Page 3 of Bewitched By the Mountain Man
Leather cuffs. Chains. A riding crop. Other things I don't have names for that make my face burn despite the dim lighting.
I back toward the door. "You don't actually think I'm going to do anything with you, right?"
He turns to face me, and even with the mask, I can read amusement in his expression. "You can do whatever you want. That's the point of this place."
"So if I want to walk out that door?"
"Then walk." He leans against the wall, arms crossed, completely at ease. "But there was a fight breaking out where we were. Probably still going. You're safer in here until the dust settles."
I hover near the door, torn between escape and the strange curiosity unfurling in my chest. This man, thisstrangerwho's offered me safety without asking for anything in return, intrigues me despite every self-preservation instinct I have.
"So..." I venture, taking a tiny step into the room. "Do you come here often?"
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to die. What a stupid, cliché question.
But he huffs what might be a laugh. "I do. It's a good place to get away. Be someone I'm not."
That I understand. "And who is that?"
A pause. The candlelight flickers across his masked face, and I wish desperately I could see his full expression.
"Someone in control."
My eyes drift back to the wall of implements, and something twists in my gut. "So you're into... this stuff?"
"That's child's play," he says dismissively. "I come here for other reasons."
Now I'm really curious. "What reasons?"
He pushes off the wall, and suddenly he's closer, filling the space between us. "Why are you here?"
The question catches me off guard. "My friend dragged me here. After my boyfriend dumped me."
"Ahh." There's something in that single syllable. "Recent?"
"Two weeks ago. He's already dating one of my friends. Ex-friend now, I guess."
"His loss."
The words are simple, but something about the way he says them, so matter-of-fact and certain, makes me believe he means it.
"You don't know me," I point out.
"No." He tilts his head, studying me. "But I know a beautiful woman who doesn't realize her worth when I see one."
My lips part, but no words come out. When was the last time someone called me beautiful? When was the last time I felt beautiful? Certainly not while crying into a tub of ice cream.
"That's just the mask talking," I say, trying for levity. "Could be anyone under here."
"Could be." He takes another step closer. "But I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Because you're still here. You could have walked out that door at any time in the last five minutes. But you didn't."
He's right. I'm still here, in this room with its implications of control and surrender, with a stranger who makes my pulse race in ways that have nothing to do with fear.
"Maybe I'm just being polite," I counter.
