by Jana Aston
“Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I’ve spent my entire life obsessing about weddings.”
“No,” he replies slowly. “I hadn’t meant to imply as such.”
“I am an event planner”—I stress the word ‘event’—“who happens to plan weddings when they’re assigned to me.”
“Got it. You’re not a wedding girl. Maybe you can convince your wedding customers to elope like you did.”
“That’d probably get me fired,” I reply, wondering if the elopement thing was a dig.
“Quite the moral dilemma you find yourself in.”
“It’s a real pickle, Vince. A real deep-fried pickle.”
He laughs and then I say more than I intended to. “I wish I could convince my mother to elope.”
“You don’t like the guy she’s marrying?”
“He’s fine, I guess. I don’t really know him, I was already in college when they met, so…” I shrug. “He’s her fourth husband so I’m not sure how seriously I’m supposed to take the whole thing. I’m not buying a monogrammed gift, I know that much.”
Vince is looking at me thoughtfully and it makes me uncomfortable. Like he’s trying to piece together the psyche of a girl who might have long-term commitment issues, hates weddings but likes eloping, and he isn’t sure if it all adds up to anything sane.
We’re on the sixth hole when I get a great idea. I’m leading by four so it’s an especially good idea for me.
“Hey! I know what we need to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Raise the stakes.”
“Raise the stakes?”
“Yup.” I grin.
“Sure. How can we do that? How can we possibly raise the bar on this insanity? Do you want to borrow someone’s baby this weekend to test if we’d be good parents?”
I stop dead in my tracks because that’s a much better idea than the one I had.
“Wait, is that a real thing that we could do? Do you know someone?”
Vince is staring back at me with a very odd expression on his face and I realize he was kidding. Like super kidding.
“I was kidding, Payton. You can’t test-drive a baby, Jesus. How much more insane can any of this get?”
“I know that! I was kidding too. Haha.”
He stares.
“Anyway, while the baby-sampling sounds like a great idea, I had something else in mind.”
“Baby-sampling,” he mutters to himself like I’m the crazy person who brought it up to begin with. That was him, to be clear. In case anyone forgot.
“Whoever wins mini-golf gets to tie the other person up.” I wink dramatically so he gets my drift. My drift is sex. Someone’s hands tied to the headboard, is what I’m envisioning.
Vince takes his first shot on hole three and then looks me over, head to toe and back again, as if he’s mentally undressing me.
“So if I win, I can tie you up?”
“Yes!” I grin big.
“I can do that anyway,” he finally says.
This guy. I sigh and resist flipping him off because we’re in public and children are present.
“Listen, buzzkill, it’s still a real good offer.”
“I’m not sure that you understand the concept of negotiating.”
“Fine. What do I have that you want?”
“Everything,” he replies. His voice is low and husky, the word spoken softly, and he’s looking me right in the eye when he says it. The swans in my stomach just found a water park that has water bumper cars. You know the ones? They look like giant inner tubes but they have a seat and they’re motorized and you use them to float around the lake banging into each other. My stomach swans are definitely banging. Spinning in circles and banging into everything in their path.
“Okay,” I reply, not quite trusting my voice to speak. Wondering if I’m reading too much into this. “If I win, I get to tie you up and if you win, you can have whatever you want.”
“Deal.” He sticks out his hand so we can shake on it. It’s oddly funny yet sexual at the same time. I slip my hand into his and we shake. I’ve felt his hands in mine and on various parts of my body too many times to count this past week, but it still affects me. The spark. The current between us. He winks and I nearly come on the spot. Well, not really. But I am extremely turned on and needy and would not say no if he wanted to abandon this game of mini-golf right now in favor of a hotel room and some kinky good times.
But I can be patient.
More patient than you’d think a girl who elopes on the first date would be.
So I remain confident in my certain victory for the next three holes, but by the tenth, we’re tied again. He pulls ahead on the twelfth. We’re tied again on the thirtieth. And then it’s all downhill. I lose by eight strokes. But let’s face it, this was a win for me either way.
