In the Dark (A Dark Minds BDSM novel)

By Lyla Sinclair

New York Times Bestseller Lyla Sinclair shocks and intrigues in this darkly erotic tale of love and obsession.

At the age of 11, Ana Villarreal suffered from unexplained blindness for over a week. During this time, a young man crept into her room, kissed her, and whispered words in her ear that sent a chill down her spine. Twelve years later, Ana is living in New York City, the youngest manager at her company, but work is all she has. She rushes home at night and locks herself in, afraid he is still out there, somewhere, looking for her.

Until she meets Damien through the company’s online help chat, and, eventually, asks him to call her. At first, he refuses to meet in person, claiming he’s a disfigured recluse who rarely leaves his house. When he finally allows Ana to visit him, she suspects the black surgical mask he wears to cover his “disfigurement” is a farce, but, still, she becomes obsessed with him. Even though she’s not allowed to see his face. Even though she must confront her fear of total darkness to be with him. Even though, in a moment of passion, he utters a sentence almost exactly like the one she heard in her bedroom 12 years ago.

There’s something about Damien that allows her to overcome her aversion to men. Only with him can her needy body find release. As Ana submits to his shocking demands, his claims seem more suspicious, and she must ask herself whether Damien is the love of her life, or her stalker who’s come to claim her, body and soul.

*Note: This book contains adult content including explicit sexual situations, bondage, submission, domination, and punishment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyla Sinclair
• Release date: Feb 25, 2015

Lyla Sinclair

Lyla loves to be alone at sunset, dreaming up new erotic encounters to satisfy her readers' cravings. But most of the day, she can be found lying on the beach, surrounded by nubile young bodies, all of whom are at her beck and call. Eyes closed, sun warming her scantily clad body, she dictates her most lurid fantasies to one of her young sex-slaves as she’s massaged, manicured and lulled to sleep by a nude Spanish guitarist. These catnaps are important, since her nights are spent gorging herself on young men and chocolate (though she never, ever gains weight).

Book preview

In the Dark

Lyla Sinclair

Copyright: Lyla Sinclair, 2014

Chapter One

Call me.

Two simple words.

But as I stare at my computer screen, they grow larger and more ominous, as does the phone number below them. The direct line to my office phone.

The pen in my fist thumps an uneven rhythm on the laminate desktop. What was I thinking? I never give out my phone numbers to men for personal interaction.

Okay. Calm down. It’s my private line, but it’s just a work number. He can’t use it to track me or find my home address. Why am I freaking out?

Because he’s a man. And men do terrible, frightening things.

My heart pounds harder in my chest. He can’t call. What will I say if he does?

I pushed send one minute and thirty-three seconds ago. Even as my heart beats its frantic cadence, a new thought causes it to stop dead.

What if he doesn’t call?

One minute and thirty-seven seconds. I’m riveted to my computer screen, still shocked by my own actions. There should always be a two-minute grace period when you send an e-mail. I want to reach out into cyberspace and pull the message back.

My eyes creep over to the black eight-line phone sitting on my desk. It rings and I jump. My left hand flies to my chest as my right reaches for the receiver.

Ana Villarreal. I always pronounce my name Ah-na, like my family did, even though I don’t speak to them anymore.

Hey, Ana. It’s Jim. When’s the managers’ meeting?

I remember to breathe as I click onto my calendar screen. I have it down for tomorrow at ten.

At twenty-three, I’m the youngest customer service manager in the history of East Coast Uniform Supply. Actually, the youngest manager, period. I got the promotion by being more knowledgeable, more organized, and more efficient than anyone else in my department.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I’m a miracle worker with the occasional irate client call, passed on to me by panicked customer service reps.

Or that I don’t have a personal life to distract me from learning every morsel of information about our company and our products.

I’ll catch you then, Jim says. Or sooner, if I can’t resist running upstairs to look at you in that skirt again.

Actually, it’s a whole new suit, but Jim’s an ass man. I’m never sure how to reply when he flirts, but I know he’ll carry on the conversation without me.

I saw you leaving the break room this morning, he says. You’ve been looking really spiffy lately.

Spiffy? I chuckle into the phone. How old are you, again? I figure mid-thirties, but it’s hard to be sure with that frat boy personality of his.

You don’t know how to take a compliment, he replies. Or am I sexually harassing you? Because my wife will get pissed off at me if I am.

But she’s fine with the rampant flirting?

Yeah. I tell her about it when I get home. Then we play ‘Hot Office Sex’ where I—

Whoa… Too much information.

T. M. I. He chuckles. I got it. My wife says I’m an over-sharer.

She’s right… And Jim, now that you’re a manager, you need to be careful, especially with the women who work under you—

He snickers.

"I mean, with you. I roll my eyes. Or you’re going to get sued."

You’re right. You’re always right, he says. You’re the most sensible person I know.

Sensible… I glance at the computer screen and the words call me, jump three more points in size. See you tomorrow, Jim.

Yeah, wear the—

Bye, Jim. I hang up the phone and smile.

