Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Small, medium, or large cup?” he asks when I accept, which is odd, but I ask for a small one with cream and sugar. It’s the middle of the night, after all.
“I have honey,” he says.
“That’ll be fine.” Who the hell doesn’t have sugar in the house? I don’t watch him grinding the beans or brewing the coffee, but the sound of him moving languidly and quietly behind me in his cavernous kitchen sets the hairs rising on the back of my neck. He rests the drink on the floor beside me, and I take two grateful sips before continuing. He sits at the kitchen counter, sipping his drink and watching me like a looming bear with his dark, shaggy hair and beard. I don’t feel the need to make conversation, which is strange. Usually, under the circumstances, I’d be babbling away about the price of things, the rise in crime, and the weather. All the topics that strangers wheel out to keep the space between them comfortable. Around me, the air becomes warm, so warm that my eyes droop as I work diligently to finish the job. I stifle a yawn behind my hand and reach for more coffee. I’m going to need the full caffeine pep if I’m going to make it home in one piece, but I’m suddenly so tired. When the last screw is turned, I swivel to face Mr. Bjorn, finding his face impassive. His eyes drift over me, from my messy blonde hair to my face, then my body clad in work overalls to my sneakered feet. It’s impossible to discern his feelings about my appearance. Still, his gaze is like a heavy stroke over my heated skin. I push a stray curl from my eyes, wishing I’d made a little more effort.
“I’ve finished here, but I still have some other locks that you requested left in my bag. Did the intruders break into another room?”
He rubs his right hand over his bulging arm, shifting the soft fabric over his left bicep. The effect is mesmerizing.
“Yes.”
“Okay, then. Lead the way. Is it downstairs or a bedroom door?”
“Bedroom,” he says, “but I should warn you—”
“Yes?”
“It’s… it’s not what you’d expect.”
Mr. Bjorn stands and turns, walking toward the hallway, and I grab my toolbox and bag, following as he climbs the stairs. God, he has a sexy walk; a slow panther-like gait. He seems filled with coiled power, so restrained and quiet on the outside but with a boiling intensity behind his eyes that I feel in my bones. It’s like standing near a generator; you just know if you tapped into it right, the results would be electric.
He slows as we reach the top, and we begin to make our way down yet another long hallway. The eyes on the portraits seem to follow my progress. The door at the end is ajar, and when we’re five paces or so from the room, Mr. Bjorn turns suddenly and stops dead. It’s so abrupt, I almost run right into him.
“The room behind this door is very private,” he says, avoiding my gaze. “I would ask that you keep the knowledge of it to yourself.”
“Of course.” Images flood my mind. Is it set up as a shrine to his long-dead mother? Or maybe it’s full of women’s clothing that he wears when he’s alone? I can’t imagine where he’d get the stuff to fit his looming large frame, but it looks as though he has the money to commission a tailor.
“They broke into the bedroom because I keep it locked up, and they must have thought valuables were inside.”
“But there weren’t?”
“No.”
Neither of us moves, and his solemn brown eyes bore into my confused baby blues.
“So… I guess I should work on the locks, then?”
“Okay.” Mr. Bjorn takes a deep breath and steps aside, allowing me to pass, before he follows slowly behind.
I push on the door so I can inspect the damage, but as it swings open, my breath catches in my throat.
3
GOLDIE
With only the dim light from a bulb at the end of the hallway to illuminate our surroundings, I understand what Mr. Bjorn is so nervous for me to see. It’s as though I’ve stepped directly into my fantasy, but he wouldn’t know that. A four-poster bed, complete with restraints, stands proudly in the center of the room, and around it, an assortment of other things decorates the walls; a flogger, a cane, handcuffs and leather ties, blindfolds, and masks.
My heart pounds in my chest, vibrating the thin skin over my pulse points.
A long pulley system that could suspend a willing victim, or an unwilling one, hangs from the ceiling. I turn and glance at Mr. Bjorn, who is suddenly standing very close behind me. “It’s not a torture chamber,” he says slowly. “I just like things to be a certain way.”