I’m practically vibrating with excitement over what he might want to do tonight, with his win. Butt stuff? Nipple clamps? Fuck without a condom? Film a homemade sex tape?
Confess that he’s crazy in love with me?
Chapter Twenty-Five
He wants to have dinner at the Cheesecake Factory.
Yup. The Cheesecake Factory.
On a Saturday night.
His choice.
It took forty-seven minutes to get a table. I counted every one of them.
Then he didn’t order cheesecake.
He ordered salmon. With broccoli. No dessert. It was very nearly our first fight.
I had a barbecue chicken pizza without the onions because I still intended to have sex with him even though he purposely picked a restaurant with a long wait for no other reason than to amuse himself at my expense. I also ordered two slices of cheesecake to go. They were both for me.
After dinner things finally started looking up.
“I need to stop at Target,” he tells me as he makes a left out of the Cheesecake Factory instead of a right which would bring us back to the Beltway and my apartment.
Fuck, yes.
“Do you need to pick up a few supplies for your win, sir?” I ask it in my best sex kitten voice, running a fingertip up his forearm, my imagination already racing with ideas.
“Exactly.” He picks up my hand and kisses my palm before placing my hand onto the console between us, with a smile shot in my direction, then focuses on the road again.
Oh, yeah. Kink city. It’s happening.
“Stay here,” he instructs as he puts the car into park. “I’ll be quick.” Another sly grin, with a lingering glance at my lips, and he’s gone. The car is still running, and my pulse is racing in overtime.
What could he possibly get in a Target? Nipple clamps are out. Unless he’s going to buy a box of binder clips. I cringe at the very idea. That cannot be safe so that’s out.
Duct tape? The thing is, I cannot imagine how that wouldn’t hurt coming off and I’m not looking for real pain, just a bit of fun pain. Like maybe a light rope burn at worst.
Lube? They sell lube, right?
This is torture. How long has he been gone? I eye the clock on the dashboard, wishing I’d thought to check it when he got out of the car. What’s it been? Three minutes? Ten minutes? I’ve no idea.
Maybe he’s decided to take me up on my kinky prison warden offer and he’s assembling a sexy prisoner costume for me. I wonder what that would look like? Would he put me in a black bra and panties? Stockings and a garter belt? Or would he put me in a denim shirt, naked underneath and barely covering my ass?
What if he’s really just out of toothpaste?
I’ve never been so horny in my entire life. And by never I mean that I’m tempted to stick my hand down my pants and rub one out in this parking lot. I don’t, because it’s well lit and I don’t want to get arrested for public indecency even if I am married to an excellent criminal defense attorney, but I’m tempted. I do cross my legs really tightly while I wait though.
Twelve minutes. Plus whatever minutes I forgot to count in the beginning.
It’s another three minutes before he reappears. I’ve got my head turned to the side, watching the automatic doors for him to appear, so I spot him the moment the doors swish and he exits, bag in hand.
Except what the hell is in that bag? A shirt box? No…
No way.
I watch him walk towards the car, my eyes trained on that stupid bag. He’s not holding it by the skimpy plastic handles, instead the box is sticking out of the top of the bag while the entire thing is tucked under his arm. Then he’s at the car door. He opens it, bending a bit so he can meet my eyes as he shakes the box and grins before tossing it into the back of the car and sliding behind the wheel.
Monopoly.
He wants to play Monopoly.
What kind of a sick pervert wants to play a board game that takes forever when he’s got a hot blonde up for anything? Like, legiterally. Anything.
I turn my head and look at it in the backseat, needing visual confirmation one more time that I didn’t imagine this. Nope, I didn’t. The bag isn’t even lumpy, so there’s definitely not a hidden bottle of lube or a rope or even a packet of clothespins. I turn around and face forward while Vince reverses the car out of the parking space and turns us in the direction of my apartment.
