His words make me jerk involuntarily as I imagine his every move matching this long discourse of propositions. He sits even farther forward in his chair, so I expectantly wait for him to rise and come to me.
“You have no choice but to relent to me, Ellen Laurey.” Using that name now, not only mocks my attempts to hide myself from him, it comes out tender as a lullaby sung by a mother soothing her child. “I could make you wait,” he says, “or I could make a feast of you for myself,” he pauses, “or I could pleasure you. Which would be the most distressing? Which one your richest desire?”
If I had my mouth to use now, I couldn’t answer his question because all his suggestions please me and all hold such painful promises, I’m sure none could satisfy all of me. I fall against my bonds,
