by Linnea May
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” I say to help her out. “The accident fucked me up. Let’s just leave it at that.”
She nods. “I can see why it would.”
Melina clears her throat before she takes another sip of her Negroni. I study her every move, trying to see whether this new information changes how she thinks about me. She’d never admit it if I asked her, but you can tell in the way people behave around you—in the way they look at you, and the way they face you. Body language is often more telling than what people actually dare to say.
And it’s visible in Melina, too. She may not realize it, but her body shifts away from me, her knees moving only an inch or so as she turns them away from me while her shoulders hunch and she clings to the glass. She’s protecting herself, despite there being no imminent attack.
“How are you dealing with it?” she asks, her eyelashes fluttering as she looks at me.
“You mean, did I get help?”
She nods, licking her lower lip.
“Yes, of course, I did. I had to,” I tell her. “But I’ll be honest with you; some shit never leaves you. Some shit you can’t fix, no matter how much therapy you go through.”
I pause, scoffing as I remember some of the arguments I’ve had with my therapist when she didn’t want to accept that some of her cocksure methods wouldn’t work on me. Never have, never will. I still find it ridiculous that she thought a one-size-fits-all approach would work for me.
I notice Melina’s eyes on me, studying me like I studied her just a few moments ago.
“You blame yourself for what happened, don’t you?” she observes.
Her words hit me right in the chest. Why the hell does she say that? How can she possibly know?
The shock of her eerie accuracy must be written all over my face because she’s displaying a winning smile when our eyes meet.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“You don’t even know what happened,” I lecture her. “What gives you the right to make such an observation?”
She sucks in a deep breath, worry replacing the pride on her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” I assure her, placing my hand on her thigh and squeezing her in an intimate gesture that surprises us both. She flinches at my touch, but not because she doesn’t welcome it. It’s just that she didn’t see it coming. And neither did I, to be honest.
“You’re not entirely wrong,” I concede. “I guess it just baffles me how you could come to that conclusion so easily.”
She puts her hand on mine, adding a soft caress to her touch.
“It’s kind of obvious,” she says. “You blame yourself for whatever happened, and that’s why you don’t accept the help to get over it.”
I knit my eyebrows. That doesn’t sound right. I didn’t go through years of therapy to have someone tell me that I wasn’t ready to accept help.
“I told you, I did get help,” I remind her. “Plenty of it.”
“But you still maintain that you’re broken beyond repair,” she insists. “Makes me think that you feel like you don’t deserve to get better. Like you choose to carry that burden with you, all that pain, because you think you deserve it. Repentance, you know.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Seems like it’s true that all bartenders are also psychiatrists.”
She shakes her head, laughing. “No, it doesn’t come with the job, in my case.”
I watch as she bites her lower lip, pondering while her eyes focus on the brim of her glass. Her face is dipped in the dim red light, masked by shadows and leaving the details of her facial expression a mystery to my eyes. I’ve never seen her in broad daylight, an observation that pops up randomly as I try to read her face and fail yet again. Whatever is going on inside her head will remain a secret to me unless she decides to speak; a decision that doesn’t come easily to her right now.
“Melina?”
Calling her name is just an attempt to pull her attention back to me, a way to take the decision to speak away from her. And it works. Her lashes flicker as if she’d just woken from a dream. She nods as if I’d given her some kind of command and looks at me.
“It’s funny you’d call me a psychiatrist,” she says, a somber smile tugging at her lips. “I mean, I do have some experience in the area, but I’m not the one taking notes.”
I nod in understanding. “You’d be the one who’s asked whether she wants to sit or lie down.”
She huffs and responds with another silent nod. So she has been in therapy, too. I wonder what for? Would it be too much to ask her? Does it have to do with her dislike of loud music and loud noises? Is that why she keeps asking me about it? Because she can relate not only because she shares my inclination, but because a traumatic incident caused hers as well?
“You’re curious now, aren’t you?” she notices, throwing me a look from the side. “But you don’t want to ask.”
I shift in my seat, my hand still on her thigh. Removing it now would send the wrong signal. It would make her feel as if I was somehow repulsed by her revelation, just as she shied away from me when I shared a part of me that I usually keep to myself.
“I’m not afraid to tell you,” she adds, lowering her voice to a level that makes it hard for me to understand. “But not tonight. Not now.”
A smile casts away the somber expression on her face when she looks at me. “I want tonight to be about something else.”
