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Slave to Her Wicked Desires
    Rachael knew that not showing up at the club for Eric’s show—the first one with the new line up for his band In My Tomb —was a stupid move so new in this relationship. Had part of her wanted to anger him? Wanted to irk the wrath of her new master to see how far his passion would go in the heat of some simmering hurt? Perhaps she had.
    All Rachael knew for sure was that when she got Eric’s message to meet him at the studio, where he was going over some tracks he and the band had just laid earlier tonight, she’d heard the quiet outrage in his voice. As she got ready for the rendezvous he demanded, her breasts tingled and her pussy twitched when she thought of the punishment that lay in store for her.
    Smoothing her pale hand over her long, blue-black hair—held back in a tight high ponytail—Rachael blew out a long breath as she opened the door to the mixing room, where Eric had said he’d be waiting.
    The area was shadowed and quiet. Rachael’s wide blue gaze roamed over the few comfy desk chairs, a pair of headphones laying on the mixing board, and the reams of equipment lining the small room. But she saw no sign of Eric.
    A door to her left, that she had not noticed in the gloom, opened, and Eric entered. He was dressed in a tight black T-shirt and black jeans. His long straight hair fell across his pale, sharply chiseled Scandinavian features.
    “Where were you tonight?” His face remained impassive, steely, as the question left his lips.
    Rachael swallowed over the excitement tingling in her throat, tingling all over her skin. “I…” She paused, her fingers moving in a nervous dance at her waist as she fumbled for an excuse for her absence at the concert. “I…forgot. I’m sorry.”
    He walked closer. His thick soled, black boots beat a quiet, measured tempo as he approached. Rachael held her breath when he reached out with a long, well-muscled pale arm and ran his thin fingers down her cheek. “Take your clothes off, now,” he commanded. “You have three minutes.”
    When Eric stepped back, she quickly began to undress. She fumbled with the combination of buckles and zippers on her polyurethane suit that he’d instructed her to wear. Bastard probably wanted her to sweat, and that’s why he’d chosen the particular, complex outfit. Rachael grinned at his clever trick, but she’d be out of the contraption before her time was up.
    Two and a half minutes ticked by and she was still working on the pants. Rachael cursed in the dim light of the mixing room, and Eric surely wouldn’t allow her any extra illumination for the task. When five seconds remained, he strode toward her purposely and yanked the leather pants that clung to her shapely legs the rest of the way down.
    “My time wasn’t up yet.” She bit her lip when he flashed her a tight-lipped, raised eyebrow glare. Eric did not approve of disobedience, but sometimes compulsive words got the best of her.
    “Sit in the chair.” He nodded to an office chair beside the mixing board and Rachael dutifully obeyed. She could feel wetness begin to seep from between her lips as she stared into his intense, smoky grey eyes.
    “Spread your legs and wrap your arm around the back of the chair, Rachael.”
    She did as her master demanded. Eric bent beneath the mixing boards and slid a large black bag out from underneath the console. Watching her with narrowed eyes and a firm expression on his face—one that accentuated his hungry, angry desire—he unzipped the satchel and his long fingered, pale hands disappeared into its canvas opening.
    Slowly, his eyes holding hers with a cold, purposely evasive stare, Eric removed handcuffs and a thick length of chain, along with a sturdy padlock, from the bag. He dragged the satchel closer to the chair as he bent at her feet to wrap the chain about her ankles.
    “There are more,” he looked into the bag, and then up at her—a smug, promising smile spreading across his lips,