As politically incorrect as he is, I appreciate having him around. There have been days in the past few years when he’s been my sole reason to laugh. And, despite his questionable sense of humor, he’s one of the only men I feel safe around. Maybe because he’s just too silly and unfocused to be dangerous.

I click my e-mail closed and immerse myself in last week’s call reports.

Two hours later, I’ve finished the efficiency recommendations report that’s due tomorrow. I check my e-mail again, but my box is empty. He hasn’t called or emailed. I click to my chat records and scroll back to the day I met him.

Delia, who normally takes care of customer chat requests, was out with the flu, as were a number of the customer service reps. ECUS was so swamped with calls, several of the managers went on the phones to take 800 orders. I was the only manager who knew the products inside and out, so I redirected the special inquiry calls and website chat requests to my office.

A few hours later, a man named Damien Lazos pinged me. I’ve saved all our chats. I reread our first conversation, as I have many times before.

Damien: I’m looking for surgical masks in black. Do you sell them?

Ana: No, but those must be some very pessimistic surgeons you have working with you.

Damien: Bunch of New Yorkers. You know how they love black.

Ana: Surgeons in black? Doesn’t that scare off the patients?

Damien: No. We ship all our nurses in from Vegas. They wear red sequined bikinis, so it all balances out.

Ana: LOL. I guess you have a large number of male patients.

Damien: Mostly mobsters. We have a high turnover rate, though, because they keep running off with our nurses.

Ana: I think you have a new HBO Original Series there.

Damien: Good thinking. I’ll get an agent.

Ana: Are you really in New York?

Since that day, we’ve joked and talked—via chat or email—about everything from religion to politics to late-night talk-show hosts. Damien, a man I’ve never seen, has become my best friend, which is not really difficult. I have mostly work acquaintances.

The phone rings and I startle again.

Idiot. This is a customer service center. Am I going to jump every time a phone rings?

Ana Villarreal.

Hello, Ana. The deep, raspy tone tickles my eardrum, brushing softly down the side of my neck. My nipples tighten. The voice doesn’t belong to anyone I know and the sound of it makes my heart beat faster.

Hi.

You asked me to call you.

It’s him! A hot shiver ripples through me—fear mixed with excitement.

Yeah…I did.

And have you regretted it every moment since?

I laugh and the tension leaves my body. I don’t regret it, now.

And? Why did you ask me to call after six months?

I guess because we talk every day, but I’ve never heard your voice. It was an impulse. I don’t even know what I wanted to talk to you about.

In that case, why don’t you tell me about your job? You don’t mention the details very often.

We’ve spent most of our time talking about current events and pop culture. I know his favorite movies and the type of music he likes, but we haven’t gotten more personal than that. And still, he’s the best friend I have. Kind of sad, I guess.

That’s because my job is completely boring and tedious.

And your personal life? Any boyfriends, husbands? Say ‘no.’ I don’t want to have to imagine you…

The sudden awkward silence makes me jumpy again. After several moments, I hear myself say, No one. And maybe it doesn’t have to be in our imaginations…unless you have someone else? I can’t believe I just said that.

No, he says quietly. No one. The timbre of his voice is tangible to me. When he speaks, I can almost run my finger down its soft, rough surface.

Maybe we could meet for coffee. Where are these sudden bursts of courage coming from? After years of avoiding personal interactions with men, why am I so desperate to be in the same room with this one?

I don’t meet.

My skin stings with rejection, but I can’t let this go. You don’t meet? What does that mean? I guess I don’t meet normally either, but it still hurts that he’s giving me the brush off. Besides, I don’t go out with men because I’m afraid of them. What does he have to be afraid of?

This was a mistake, he says. I shouldn’t have called.

The line goes dead.

* * * * *

I sit in my office longer than usual, hoping he’ll call back. Typically, I’m here eight to four, work through lunch, and take extra work home with me, but today I need to hear his voice again. Every time I think of it, my body heats. The air I suck into my lungs is cool in comparison.

When I pace over to the window and open my blinds, I realize it’s almost dark. I’ve forgotten the time changed.

No!

Snatching my coat from the rack next to my office door, I struggle into it. I grab my purse and briefcase and race for the elevator.

As I punch the button and stare at the doors, I try to decide what to hope for. If I hope for other people on the elevator, I could end up with nothing but men, or worse, a lone man. If I hope for an empty elevator, I could be by myself when that man gets on at another floor.

I hold my breath. The elevator seems to take a long, long time.

When the doors finally slide open, I suck in a lungful of air. It’s half full of both men and women. I step on and turn toward the doors.

By the time I get outside, the sun is on the verge of setting, the buildings casting long, dark shadows over the street.

Darkness is a beautiful thing.

I shake the frightening sentence from my brain. Turning up my collar, I lower my head and watch the shoes go by.

Is anyone looking at me? I shouldn’t have bought this new suit. By Jim’s reaction, it may be more alluring than I realized.

Oh, yeah. I’m wearing a coat over it. This is why I like fall and winter. I can hide from the glances of men on the street, in the elevators, in the market. I don’t want to invite them to talk to me. To stare into my face or ogle my body.

The subway is teeming with people, as usual, and I feel better until I think of the two blocks I must walk from my stop to my apartment building.

