by Tracy Wolff
“I didn’t expect to see you.”
“This morning?” I ask. “Or ever again?”
Her shrug says everything she doesn’t want to and fuck it. Just fuck it. I put the dishes on the granite counter top and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her toward me. “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”
She laughs and it’s only as she finally relaxes that I realize just how tense she was. “I’m not trying to get rid of you.” This time, she’s the one to reach a hand up to my face, the one to brush soft fingers over my jaw.
“Good.” I turn my head into her palm, kiss her hand. And watch her eyes go all swirly again.
Her breath catches in her throat and I’ve got two choices—ramp up the heat or defuse it. I choose to defuse it, because there are things we need to talk about. Things I want to say—and do—to her before she’s naked, in my arms, again.
“Not to sound like a glutton, but why don’t we go shovel in as many of those donuts as we possibly can, as fast as we can?”
“What if I hate donuts?”
“Then you can watch while I shovel them in. Obviously.”
She laughs, as I intend. “I’d like to see that.”
“Keep dawdling in here and you will. I’m starving.” I start pulling her toward the exit.
But as soon as I turn, I get my first look at the room’s back wall. And shit. Just...shit. Practically the whole thing is taken up by my Icarus Before. I drop Grace’s hand and walk toward the photo, shaken to my core.
I took it a few years ago, when I spent a week hiking from town to town along the cliffs back home in Britain, taking pictures and just kind of soaking in the solitude after a brutal press junket. It was my third—and the longest—day of the hike, and it had been raining for hours. The wind was bad and my umbrella wasn’t much use, so I was soaking wet. My jeans weighed about twenty pounds and once the lightning started, I was fucking done. I was freezing and worried about my camera and more than ready for a hot shower and a glass of whiskey.
Then, suddenly, the rain just stopped. One second it was pouring and the next the sun was shining. It was the strangest thing. I was maybe two miles away from the village I’d been aiming for and I turned around a bend in the path and out of nowhere there was this young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen. He was running toward the edge of the cliff in front of me, arms raised in a V above his head and face turned up to the sun.
I actually freaked out a little, because at first it looked like he was going to run right off the cliff. But he stopped right at the edge and started jumping around, like young boys tend to do. I fumbled my camera out just in time to catch him mid-leap and the way everything came together—the sun, the height he could jump, the look on his face...for that one second, it looked like he was flying.
I got two dozen or so pictures of him that afternoon, but this one was the only one that really mattered. I loved it so much I almost kept it for myself, but in the end my gallery convinced me to put it out there. There’s a part of me that always regretted its loss, so to find it here, now, in Grace’s kitchen...
I turn and look at her, searching for something to say. But she just grins and says, “Told you I was a fan.”
“Yeah.” I blow out a breath. “You did.”
And just that easily, I decide to hell with my plan. To hell with wooing her slowly. To hell with everything that keeps Grace away from me for one second longer.
Reaching out, I grab her wrist again and tug her toward me. But before I can lower my mouth to hers, she quirks a brow and asks, “Are you only ever going to kiss me when it has to do with your work?”
“If I had my way. I’d never stop kissing you.”
“Oooh!” She smirks. “Good line.”
“It’s not a line if it’s true.” I reach up and cup her face in my hands. And then I kiss her.
She goes stiff against me for one second, two, but then she melts. And blossoms.
Her breasts press against my chest, her hands plunge into my hair and her lips open underneath mine. It’s exactly the reaction I want and I groan low in my throat, pulling her even closer, until every inch of her body is plastered against every inch of mine. She feels good, so good. More, she feels right—nothing short of holding a camera has ever felt this right.
I pull away to look at her for a second, to catalog all the sharp angles and dark shadows that make up this extraordinary woman. She hums a complaint low in her throat, reaches to pull me back in. I go—of course I go—and I kiss her. Again and again and again.
I kiss her until she’s breathless, until she’s shaking, until she’s moaning low in her throat and clutching at my shirt with trembling fingers. And then I kiss her some more.
My dick is throbbing within a minute or two, my heart pounding, my hands shaking and all I can think about is getting her naked. Fucking her. Making her come on my cock the way she’s already come on my fingers—over and over again.
But I want more than that, too. I want to savor her, want to get to know her inside and out, the way it seems she already—impossibly—knows me.
It’s that thought, more than any other, that has me ripping my mouth from hers. That has me sliding my hands down her back until I can cup her ass and pull her more fully against me.
She whimpers at the first press of my dick to her pussy, so I lift her up. “Wrap your legs around me,” I tell her as I nip at her sexy bottom lip. And she does, her thighs pressing against my hips, her ankles locking at the small of my back.
I grab on to her hips, pull her even closer at the same time I thrust forward and she gasps, “Fuck,” all low and desperate, so that it is as much a plea as it is a curse.
I take instant advantage, slipping my tongue between her parted lips and stroking my way along her tongue, over the roof of her mouth, against the sensitive skin between her top lip and her gum. Which only has her crying out again, this time as she grabs on to the back of my t-shirt and yanks.
