Page 32 of A Touch of Dark
And dangerous.
“Our sessions will consist of one per week for a month, an hour each,” he continues without missing a beat. “I prefer to meet at night in my studio.” He pauses as if to gauge how well I’m following the rapid-fire requests. When I say nothing, he continues. “I also require that my subjects abide by my request during that time.”
“And what request would that be?” I face him, curious despite myself. Could this request hold the secret behind his model’s morbid poses?
“You submit to me during the allotted time. Fully. I do what I want with you and you do not question.”
I can’t even pretend that I’m not curious. “In what way?”
He shrugs. “You will be paralyzed during our sessions. A simple drug related to succinylcholine but modified for recreational use. This synthetic version allows you to feel, breathe, and maintain your consciousness, but you will not be able to move.”
I’m not familiar with the drug, but I recognize a dangerous scenario when I hear it. This one has all the makings of some sick joke, but he isn’t laughing.
“I’ll be like this for an hour?”
A slight tilt to his mouth makes heat flood my stomach. “Give or take. It doesn’t last long in the body.”
“And people actually agree to this?”
“I would understand if you declined.”As you should.For the first time, I can clearly sense what he doesn’t say out loud.Refuse. Admit it: You can’t handle this.
Of course I can’t. But my lips won’t move to voice that out loud. I find myself picking imaginary lint off my jacket. “And you say that your subjects let you do anything. Like what?”
His jaw tightens in a way that can only be described as challenging. “Anything I deem necessary.”
“Touching?”
“Sí.” He leans back against the chaise. “I would need to ‘see’ my subject.”
“How well would you need to see them?” The skin on my neck prickles at the thought. I’m suddenly aware of just how thin this blouse is. Paper fucking thin.
“Thoroughly.”
My face is hot. I should take comfort in the fact that he can’t see—but I don’t. He’s aware of each breath escaping my lungs, quickening with every insinuation. A smart woman would be polite. Play coy and avoid mentioning the one subject he seems impatient for me to broach.
“Sex,” I say, jumping in headfirst. “Do you sleep with your subjects?”
“Some of them.”
“Oh?” I shuffle my heels against the floor in a futile effort to regain my balance. “While they’re paralyzed?” I’m picturing it before I can stop myself. Perhaps that’s how he gets his sick fix: incapacitating his partners in some twisted bid for control.
But he laughs. “I heed my partner’s preference, Ms. Thorne.”
“Well, I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He laughs again, deeper than before. Not to reassure me, but to warn. Sex with me is the last thing on his mind. “Think of it as a research method, one only employed when necessary. I try to give my subjects whatever they need to draw out the emotions I seek.”
It’s a nice way of putting his perversion—I have to give him that. “And what do you ‘seek’ from me?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “Frankly, my painting you would only be to relieve your curiosity. Nothing more.”
“Oh?” This time, I recognize the bait for what it is, though it doesn’t ease the sting of his trap.
“There’s nothing about you that I feel is worth uncovering.”
Bingo. I do my best to grit my teeth and let the insult fly by. A normal woman might respond by tossing wine in the bastard’s face and catching a car home. I’m low on the wine part. Retaliation is my sole motivation for stalking to the table and refilling my glass.
Before I can aim any of the liquid at him, I take a sip. Then another. “Is that so?” I rasp once half the glass is gone. “Try me.”