In the dark.

I come to and realize my eyes are closed and I’m rocking in my seat. I slit my lids open, looking right and left, but no one has taken notice.

That’s the good thing about New York City. No one really cares what you’re doing as long as you leave them alone.

Minutes later, when I emerge at street level, I’m glad to see the throng of humanity. Since I’m rarely out after dark, I wasn’t sure what to expect tonight.

I quickly make my way to my apartment and lock myself in.

Relief washes over me as I glance around my cozy living room. My sofa is a pleasant color somewhere between pumpkin and terracotta. The throw flung over the back contains stripes that match the couch, along with several other colors.

My rusty red armchair matches one of the stripes in the throw. I love the dark oak of my coffee table and the small dining table that sits adjacent to the living area.

When I moved in, I wanted this apartment to be as cozy as I could make it. My refuge. It’s the only place I feel even close to safe.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that, in my rush, I forgot to pick up something to eat.

I pull a menu from the kitchen drawer. Is it racist that I’m not afraid of the Chinese delivery man? But there were few Asian people in the small town where I grew up. Definitely not in my neighborhood. He couldn’t be the young man from my memories. From my nightmares.

What if I look for a job in Beijing or Tokyo? Then, maybe I could finally stop being afraid.

I tell myself I’m seeing a psychologist because of my constant fear. But the one thing worse than fear is loneliness.

I’ve sentenced myself to solitary confinement for protection, but some days I’m so lonely I think I might die. Is that why I reached out to Damien?

* * * * *

Bedtime. After I change into my black yoga pants and gray long-sleeved t-shirt, I make my usual rounds, double-checking the door and the windows. I’m on the sixth story of my building, but I often wish I were higher. Farther from danger.

I turn the kitchen light back on and leave the one in the living room burning brightly. I turn on the lamps on either side of my bed, but flip the ceiling light off so it won’t beam directly into my eyes. The one in the bathroom always stays on.

Tonight I’ll be safe, I tell myself. It’s the affirmation my psychologist suggested so I can sleep at night, and it usually helps.

My mind repeats the sentence, but this time, in a rasping, gravelly tone.

Tonight, you’ll be safe, Ana. Tonight you’ll be safe.

Chapter Two

The next morning, my mind refuses to stay focused on work. Damien’s voice commands my mind’s ear, scraping down my arms. My shoulders jerk. Goose bumps form on my skin.

What I wouldn’t give to hear that voice again. I’ve heard a few notes of it and now I want to experience the whole concert. When did a voice ever affect me so profoundly?

Once. A long time ago. And it still does today.

My shiver of pleasure turns to a shudder of revulsion. That was another voice. The voice of a monster.

I open my email and type in Damien’s address. I’ll tell him I’m sorry and maybe he’ll speak to me again.

Sorry for what? I gave him my phone number. He called. He refused my offer and hung up on me. What could I possibly apologize for? He was the rude one.

He’s most likely a married man. His wife probably walked into the room, and he had to hang up.

Hurt stabs at my chest. How could he lead me on like this? How could he let me think we might be soul mates when he had no intention of ever seeing me?

But he hasn’t led me on, really. I scan back through message after message. He’s never written anything romantic or sexual. I’ve turned friendly compatibility into passion because I’m lonely. God, I’m so lonely I’m inventing Internet lovers.

Maybe I need to leave. Change my life. The final seven years I spent in the town where I grew up seemed like an eternity, fear and anxiety my constant companions. I moved to New York to get away, knowing there would be throngs of people to get lost in. But once I came here, I was still afraid.

I am still afraid. It’s not the place that’s the problem. It’s something inside me.

My phone rings and I answer it.

Ana, I’m ready for you.

* * * * *

Carol Woo’s office is simple and no-nonsense like mine. No silly knickknacks. No clutter or decoration. As a V.P., she did get to choose her real cherry wood desk. I’d like a wood desk someday.

Carol has the best cheekbones of anyone I’ve seen in real life. They’re high and slash upward, mimicking the slant of her dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her skin glows, even though she doesn’t seem to be wearing any makeup.

Every time I see her, I think she should be a model, but I’m sure she’d never consider doing anything so frivolous. She’s my boss, one of three vice presidents here, and, by now, I know what to expect in meetings with her. I like her because she’s efficient and straightforward.

As usual, I have all my ducks in a row. I’m prepared to defend any budget items she might question. However, my mind keeps wandering as she’s talking, and I have to refer to the pages in front of me more often than I should, since I had everything memorized down to the smallest detail.

Ana? she says after half an hour.

Yes?

Is there something wrong? You don’t seem quite as sharp as usual.

Damn. I’m used to being held up as the model of perfection at this company. It’s all I have to validate my otherwise empty life. It’s not like I have a boyfriend waiting for me after work. I can’t fuck this up.

I’m sorry, Carol. I’m just not one hundred percent today.

You never miss a day of work, Ana. If you’re not well, you should go home and get better. We can reschedule—

No! I say too forcefully. I do not flake out on meetings. A man I’ve never met isn’t going to turn me into a slacker. "I’m fine. I just didn’t get