Part of me wants to let Grace have her way—God knows, I want to get her naked as soon as possible, too. But doing that means pulling away. It means letting her go and I’m not ready to do that yet. Soon, but not yet.
So instead of ripping off her clothes, I thrust my cock against her, reveling in the hitch of her breath and the way her nails dig into my back. I do it again, and she moans, fingernails digging even deeper.
It’s my turn to groan as I tear my mouth from hers, kissing my way across her hot cheek to her jaw. I nip at the crazy sharp angle of it, just hard enough to have her arching against me, her head tilting to the side to give me better access. Which I take instant advantage of, kissing and licking my way down her long, slender throat to the hollow, where her heartbeat pulses crazily.
I stay there a while, relishing the soft jasmine and vanilla scent of her. The sweet, sunshiny taste of her. The firm, strong feel of her.
Grace lets me linger for one minute, two, but then she’s pushing at my shoulders. Running her hands over my pecs. Toying with my nipples as she rocks herself against my dick, riding me as well as she can through the fabric of her pants and my jeans.
It’s enough to shatter my resolve, and I back us up a little until I can rest her ass on the counter. Then, with my hands free, I yank her tank top straight up and over her head.
She’s not wearing a bra and fuck. Just fuck. She’s beautiful, so beautiful, that for a long second all I can do is stare at her breasts with their lush curves and dark pink nipples.
She smells so good, looks so good, and I want to touch her everywhere, want to kiss her everywhere. I settle for kissing my way across the swell of first one breast, and then the other. She gasps at the first brush of my lips and shoves her hands into my hair, trying to pull me closer. I oblige, nuzzling the curve of her breast before sweeping my tongue back and forth across her tight, hard nipple.
“Jaxon!” It’s both a plea and a demand and the sound of my name on her lips tears through me like few other things have. Part of me wants to give in
, to pull her pants down, open my jeans and just thrust myself inside of her until we both come, hard and fast. But there’s another part of me—the dominant part—that wants to put her through her paces first. That wants to see just how much pleasure she can take before she breaks.
It’s that part that’s in control as I scrape my teeth against her nipple just to listen to her whimper. And beg. That part that’s in control as I wrap her ponytail around my hand and tug just hard enough to sting.
Grace calls out my name again, even as her hands slide up to my shoulders and she urges me closer, closer, closer. This time I don’t give in to her demand. Instead, I keep my body away from hers as I take her gorgeous little nipple in my mouth and begin to suck.
She moans, arches her back. Presses her breast more firmly against my lips as she murmurs, “Take me. Please. Jaxon. Take me.”
“Oh, I will, darling. I will.” I shoot her a wicked grin. “But not yet.”
It’s her turn to pull my hair, and she snarls my name in obvious frustration as she does. I retaliate by nipping at her breast. I make sure not to hurt her—I get off on helping my partner walk that edge between pain and pleasure, not on actually hurting them. I know not all doms feel that way, but for me it’s never been about the pain. It’s always been about the surrender.
Sliding my hands under Grace’s ass, I pick her up again. Then—holding her against me—I walk us out of the kitchen, licking and kissing my way across her shoulder and up her neck as I do.
“My bedroom’s down the hall to the left,” she gasps before burying her hands in my hair and pulling my mouth up to hers.
That’s good to know—I file it away for later—but that’s not where I’m heading. Instead, I move us through her living room until I get to the mirror I noticed earlier. Then I slide her down my body, making sure to hold her tight until I know her legs aren’t too wobbly.
“No, it’s over—” Grace breaks off as she realizes where we are, the dazed look in her eyes turning to wariness. “What are you doing?”
I ignore the wariness—and the question. Instead, I turn her around until she’s facing the mirror and ask a question of my own. “What do you see?” I demand, dropping my chin onto her shoulder as I slide my hands up her ribcage to her breasts. I cup them from behind, let my thumbs tease their way back and forth across her nipples, all the while watching her spectacular eyes.
“I see you,” she answers, voice husky and a little raw. “I just see you.”
I know she does—for me, it’s the heaven and the hell of this situation.
“It’s my turn to see you, luv,” I tell her, my lips brushing against her temple. “I want to know you as well as you obviously know me.”
A strange look flits across her face, somewhere between curiosity and fear. She tries to turn, but I hold her in place with a hand splayed across her abdomen.
“Don’t be like that,” I tell her. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are to me? Any idea how much I want you?”
She shakes her head, closes her eyes.
“Open your eyes, luv. Look at me. Look at us, together.”
She doesn’t want to do it—her reluctance is written on her face and in her every muscle. But I’m not going to let this go. I’ve already bent my usual rules numerous times for Grace, but I’m not going to do it now. And I’m not going to do it over this.
“Open your eyes,” I say again, and this time there’s an edge of steel underlying my words, turning them from a request to a demand.
She must hear it, because her eyes fly open, meet mine in the mirror.
“I’m going to fuck you right here,” I murmur in her ear. “I’m going to turn you inside out. I’m going to make you scream and then I’m going to make you beg. And you are going to watch every second of it.”
She starts to say something, but I silence her with a finger against her lips. “Can you do that for me? Can you watch me take you? Can you let me watch you get taken?”
