by Tracy Wolff
It may also be a little intriguing—the idea of his long, talented artist’s fingers wrapping and twisting and tying that rope around me—but that’s a very small part of my reaction. Most is abject horror that he could think I’d want to do something like that, to have the art community where I’ve worked so hard to build a solid reputation look at me as nothing but a marionette. A puppet for Jaxon Silva to do with what he wills.
No, thank you.
Except...except I can’t help clicking through to the one other shibari photo in the upcoming collection. This one is a blonde tied up with natural colored ropes, except instead of hanging from a ring, she’s caught in an elaborate doorway web, ropes wound over and over again around her arms, her torso, even her eyes in an elaborate kind of blindfold. Her legs aren’t visible in the picture, but from the number of ropes and knots around her hips, I can only imagine that they’re bound, too. Especially since Jaxon calls this one Said the Spider to the Fly.
This photograph takes it further than just bondage, though, because in this picture the model isn’t just tied up. She’s very obviously in the middle of an orgasm, skin flushed, face slack, expression dreamy. It’s a beautiful photo—Jaxon’s work always is—but it’s also one of the most personal—most intimate—photos I’ve ever seen.
He can’t really expect me to let him do his to me, can he? I mean, the two women in the photos look like models—long, lean, gorgeous, relaxed. How on earth can Jaxon think, even for a second, that I would look anything like that tied up in ropes? Or that I would trust him enough to let him bind me in such a way that I can’t get out?
I’ve never trusted anyone that much.
Letting him tie my hands together with that scarf was one thing—I couldn’t see what kind of knot he’d tied or what the binding looked like, but it was obvious right away that he’d deliberately made it loose enough that I could slip right out of it if I wanted to.
The fact that he gave me that kind of control over the situation made it easy to let him do it—and easy to stay tied up, because the choice not to be was with me. But there’s nothing easy about the kind of shibari illustrated in these photographs, no control in the hands of models trussed up like turkeys. No way could I do that, and no way could I let Jaxon do that to me. No matter how beautiful it is.
A sound behind me alerts me that I’m no longer alone, and I turn to find Jaxon standing at the entrance to the hallway, the floral comforter from my bed wrapped around him from neck to feet.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, his dark gaze searching my face for answers I’m not ready to give.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I close my computer with a snap. “Why?”
“Because most women who are fine don’t leave their warm beds in the middle of the night to sit on a cold couch, alone.”
“I couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to disturb you.” Which sounds reasonable and true and makes no mention of the fact that a thorough contemplation of BDSM and the role he wants me to play in it is the real reason I couldn’t go back to sleep. After all, I’ve never been one to share my weaknesses with the world.
“Too late,” he says as he crosses the room to me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I pull my knees up, so he’s got room to sit on the opposite end of the couch, but he just shoots me a wicked grin. Then he drops his grip on the comforter long enough to pick me up and drop down onto the couch with me on his lap.
“It means I can’t sleep in your bed without you next to me. It feels strange.” He pulls me closer, until I’m plastered to him from shoulder to mid-thigh. Then he wraps the blanket around both of us, his body heat chasing away a chill I didn’t even notice until it was gone.
“How strange could it possibly feel? We’ve known each other three days.”
“Always so practical, luv.” He takes my hand, kisses my palm, and for a second I melt. Then I think of the women I just saw in those photos and can’t help but wonder if he uses endearments so he doesn’t have to worry about keeping our names straight. Which is snide and obnoxious and totally beneath me considering he took those pictures before he ever met me. And still I can’t help wondering.
“How many women have you tied up?” The words come out unbidden and the second they do, I wish I could take them back. But I can’t—of course I can’t—so they hang there between us for long seconds.
Jaxon doesn’t seem annoyed by the question, though. If anything, he looks amused as he glances from me to the laptop and back again. “Several,” he finally says.
“Several?” I repeat, figuring at this point it’s too late to pretend I don’t care. “Does that mean five or twenty?”
Now he’s full-on grinning as he brushes his lips against my shoulder. “Somewhere in the middle, I think.”
I know I should just stop talking, that it’s none of my business, but there’s something inside of me that just keeps pushing for answers. It’s the same thing that can’t stand the idea of those hands of his wrapping those ropes around other women’s bodies. I mean, sure, the past is the past, but once he finds out I have no intention of letting him bind me like that, Jaxon will be off again, tying up some other model with a gorgeous body and zero inhibitions. That’s what I can’t stand the thought of.
“In the middle like eight or in the middle like eighteen?” I know I sound insane, but I just can’t seem to stop. The pictures I saw are flashing in my brain and I can’t figure out how to turn them off. How to stop wondering about how many more women Jaxon wants to do that to.
“Twelve,” he finally says, reaching up to tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear. “You’ll be lucky number thirteen.”
“Thirteen is usually considered an unlucky number,” I tell him, because correcting that is a lot easier than taking on the rest of his assumption, especially when I’m currently sitting on his lap.
“Not for me. Not since I met you.”
