron grip, I might easily fall into a swoon like the heroine of some Victorian melodrama.
When he finally lets me go, I pick my words carefully and say, “If the roulette ball landed on any other number but nine, I would have had to remain single, wouldn’t
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