For long seconds, she doesn’t answer. Instead, she watches me in the mirror, her silver gaze locked with mine. For the first time since I’ve met her, there’s a vulnerability there. An openness. It’s what I’ve been looking for all along—a way in. A way to see what’s inside of her, to find all the small, jagged pieces of her that she keeps locked away. After all, she’s already seen mine.
“Jaxon...” she finally says, and it’s so soft I barely hear her, despite how close my face is to hers.
“Yes, Grace?” I keep my eyes on hers, refusing to let her take the easy way out on this. Refusing to let either of us take the easy way out.
“Nothing.” She swallows audibly and several more seconds pass before she whispers, “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat, brows raised. I won’t back down, but I also won’t take anything she doesn’t freely give me. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she nods. And then she’s grabbing my hand, sliding it from her breast to her mons. “But hurry. I need you.”
Relief courses through me, and I let out a long, low breath of my own. I didn’t know how much I needed this from her until she gave in. Now...now all I want is to make her fall apart.
As a reward for her cooperation, I slide my fingers a couple inches lower and circle her clit with my thumb. Once, twice, then again and again, until her skin grows flushed and her whole body starts to shake. She’s close, so close, and there’s a part of me that wants to take her over. To give her everything she wants tied up in a giant bow. But there’s another part of me—the one that understands everything that’s going on here—that insists on making her wait, just a little bit longer.
That’s the part that wins. I want to bring her more pleasure than she’s ever imagined, want to take her right up to the edge of ecstasy and hurl her over. Just not yet.
So I pull my hand away, relishing the way she cries out in protest. Relishing even more the way she sinks back against me. She’s giving herself over to me and I’m grateful for her trust. I won’t disappoint either one of us.
“Thank you,” I murmur to her as I slide my free hand up her chest to the hollow of her throat.
She stiffens a little, her eyes going huge in the mirror. But she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t knock my hand away. Instead, she waits and she watches as I move my fingers to her chin and tilt it up so I have better access.
Her heart is beating fast and hard beneath my palm, so I stroke my way over her pulse points, back and forth, back and forth, in an effort to slow it down just a little. To calm her down, just a little. It doesn’t work.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, mouth against the sensitive skin of her neck. “I’ve got you.”
Grace nods jerkily, her whole body arching into my touch as she wraps her arms around my head and clutches me to her for the space of one breath, two.
I let her hold me, let her catch her breath for a moment. Then I press a trail of slow kisses in a line from her ear to the tops of her breasts.
She moans, holds me tighter, and I slide my hands down until I’m cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples. She stiffens and then melts as I flick my thumb back and forth across the hard tip. Seconds later, her whole body goes boneless with pleasure.
“You have the most beautiful breasts,” I tell her as I pinch just a little bit harder. “Look how pretty they are, Grace. How responsive.”
“Jaxon.” It’s a protest and a plea.
“Grace.”
She arches against me. “I can’t—”
“You can.” I squeeze her nipple harder still and this time she cries out, her hands coming up to cover mine. “You will.”
“Just do it,” she demands, pressing down in an effort to get more from me than I’m ready to give her.
“Grace, darling, that’s not how this works,” I tell her, very deliberately pulling my hands from her body.
She whimpers in dismay, tries to hold me in place. But I don’t give in. Instead, quick as lightning, I reach for the scarf in her hair and untie it. “G
ive me your hands, Grace.”
“My...hands?”
“Yes.” I hold the scarf up in front of her. “Your hands. You don’t get to touch me until I want you to.”
She doesn’t move. Hell, I’m not sure she even breathes. She just stands there watching me watch her. But that’s okay. I’m asking a lot of her. Not nearly as much as I’m going to ask before this thing is done, but a lot for now.
So I just wait, one hand on her shoulder, the other holding the scarf out in front of her.
“So this is your thing?” she demands, and there’s nothing submissive about the look she gives me in the mirror. “Tying women up?”
“I don’t think binding your wrists can exactly be called tying you up. But yes, tying women up is my thing.”
She doesn’t say anything for a second and I watch her face in the mirror as she works it out. “So you do more than this.” It’s not a question.
I think of the ropes in my bag and what I want to do to her with them. “I do, yes.”
“How much more?”
“Tonight? No more than this.” I wiggle the scarf for emphasis.
“And other nights?”
This isn’t the most opportune time to have this conversation, but it’s one I’ve been wanting to have, so I answer, “Have you heard of shibari?”
“The Japanese ropes?” Her mouth actually drops open. “You want to bind me with Japanese ropes?” she finally manages to squeak out.
“I do. And then I want to photograph you.”
She goes white. “Tied up?”
“Yes.”
“With ropes?”
“Yes.”
“Naked?” Her voice breaks a little on the second syllable, so I wrap my arms around her from behind and hold her tight.
But I don’t try to convince her, don’t try to sway her. This has to be her decision one hundred percent. Instead, I nod and say, “Absolutely.” My gaze remains locked with hers in the mirror.
“I’m not— That isn’t— You can’t—”
“Breathe, luv. I’ll never do anything you don’t want me to.”
“Okay, then. I don’t want you tying me up.”