The whole line is pure cheese, and if another man had handed it to me I would have kicked him to the curb, instantly. But there’s something about Jaxon, something about the sincerity in his eyes, the honesty in his voice, that has me wondering if he means it. It also has me feeling like a fool for wondering, but I can only tackle one thing at a time.
“I don’t want you to tie me up.”
That ridiculous brow of his arches like it always does and I hate myself for the rush of heat it brings. No man should be so unreasonably attractive—talk about an unfair advantage. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, Grace darling, but you already let me tie you up.”
He trails his finger slowly across my wrist, an unnecessary reminder of just how much I gave him yesterday. “That’s not the same. I mean I don’t want you to tie me up like that.”
Now he looks more watchful than amused as he searches my face for I don’t know what. “Like what?”
“Like them!” I say, growing impatient. “Like the women in those photographs you took. I’m not your puppet and I sure as hell don’t want to look like I am.”
“My puppet? Where the hell did you ever get the idea that I’d want you to be?” Annoyance crackles in his tone. “That I’d want any woman to be?”
“That’s what a marionette is, isn’t it? A puppet on strings you get to pull?”
Understanding dawns. “That’s the name of the rope bindings, Grace. Not how I think of Sariah.”
“It’s also what you named the photograph.”
“I did. As an inside joke, between Sariah and me. Not because I thought of her as a puppet for even a minute.”
I snort. “You’re playing semantics.” I start to get up. Having this conversation on his lap feels far too intimate.
But as I move, his hands go to my hips to hold me in place.
“And you’re looking for an excuse to get upset—and using my work to do it. I never would have imagined that the woman who put that retrospective together would do such a thing.”
“I don’t—” I break off because he’s right. I am blowing t
his all out of proportion. How he chooses to create his art is his business, not mine. The only thing I have a say in is whether or not he uses me as a model, nothing else.
“Grace.” He cups my face in his hands. “I thought I’ve made it clear, but in case I haven’t, let me just say it outright. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do. If you don’t want to pose for me, then I won’t ask you to. If you don’t want me to tie you up—”
“You won’t tie me up?”
“I won’t. But on that, I won’t stop asking either.”
“Why not?” I ask, honestly curious. “Why does it matter to you so much?”
“Because I want to share it with you. I want you to see what I see when I look at you. And I want you to feel what I know you’ll feel when you’re bound.”
“How do you know I’ll feel anything but claustrophobic?”
“Oh, Grace.” He smiles ruefully. “Because you were made for the rope. It’s why you fight it so hard.”
His words spark something inside of me, something huge and powerful and overwhelming. So overwhelming, in fact, that I have to shy away from it. Have to ignore it or I feel like my whole life—my whole world—will shatter.
Jaxon must sense my struggle, because he doesn’t push any more. Instead, he sets me on my feet and says, “Come on. I’ll make you breakfast.”
“I’m not hun—” My stomach growls right on cue and I stare at him, astonished. “How did you know?”
“It’s my job to know, luv.” Again, he reaches out to caress my cheek. “It’s my job to take care of you.”
“I don’t have a clue what that means.”
He grins at me even as he hustles me into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a pair of designer boxer briefs that show off his truly spectacular ass...among other things. “Guess you’ll just have to let me show you.”
“What are we making?” I ask as I head toward the refrigerator.
“You aren’t making anything.” He gives me a swift kiss before wrapping his hands around my waist and lifting me onto the counter. “You’re just sitting there looking gorgeous while I make breakfast.”
He gives me another kiss and I giggle. An actual giggle, which is a sound I’m pretty sure I haven’t made since I was twelve years old. And I’m not sure I even did it then.
I’m horrified, but Jaxon looks absolutely delighted. “What was that?” he asks, leaning in for a third kiss.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I answer as I push him away. “Because it’s never happening again.”
“We’ll see about that.” He shoots me a sizzling look, before turning toward the fridge. As he does, I lean forward and smack his very delectable ass because it’s there. And because I obviously have poor impulse control.
Jaxon looks back at me and wiggles his eyebrows—and his ass. And damn if that ridiculous giggle doesn’t bubble up all over again.
I clap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. Jaxon licks his index finger and tallies an invisible one in the air. I giggle a third time, because how can I not? The art world’s most eligible bachelor just might also be its most ridiculous.
Five minutes later, I’m watching as he dumps eggs, milk, flour, water and butter in my blender, then mixes it up.
“What are you making?” I ask when the noise finally stops.
“Panquecas.”
“Pancakes?” I answer, surprised. I’ve never made pancake batter in a blender before.
“Not pancakes,” he answers, exasperated. “Brazilian crepes.”
“You know how to make crepes? From Brazil?”
He raises a brow as he starts cleaning a carton of strawberries. “Why do you look so surprised? I spent six months shooting there. I had to eat.”
“Yeah, but I’ve never actually met someone who knows how to make crepes before. I mean, outside of a restaurant.”
He shakes his head like I’ve somehow disappointed him. “Crepes are easy. They just taste complicated. And mine are delicious.”
“Not to mention good for wooing women.”
He sends me a prim look as he slices up a couple bananas. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” I deadpan, but he’s too busy rummaging in my tiny pantry to pay much attention. He comes out with chocolate sauce and powdered sugar and my mouth starts to water. I’m definitely getting the better end of this deal.
