Undone (15 page)

He whistled between his teeth. ‘Looking good, Cha Cha!’ He tossed his cap onto the bed with a flourish, skimming it past the three pairs of handcuffs I’d laid out on the cover.

My grin widened as I raised my arm in a salute. ‘Hey, handsome.’

‘That’s Squadron Leader Miller to you.’

He dropped his overnight bag by the bed, casting a glance at the cuffs. I’d brought along my reproduction medieval half-cuffs, my nasty Hiatt speedcuffs, and my beautifully elegant Marlin-Daley Bottlenecks.

‘What have we got here?’ he said, eyeing the goodies. He selected the speedcuffs, laughing. ‘Man, where d’you get these?’ he asked. ‘You are something else, you know that?’

‘Got them online,’ I said. ‘They’re ex-police.’

He examined the object, rigid cuffs with black plastic moulding covering their thick stem. Not pretty but decidedly vicious. I hadn’t even had the opportunity of wearing them since I’d bought them. I’d just fastened and unfastened them dozens of times, and, wow, they were fast to latch on to a wrist.

‘They certainly look like the real deal,’ he said. ‘Still got the serial number on.’ He rubbed the metal arm where the number was etched; then he picked up the cylindrical baton key from the bed. He turned the cuffs, frowning, and wiggled the key in the keyhole. He flicked the cuffs a couple of times, smiling as he explored how the pivot-hinged arm could turn round and round, slicing through itself. The scrape of metal and the jerk of his wrist made me thrum with anticipation. I love how the Hiatts seem to bite, like a metal beak springing wide then darting in for the kill.

‘Neat,’ he said. He poked the tip of the key into the hole of the double lock, fixing an arm in place, then unlocked it again. ‘Ah, I get how they work. Cool.’

He dropped the cuffs into a deep jacket pocket and popped the baton key into his top pocket. ‘For later. Because right now I’m going to collar you. Man, you’re going to love what I bought for us.’

A twinge of disappointment at his failure to comment on the Bottlenecks, my favourite cuffs by far, was replaced by eager curiosity as he bobbed down to rummage in his overnight bag. Probably best he was opting to take the Hiatts if he had plans for later. The Marlins were genuine antiques and worth a pretty penny. I think I just wanted him to love what I loved, as if that might prove something. Prove he had class and good taste, I guess. Or that we were on the exact same wavelength and destined to fuck happily ever after.

He stood and crossed to me. In his hand was a large silver hoop, much bigger than any cuff, and split into two arcs. A metal collar. That was a serious object. I tried to get a better look but he approached too quickly.

I swayed away from him.

‘Be still.’ He stood in front of me, hands behind his back, crotch in front of me. ‘You have to trust me.’

It wasn’t a stance which inspired trust, given that scarce more than a zip fly separated his cock from my mouth. The uniform, too, added an extra edge to him, an authoritative manner that both unnerved and thrilled me.

‘You OK?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘Yeah, but don’t you dare ruin my make-up.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he replied. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

I remained motionless as he positioned the jaws of the silver choker around my neck. Three gold stripes circling the sleeve-cuffs of his jacket blurred in the corners of my eyes. I tipped my head forwards like a supplicant, allowing him to fix the clasp at the back. I gazed down at his boots, black and shining with a polish deep enough to hold a curve of bedroom light in their stout toes. Kneeling there while he fixed the collar stirred a sense of submission that was new to me. For a brief moment, I swear I worshipped him, this strong, cool, masculine lover with a past steeped in sorrow and loss. He seemed capable of carrying so much pain without the weight of it dragging him down. Bowing at his feet, I felt humbled and in awe of that emotional, psychological strength. Ratchets clicked lightly and then he turned the band so a chunky weight rested at the base of my throat. The metal was pleasantly cool on my skin.

‘I’m the only person who can remove this now,’ he said. ‘Stand up. Take a look.’

My bruise-dark skirt hissed as I rose. I sat before the mirrored desk and my heart skipped a beat. The clasp of the silver choker was a combination lock, the sort you might get on a padlock or bike lock, nestled in the dip of my collarbone. The key, therefore, was a series of numbers encoded in Sol’s brain; a key made of neural activity rather than metal; an abstraction lodged among his wealth of secrets and memories.

I swallowed nervously, touching the silver, barrel-shaped lock. Four tiny metal digits glinted in the display.