He talks the entire way home about how much he’s loving our board game time, and how Monopoly was his favorite growing up, and I feel like a perverted jerk. Maybe all the sexual innuendo was in my head? I was pretty clear, wasn’t I? Still, it’s nice that he enjoys spending time with me, isn’t it? Time in which we’re talking and not having sex. Think of the big picture, Payton. He likes you, really likes you. He could be doing a lot of other things tonight, but he wants to play Monopoly with me.
That’s… nice.
I carry my cheesecake bag into the apartment. Vince carries the bag with his Monopoly game, still talking about our impending epic game night. I stick my cheesecake in the fridge and then pull out a kitchen chair and sit, resting my chin in my hand.
Then Vince pulls a flat package out of the bag, flat enough that I didn’t notice it under the board game box. He tears at the flap, the sticker ripping the cardboard sleeve. My curiosity is piqued as he tugs the item free of the packaging.
Stockings.
Okay, wow. Game night just got interesting. He holds them up so they unfurl, twin ribbons of black nylon or spandex or whatever the hell a pair of stockings you can buy at Target are made of.
“You want me to wear those while we play?” My mind races, imagining me naked save for these black thigh-highs. I like where this is going.
“No.”
Maybe I don’t like where this is going. Is now the time Vince reveals that he’s into womenswear? Like, for himself? No hate or anything but I don’t think I’m into that. Perhaps I could try though? For Vince?
“Stand up,” Vince instructs and I have no idea what’s going on, but I do. I stand, pushing my chair in once I’m up, my hands resting on the chair back as I stare at Vince. Then he laughs. “If you could see your face,” he says. I blink, still not sure what’s going on.
“Are we playing Monopoly or…” I trail off.
“Take off your shirt.”
Or not, it appears. I lift my shirt over my head, draping it over the chair back when it’s off.
“Bra.”
I remove that too, placing it on top of my shirt. Then I shiver, my nipples at attention in the cool of the apartment air-conditioning and Vince’s gaze.
“Come here.”
It’s not until I’m in front of him and he’s spun me around, pushing me chest down onto the kitchen countertop and tying my hands behind my back with the stockings, that I get it. I agree, that took me an embarrassingly long time.
When my hands are secure he kisses his way down my spine as his hands locate the side zipper on the skirt I’m wearing. A moment later it falls to the floor in a soft whoosh, then his thumbs hook into my panties and they follow suit. Then he slaps my ass with an open palm and I jump, but before I can react further he’s yanked me upright and is walking me in the direction of my room and I feel so dirty. Good dirty. Fantastically dirty. Seductively dirty.
When I’m in front of my bed he turns me to face him then pushes me back until I’m on my back. My arms are bound, trapped beneath me, and it’s not the most comfortable position in the world but it does serve to tilt my pelvis perfectly in his direction. Especially once he’s picked my dangling legs up and spread them wide, heels on the edge of the bed, thighs open.
“Don’t move.”
I won’t. It would take a lot of effort to get up with my arms tied behind me and besides, I really like where this is going.
Vince moves to my nightstand, the one with the condom stash and the complimentary packet of lube. Except that’s not a condom in his hand. It’s my eye mask. The one I sometimes use if I’m sleeping late on a weekend and the outside light is too bright as it peeks around the edges of the mini-blinds covering my window. When he slips it over my eyes my heart rate speeds way up. Darkness ups the ante in a very big way. The reduction of sight heightens every sound in the room, my ears eager to identify his slightest movement and what it might mean for me.
The dresser across from my bed creaks, just barely. I imagine that he’s leaned up against it, arms casually crossed while he stares at me spread open on the bed. It’s embarrassing, but it’s hot.
I hear something, the slightest movement a moment before he runs his fingertip down the inside of my thigh. I jump, my legs coming together out of instinct.
“I said not to move. Do I need to tie your legs open, Payton?”
