Page 7 of Monster's Edge
“First get naked,” he says. His voice is firm. This isn’t an option. I don’t have a choice in this matter. He wants me naked, and I have to oblige. Ian is the type of person who is used to getting his way. Even though I have a million more questions – like where I am and what he wants – I do as he asks, and I strip out of my gown.
It comes off easily enough. I’m not wearing shoes. I’m not sure what happened to them. I try not to look around too much, but as I hold the gown out to Ian, I take a quick look around the room. We’re in a bedroom, I realize. Well, sort-of. The floor is pure oak with a small bear-skin rug in the center. That’s what I was lying on. There’s a fireplace in front of me, but it’s not lit. That’s why the room is cold. There’s a sofa nearby, as well as a four-poster bed complete with curtains and a canopy.
Whatisthis place?
It’s not a hotel. I know that much. I think it might be Ian’s house. Why would he bring me to his house, though? And is this is personal bedroom? Or is this just a room where he fucks people – willing or unwilling?
He accepts the dress from me. He turns and drapes it over the back of the blue velvet sofa. Then he stays there and nods toward me.
“The rest of the clothes, Rose. Don’t make me wait.”
I look down. I’m embarrassed, I realize. It’s not that I never would have considered fucking someone like Ian. I would have. I absolutely, totally would have. It’s just that guys like Ian are powerful. They’re strong. They’re also hot as hell, so I know they can have anyone.
And if Ian can have anyone, then why would he want me?
This is always the hardest part of any relationship, I think. The nakedness. The nudity. Stripping out of the only thing that protects me and just handing it over. The bra and panties I’m wearing leave little to the imagination, of course, but they do leave a little.
And now he’s asking me to give that to him.
Can I do it?
Can I give this to him?
“I...” My lips move, but then stop just as quickly. I’m not sure. I’m not sure if I can do this. I’m not sure if I can give him what he wants. What if he doesn’t like me?
The insecurity wraps around me like a warm blanket, offering me comfort in that moment. I don’t want him to look at me and think that I’m less than perfect. I don’t want him to look at me and think that I’m someone who isn’t worth anything at all.
But then I realize the situation I’m in completely goes against all of that. He chose me. Out of all of the women at that party, he carefully selected me.
Why?
I have no idea. I don’t know why he picked me or what he thinks I have to offer, but I’ll take what he wants to give. I’ll take everything. If he wants to kill me, then I can’t really do anything about it, but I can control this moment. I can control my reaction to it.
And whatever comes next, I don’t want Ian to look at me and think, “Wow, she was terrible. She was so weak. So pathetic.”
So instead of being scared, I take off my bra. I let it fall to the floor. I make eye contact with Ian as my breasts become exposed to his gaze. He keeps his eyes locked firmly on mine, never moving. Never faltering.
“And the panties,” he reminds me, as though I could have forgotten. Of course, I haven’t forgotten. Of course. The air seems to change around us. Lust has a very distinct vibe, I know, and I’m feeling it right now. I’m not sure if he knows, though.
Does he know I can feel his desire?
Does he know I feel this, too?
I hate myself in this moment. I shouldn’t be daydreaming about villains who tie up mafia crime boss’ daughters. I shouldn’t. My dad is the one who is the real villain here. He’s the one who should be tied up, not me.
It is me, though.
I hook my fingers under the edges of my panties and push them down. I lower my body, squatting down until the panties are at my ankles. Then I stand back up and slowly step out of the panties. Every moment feels important. Heavy. Difficult.
For some reason, being under his watchful eye makes me feel embarrassed and scared. I know that I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t feel like he’s going to fuck me ten ways to Sunday, but I do.
All of that embarrassment I felt moments ago?
It’s washed away. It’s been replaced with something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
Arousal.
“Come here,” he says.