‘Is the combination written down anywhere?’ I asked, turning to him.

‘Nope.’ He tapped his head. ‘It’s safe in here.’

‘When’s your birthday?’

‘I’ve not used my birth date, birth year, a pin number or anything obvious,’ he said. ‘It’s a random number, unique to the collar.’

I ran my fingers around the silver band. I found the blend of hard physicality and cerebral fragility overwhelmingly hot, such a potent mix of opposites. If Sol forgot the combination, I’d be stuck in the collar until … Until what? Could someone crack the lock? Or would firemen need to saw off the band while trying not to decapitate me? Supposing Sol disappeared or died? Because people did that. People died unexpectedly, even young, healthy people like Misha. But then if history repeated itself, a locked collar would be the least of my concerns.

Sol had the number for my freedom and I needed to trust him to deliver.

‘Well, I hope you’ve got a good memory.’ I gazed at my unfamiliar reflection. ‘It’s beautiful, like a piece of jewellery.’

‘Glad you like it. I hoped you might. Strong, elegant and clever. Like its wearer.’

I smiled. ‘Flattery will get you everywhere.’

He moved to stand behind my chair, resting his hands on my bare shoulders. His fingertips massaged lightly. I couldn’t see his face, just the strip of his torso where his unbuttoned uniform gaped.

‘What’s your safeword, Lana?’

‘Blanket,’ I replied.

‘Good. Now, don’t forget, we’re putting on a show here,’ he said. ‘I want to get in with people who might have known Misha. Scope out the scene. The aim is to be a convincing DS couple. So tell me once again you’re OK with that.’

‘Yes, Sol, I’m fine with that. If Misha’s death is dodgy, I want us to get justice for him.’

He leaned forwards, a hand sliding down to one covered nipple, and I met his gaze in the glass. Lightly, he traced circles around a black sparkly star, watching my response. Sensation tingled across my skin and I fought the impulse to arch my spine in pleasure. A smile curled on his lips, his gaze attentive and smug.

‘And you’re OK with public play?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ My reply was a faint breath. I cleared my throat. ‘Makes me uncomfortable but if need be I’ll go along with it for Misha’s sake. Just don’t push it too far or I’ll safe-word you and we’ll look like a couple of novices.’

‘I’ll be gentle,’ he replied.

His promise was like a dark caress. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s how they boil frogs.’

He laughed and stood. ‘And you’re OK with me inviting other people to touch you?’

‘Getting warmer in here,’ I said.

‘Are you?’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘As long as they aren’t gross or creepy. And if you promise to watch them like hawks.’

‘I’ll keep checking in on you,’ he said. ‘Let me know at any point if you’re not happy with something. I want us both to enjoy tonight and I’m going to look after you. We want to find out what we can about Misha, sure, but we ought to aim for pleasure too.’

‘Well, that shouldn’t be too arduous,’ I replied. I turned, reaching behind to stroke his lightly haired stomach. His skin was warm and I lowered my hand to give his groin a friendly, flirty caress. The wool of his trousers was rough against my palm, and a neat, swollen bulge pushed at the fabric.

He gave an amused grunt, took my hand by the wrist and lifted it away from his body. ‘Go easy there, Cha Cha,’ he warned. ‘Or you’ll be reapplying all that make-up.’

‘Come on,’ I said, standing. ‘Let’s get a drink in the bar downstairs and then grab a taxi.’

He grinned as I swished towards the wardrobe for my jacket, taffeta hissing faintly around me.

‘The collar looks beautiful,’ he said. ‘
You
look beautiful. I’m tempted to take those…’ He gestured towards the bed. ‘The silver cuffs.’ He crossed the room and picked up the antique Bottlenecks while I slipped on my jacket. The chain clinked lightly as he handled them with fascinated reverence. ‘Man, I love these things, Cha Cha. They are something else. They curve like a sickle, don’t you think? So graceful.’ He studied them awhile, lifting and closing the narrow arm, before replacing them on the bed. ‘And I bet they could tell a story or two. But I don’t want to risk losing them so let’s just stick with the cop cuffs, eh?’

I turned to him and gave a sharp salute. ‘Whatever you say, Squadron Leader Miller.’

‘At ease, slut,’ he replied.

We left the room, laughing. Sol loved the cuffs that I loved best. I still didn’t know what it proved but who cared? My heart was singing and that was more than enough for me.