“No.” I shake my head in denial, but I’m not sure why I’m saying no because the idea of him tying my legs open has made me so wet I’m sure he can see it for himself. “I’ll be good.” Maybe. “Goodish,” I qualify because I don’t want to mislead him. Then I let my legs fall open and arch my feet in nervous anticipation. Or is it excited anticipation? Both, most likely. Being restrained makes me feel like his. I wonder if that’s weird or messed up, but I feel it just the same. Like I can let go of all the stress of not knowing where this relationship is going. Because while my hands are tied, it’s all on him to make me feel good and safe and wanted. There’s nothing I can do but accept it, enjoy it. Revel in his touch and attention.
Vince laughs, a low breathy exhale. Then he taps my clit with his fingertip and there’s absolutely no possibility of me holding still. It’s so much more intense when I can’t see what he’s doing. I’m jumpy and wound up and I’m sure I’ve never been this turned on in my life. Vince is between my legs so I can’t do more than squeeze my thighs around him. When his tongue flicks over my clit I’m willing to admit I’ve been too hasty in my analysis of how turned on I am because the bar of my arousal keeps getting raised.
“Please let me come,” I beg.
“You want to come?” Vince’s voice is amused. “You want to come three minutes into this game?”
“Yes, please!” Has it really only been three minutes? “Then we can play Monopoly. Or whatever you want.”
“I wish I’d bought duct tape,” he mutters. Then he licks the inside of my thigh and I think I’m a dripping amount of wet. I buck my hips towards him because really, it’s about the only movement I can make. It’s the only control I have on getting more. More friction, more of his mouth. More of his wicked perfect tongue.
“I don’t want to play a board game tonight, Payton.”
“No?”
“No, I think everything I want to play with is right here.” He runs a hand down my leg, from hip to toe. When he gets to my foot he massages his thumb into my arch. Firm, deep circular strokes followed by a press of his lips before he bends my knee and places my foot back on the bed.
Then he flicks my clit with his finger a moment before pinching my nipple. First one, then the other.
“Please,” I beg. Please don’t stop. Please do that again. Please fuck me until I can’t remember my own name.
> When he slides his finger inside of me I say thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’m so close, and then his finger is gone but his lips are back. Sucking and nipping and kissing. When his finger, wet with my own fluids, rims my asshole, I flinch. Of course I flinch. But I don’t want him to stop, not in the least. My entire body is humming in sensation and anticipation. When he whispers, “Relax,” I do. Then he works me up to the brink again, but this time I shatter with his finger in my ass and my clit between his teeth. He slips off the blindfold before he kisses me. He tastes like sex and forever.
Then he flips me over, slipping my hands free from the nylon restraint and rubbing my forearms before instructing me to get on all fours. He snags a condom and I want to tell him he doesn’t need to, that I’m on the pill and I’m safe and we’re married, but something holds me back. Because if he’s not interested in coming inside of me it’s really going to ruin the moment and I’m not in the headspace for that.
When he kneels behind me, hands wrapped around my waist, and thrusts deep, I’m not in any headspace at all. He uses my waist to rock me onto him at his desired speed, which is fast. Fast and hard, his fingers digging into my hips as he slams me onto his cock while he thrusts forward with his hips. The sound of our skin slapping echoes in the room, along with me. It’s a lot of me moaning and sighing and begging. I’m not sure what I’m even begging for until he uses my hair to yank me upright and God, does that tug against my scalp nearly make me come again. He continues to drill me from behind, one hand wrapped in my hair as his other snakes around to work my clit. I’m so embarrassingly wet. Messy wet as he slides two fingers between my lips and tweaks my clit until I’m clenching so hard around him I feel like I might break. He pumps into me twice more before I feel him shudder, until the hand in my hair loosens, until I’m facedown on the bed, Vince on top of me, still inside of me, but done.
“Well, fuck.” He brushes my hair out of the way and kisses the back of my neck. I shiver and wonder if I can die from orgasming.
Vince cleans us up. He gets up to dispose of the condom and comes back with a warm washcloth which he uses to clean me. “I can get up,” I protest. Because no one has ever done that for me before and if he doesn’t love me back I might die. I love him. I fucking love him and I don’t even care how stupid and unpredictable love is. How uncertain and fragile and without guarantee.
