Charlotte Stein - Addicted

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.mischiefbooks.com

Copyright © Charlotte Stein

Cover design: Head Design 2017, cover images: Shutterstock.com

Charlotte Stein asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition 2013 © ISBN 9780007491605

Version: 2017-08-19

Contents

Cover

Title Page Addicted Charlotte Stein

Copyright Copyright Mischief An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.mischiefbooks.com Copyright © Charlotte Stein Cover design: Head Design 2017, cover images: Shutterstock.com Charlotte Stein asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Ebook Edition 2013 © ISBN 9780007491605 Version: 2017-08-19

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

More from Mischief

About Mischief

About the Publisher

I know how wicked I must look, all bound like this. He hasn’t even used something decent like a length of rope or a nice scarf. He’s used fat strips of red ribbon, and everywhere he’s wrapped them I can feel their thick edges digging into my flesh. Can feel them turning me into something obscene – breasts pushed up and out by the presence of them laced beneath, eyes sightless behind scarlet silk.

Yet no matter how lewd I look – how ready to be used – he doesn’t make a move towards me. I can hear his heavy footsteps against the glossy wooden floors of this expensive apartment, and occasionally there’ll be another hint of him: the faint tang of his cologne.

But nothing substantial.

I don’t get anything substantial until I hear the whisper of his breath, and have to wonder if that sound is slightly heavier than it would usually be. Do I look good enough to make my Master pant with anticipation, perhaps?

I doubt it, but find myself hoping anyway. I always hope, no matter how unlikely it is that he would show me the smallest sign of his own pleasure. He is like granite, my Master, he is a rock I cannot penetrate, and yet he moves me to do things I never thought I was capable of.

‘Take your clothes off,’ he had said to me, and I did it. I didn’t even ask him to close the curtains over the broad glass-covered cityscape that I know lies behind him and in front of my bound form. We’re high up here in this island of luxury – London is just a dot – but it’s possible that someone could catch sight of me. Someone might look out of their high-rise window and see me across the city – a faint blur of naked skin, striped with red.

Though, alarmingly, the thought doesn’t dampen my ardour. It enflames it instead. It makes me slick between my legs, to the point where I’m almost uncomfortable.

I think he knows it. He never seems surprised to find me wet and wanting, and he’s even less surprised now when I break, quite suddenly.

Which seems unfair, because I’m surprised. I even shudder to hear myself say:

‘Please touch me.’

Though I confess, it’s the good kind of shudder. My sex swells, my body thrums, I ache to think of him in me. God, a hand on my breast would be so good right now – maybe rubbing one of my nipples ever so lightly, the way he so often does when I’m writhing and past the point of no return. That teasing, twisted look on his devil’s face, as he works one stiff little point back and forth, back and forth.

Lord, I can’t stand it. I can’t, I can’t – and then he goes and says:

‘If you’re a good girl, perhaps I will.’

And I can stand that even less. I want to scream at him that I’m not good, that I’ll never be good, but the truth is – he sees to the core of me. He knows the layer of restraint I’ve built up around myself; he’s unearthed every hallmark of a buttoned-up, too-perfect princess.

And he won’t be satisfied until he’s stripped it all away.

I can almost hear him now, contemplating how best to ruin me. In fact, I’m sure the red ribbon blindfold has become somehow see-through, because I can nearly make him out in front of me. That firm, slanting jaw like something out of a magazine that doesn’t exist – Moody Men Monthly , perhaps – and those eyes, both steely and shot through with tease.

He’ll be wearing just his pristine shirt, by this point – suit jacket discarded – and, as he examines me, his left hand will toy with the cuff beneath his right.

Because it gives the proper look, I think. The look of a man of clear means and sharp desires, who never has to ask for a single thing in life because oh, people just give it . He points, he demands, he simply stands there with that one crisp cuff beneath his fingertips, and people give it .

Like me right now.

‘Lean forward,’ he says, and I do it. I lean forward as far as I can go without falling off the bed, thigh muscles straining, body protesting. I know I won’t be able to last long like this – knelt and bent until I’ve made a rigid Z shape, for his pleasure – but I know just as deeply that he’s going to make me stay like this for a long, long time.

And maybe, in the middle of me holding this position, he’s going to reach up and get a fistful of my hair, and tug me until I feel something solid rub over my cheek.

Of course I know what it is. What sort of fool wouldn’t? I didn’t hear the rasp of a zipper, but that doesn’t mean anything with him. I’m convinced he could get out of his clothes just by willing it to happen hard enough. Lord knows, it took nothing to get me out of mine.