The venue was on three floors, a shabby affair smelling of plastic, rubber and beer. Laser lights slid puffs of colour over glossy latex and military uniforms ranging from chillingly severe to wildly theatrical. People laughed, drank and danced in an atmosphere quite unlike the one of posturing, moody angst I’d been fearing. Some of the costumes were glorious, some unimaginative and tacky, but everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. It wasn’t a million miles from your average nightclub except the head gear was taller and more flesh was on display.

Being half-naked thrilled me. Walking around bare-breasted, with no one batting an eyelid, was wonderfully freeing. I could only compare it to being topless on a beach except the aesthetic was inverted – dark, sexy and indoorsy rather than bright, healthy and spacious. Men didn’t leer or encroach, although that might have been because Sol was by my side, implicitly doubling as a ‘Hands off!’ sign. Either way, I was pleased not be attracting too much attention. I felt Sol and I, in our guise of a long-term DS couple, fitted in nicely. You wouldn’t know we were spies.

‘I’ll get us a drink,’ said Sol on arrival. ‘Wait there.’ He nodded towards a column on the edge of the small dance floor.

‘I’m not standing anywhere alone with my tits out,’ I protested. ‘Makes me nervous. Seriously, have you any
idea
what it’s like to have tits?’

‘OK. Stick with me.’

The bar was a crush and I gathered my skirt close, hovering behind Sol as he edged forwards to be served. Sol wouldn’t allow me – and I’d allowed him to not allow me – to carry any belongings. I had a few items of make-up stashed in his vast RAF jacket pockets, which I could request to use, and nothing else; no house keys, phone, money or cards. Everything stayed back at the hotel. I wasn’t even given my own cloakroom ticket. My lack of possessions, along with the collar around my neck, were a constant reminder of the part we were playing, rendering me dependent on Sol for the duration.

Surrendering to his guardianship created a peculiar sense of smallness in me that I liked. Small because he was big, masculine, competent and caring. I hadn’t expected to feel anything quite so profound or affecting. On the outside, I was a blonde-haired woman in a nightclub, flamboyantly dressed in taffeta and sequins. On the inside, I was a defenceless dormouse curled in a nest of autumn leaves, and the leaves were Sol. He was all around me, his ownership of me supportive and benign as opposed to possessive and mean.

My sense of myself as strictly a bedroom player was wavering further. Jonathan and I used to kink it up, when we were hot for each other, although that very fact seems so alien to me now that I can only assume I was in the grip of demonic possession. There have been other men before and since, of course. But I’m fairly lightweight. I enjoy the physical and psychological pleasure of having sex a certain way and I adore handcuffs. And while kink had been a significant part of my sex life to date, without the sensory, without the cock, the concept of submission became too abstract.

Pleasure from being protected was new to me, as was that small rush of admiration for Sol as he’d fixed my collar in the hotel room. Both feelings contained a sexual element; they made me feel we were creating a space where I could trust him to push me past my perceived limits while ensuring I was safe, both physically and mentally.

‘Vodka tonic!’ I hollered as I gave his arse a swift grope. ‘With a straw, please. I can’t drink properly with these silver lips.’

When he’d been served, we stepped away from the crowd.

‘Let’s go find the dungeon,’ he said. ‘It’ll be upstairs. They usually are.’

‘Thought you’d never been to one of these events before?’

‘When did I say that?’

‘The night we met.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I lied.’

We edged past a cluster of people, me apologising and asking people to accommodate my skirt. No one seemed to mind. I thought back to Dravendene and how Sol had quizzed me in my turret room before Misha had joined us. He’d wanted to know if I ever went to events like this and suggested I should if I wanted to meet fellow kinksters. He’d also wanted to know if Misha was part of the scene too. Despite his apparent interest, Sol had mocked when I asked if
he
was involved in a kink community, or wanted to be.
My gimp suit’s at the dry cleaner’s
, he’d said.

‘Why the lie?’ I asked.

We began making our way up the dimly lit, busy stairway.

‘Didn’t want to put you off or scare you,’ he hollered over his shoulder. ‘Went to a couple of events in the States, that’s all.’

His casual reply didn’t convince. Why, after I’d suggested a threesome and been open about my sexual predilections, would he think I’d be put off by such an admission? I wondered if he was hoping to cover his tracks and obscure connections to previous partners. He was definitely keeping something from me.