Read Online Broken Glass by Arianne Richmonde - Free Book Online

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    “Don’t be silly,” I protested. I slipped it into his jacket pocket. But he retrieved it.
    “It’s yours. You’re the one who picked the winning number.” He prized my clutch from my fingers, snapped it open and popped the pretty chip inside. “Just don’t lose your purse,” he warned. “And I’d cash it in soon, if I were you.”
    I opened my mouth to speak but thought of my student loan debt, and closed it again.
    “Let’s go,” he said, “I don’t want you getting hooked on this shit.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “To my hotel. That is if what you said about rehearsing was true.”
    I could feel heat rise to my face. Rehearsing for the movie. Playing the BDSM game. Hmm, the idea sent shivers along my bare spine.
    Daniel pulled me away from the table, nodding a thank you to the croupier and tipping him. He said quietly, “Janie, are you sure you’re up for it?” He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight.”
    I rolled my eyes. “I’m not Cinderella.”
    “I haven’t fed you, you need to eat something first.”
    “I stuffed myself with hors d’oeuvres at the party,” I fibbed. I hadn’t. Was too excited to eat, I simply didn’t have an appetite.
    “You really want me to get into character?”
    I felt that familiar Daniel ache between my legs. “Yeah, I do.”
    “As Finn ?”
    I giggled. “You make him sound like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”
    Daniel didn’t smile. “We don’t know yet what he’s capable of.”
    He , not Daniel himself, I noticed. Ever the actor.
    “Finn’s not going to turn into some serial killer, is he?” I joked.
    But Daniel’s face was solemn. “I don’t know, Janie. I may want to . . . ”—and he lowered his voice so only I could hear—“really go for it, you know. I don’t trust myself if I had you in my room in private, with all those sex toys we have in the film. I’ve never done this ‘Dom’ shit before, I might get carried away.”
    “But we’ll be doing it on set, anyway. Might as well start now.”
    “But it won’t be real on set—we’ll be acting. We’ll have the crew around us.”
    “I want to try it out for real, though.”
    By now we had exited the hotel and were standing outside the Bellagio. The fountain light show was just beginning its extraordinary display: thousands of spritzers shooting hundreds of feet into the air, making synchronized dancing patterns on the large lake, which spanned several acres and separated the hotel from the Strip. Frank Sinatra’s “Fly Me To The Moon” was playing. The water was glittering, Vegas beckoning, making me feel that everything and anything was possible. Risks paid off—didn’t we just win all that money? It was now-or-never time. You only-live-once time. And I was definitely in the mood to fly to the moon with Daniel. Hell, I’d go with him anywhere. Yes, even Hell. I wanted him in every way possible, and in that moment, I needed him to own me in some way. To be his possession.
    Daniel winced, then stopped walking. His tongue slid languidly along his top lip. “Oh fuck, Janie, you’ve made me hard discussing all this.” I looked down at his crotch. There it was, that huge great ridge again, straining against his slacks. I could feel a slickness in my panties—it wasn’t just Daniel getting excited in the nether regions.
    “I want to play ,” I cajoled, slipping my arm under his dress shirt, and onto his warm, hard stomach, “experiment a bit, try it out for real and see what it’s like—you know, do the Method.”
    The Method, started by Stanislavski and favored by actors like Marlon Brando, Dustin Hoffman, and Robert de Niro—the practice of connecting to a character by drawing on real emotions and memories, aided by a set of exercises and practices, including sense memory. But also living out the scenario for real, if possible. Be it, not just imagine it. Be the real thing, do the real thing, like De Niro putting on all that weight for Raging