The only hitch in his rhythm is when he takes out my one skillet. He alternates between glancing at me and staring at it in dismay. As he does, I feel an almost irrepressible need to giggle all over again.
Instead, I tell him what he’s already figured out. “I’m not much of a cook.”
“I never would have guessed.” He sighs, but then—with one last very dry, very British look—sets the pan on the stove and drops a pat of butter into it. “Good thing I’m one hell of a cook. You should probably keep me around.”
It’s the first time either of us has mentioned this being anything more than a little fling and I freeze, trying to figure out if he realizes what he just said. More, trying to figure out if he actually means it. And if he does, how I feel about it.
But Jaxon doesn’t so much as toss me a look as he starts pouring batter into the hot pan. Seconds later, my kitchen fills with the delicious scent of freshly made crepes and the moment—or whatever it is—is lost.
Jaxon slides the cooked crepe onto a waiting plate, then pours more batter into the pan. As it cooks, he fills the already made crepe up with a cream cheese, strawberry and banana mixture he whipped up while I was staring into space and wondering about his words. Then he slides one edge of the crepe between the tines of a fork and rolls it up like magic.
Within five minutes, I’ve got a plate of ooey gooey, yummy crepes in my hands while he works on putting his together. “Don’t wait,” he tells me. “Eat while they’re warm.”
“Oh, I wasn’t planning on waiting,” I answer before shoveling in a big bite. And can I just say Oh. My. God. “You weren’t kidding about knowing how to cook.”
He shoots me a look. “A real man never jokes about his cooking.”
“I’ll remember that.” I cut another bite of delicious goodness and hold it out to him. “Here, have some.”
“I can wait.” He flips his crepe. “I like watching you eat.”
“Give me a break.” I hop off the counter and shove my fork in his face. “You can do both, you know. Now eat.”
He does, then takes the fork and plate from me and cuts another bite. “Your turn.” He holds it up to my mouth.
I let him feed me, then take a page from Jaxon’s book and turn my head to press a kiss to his palm.
For the first time, he falters, those wild, wicked eyes of his going wide and vulnerable. It’s a good look on him, one that sets butterflies to fluttering in my stomach, so I do it again. And again.
He reaches for me then, but I back away with a wicked smile of my own. And nod toward the stove. “Your crepe is burning.”
“Fuck the crepe,” he snarls, even as he turns back to deal with it.
“But your crepe isn’t what I want to fuck.”
He blows out a long breath, dark gaze locked with mine. “Yeah, me neither.”
We eat our middle of the night breakfast quickly, laughing and teasing each other as we do. I’m so caught up in the moment that it isn’t until we’re done that I remember what we were talking about before Jaxon decided he wanted to make me breakfast.
Absently swirling my finger in the leftover chocolate syrup on my plate, I ask, “Did you bring it?”
“Bring what?” His expression is lightly quizzical as he looks at me over the rim of his coffee cup. But I can see the knowledge in his eyes, the watchfulness that says he knows exactly what I’m talking about. He just wants to hear me say it.
Instead of calling him on it, I simply roll my eyes and say, “Your rope.”
He takes a slow sip of coffee. “Yes, I brought it.”
Of cours
e he did. Jaxon isn’t the type to be caught unprepared. Ever. “Can I see it?”
“I thought you weren’t interested in the rope. Why do you want to see it?”
I sigh in exasperation. “Why do you think?”
“I know what I think, Grace. I always have. It’s your thoughts I’m trying to figure out.”
“You know what? Never mind.” I push away from the table. “I don’t need—”
He grabs my wrist and gives it a tug that sends me spinning right into his arms. Right into his lap. “I’ll show you anything you want, luv.” He sweeps my hair to the side, kisses his way across the nape of my neck.
Just like that, I’m ready for him again. My breath quickens, my nipples peak, and I can feel myself growing damp as shivers work their way up and down my spine.
Jaxon laughs—of course he does—a dark, wicked sound that only makes me hotter. “Is it me that does that to you? Or the thought of the ropes?”
He slides my robe off my shoulder and kisses along the newly bared expanse of skin. Heat flares through me at the contact, so I tip my head to the left in an attempt to give him better access. And an attempt to make myself forget his question—and the way it amps up my arousal for no reason I can understand.
With Jaxon, it’s easy to do. Especially when he slides his hands inside my robe and pinches my nipples hard enough to have me crying out. “Stay here,” he tells me as he lifts me from his lap and onto the nearest chair.
“Easy for you to say.” I squeeze my legs together in an effort to assuage the sudden desperate need I have for his hands, his mouth, his cock. “You’re not the one—”
“Oh, I’m the one. I’m definitely the one.” He grabs the back of my neck, pulls me to him for a kiss that has my toes curling and my heart pounding. But just as I start to melt against him, he breaks it off. “Don’t move,” he reiterates before disappearing through the archway into the living room.
He’s back in under a minute, a long length of red rope curled around his wrist. And ohmygod. There’s something about the red rope against his lightly tanned skin, something about the way it coils around his wrist, that has my entire body going hot.