17
Melina
We’re lucky enough to find our room empty and unused as we head upstairs, but unlike the other night, noises from the other rooms along the hallway can be heard. I shy away from the curtains as we make our way through the corridor, a weird sense of embarrassment taking hold of me as I walk by so closely to other people having sex and playing kinky games.
You’d think that the shows downstairs would have warmed me up to this kind of scenery and that I would no longer feel awkward about being surrounded by sex and kink. But it’s different when the scene is staged in front of a crowd and not played out by two people alone, hidden behind curtains, but with no door protecting them from prying eyes and ears. I’ve been told that the rooms are semi-private because it adds excitement to those who use them. Only the blue rooms are for those who are wired differently; those who seek the protection of privacy.
People like me—and him, I assume. I don’t know if Rowan would prefer for us to switch to a different setting, but he never mentioned anything. Just like me, he heads for the same room as last time, the blue and quiet room at the far end of the corridor on the left.
Neither of us says a word until we’ve closed the door behind us. We find each other in the blue shadows, following the magnetic attraction that pulls us closer. He takes my face between both hands, guiding me in for a kiss. I don’t know if it’s deliberate, but he covers my ears with his hands, muffling all sound as our lips meet, and I close my eyes. The taste of vermouth and blood orange still lingers on his lips as I’m sure it does on mine. It spices our heated kiss, tasting so much better on him than the drink tasted from the glass.
I follow on instinct when he withdraws to stop our kiss. My eyes fly open, searching his with anticipation. He lowers his hands, placing them on my hips as he puts a little distance between us.
“I want to try something tonight,” he says in a whisper. “But I need you to trust me for it to work.”
“I trust you,” I breathe, but even I notice the quiver in my voice. My statement lacks conviction, and I cannot hide my concern.
“I want to trust you,” I correct myself, noticing a hint of chagrin traveling across his face. “I think it would be easier if you told me what you want to try.”
He nods. “Of course. Come.”
He reaches for my hand and leads me to the glass cabinet. A small light illuminates the content, making it easier to see the contents and causing the cabinet to stand out against the otherwise dark room. The cabinet’s light may be a little brighter
than the rest of the room, but it’s just as blue. It’s a small cabinet and only displays a few items—none of them meant to inflict strong pain, which is a relief to me.
I watch as Rowan opens the door and reaches inside, grabbing a black blindfold and a little box that I cannot identify.
“I know you trust me with this,” he says, holding up the familiar piece of fabric. “But how do you feel about adding these?”
He opens the little box and holds it up for me to see.
“Earplugs?” I wonder out loud, and he nods.
“Sensory deprivation, they call it,” he says, a foreboding tone lacing his voice. “You would be shielded from everything, sight and sound.”
I swallow dryly, eying him as I reach for the earplugs. I hold them up, turning them between my fingers as if they could tell me anything he wouldn’t.
I’m intrigued, no doubt. The idea holds promise for something special, something I’ve never experienced before. But it frightens me, too.
Why does it frighten me? Because I don’t know him well enough to trust him not to take advantage of the situation? What could he possibly do to me that I wouldn’t want him to? A lot of things. But do I believe him to be capable of cruelty?
No, that’s not it. Something is bothering me about his proposal, but it’s not because I’m afraid of him. It’s something else.
“What do you get out of this?” I give voice to my concern. “Why do you want to do this?”
His eyebrows crease, and he looks at me as if I’d just asked the most stupid question ever.
“I get to play with you,” he says matter-of-factly. “I get you.”
I can’t suppress a faint gasp as I blush from this compliment. The way he said it made it sound like it was so obvious—as if he considers being with me and playing with me to be a privilege.
No one has ever made me feel that way.
“Okay,” I utter, still a little dumbfounded from his sweet words. I don’t think he even meant them the way they reached me. He didn’t mean to give me a compliment or to woo me in any way.
He just told the truth. He just shared his perception of what this was between us.
His smile is the last thing I see before he puts the blindfold on, fastening it with a tight knot at the back of my head. He brushes my hair back over my shoulder and, in the process, hooks his fingers below the straps of my dress. I’m smiling when he pulls it down along my body and step out of it on my own when he reaches the floor. Underneath, I’m wearing the only set of lingerie I own, a simple set in black lace, including stockings and a garter belt. I can’t even remember the last time I wore this for a man.
I expect him to say something, to let me know what he thinks of my getup, but he doesn’t. So I remain quiet.
However, I feel his eyes on me, sensing his presence as he lets me stand there for a while, keeping his hands to himself. I hear him move, taking a step away from me, and then I hear fabric grazing along fabric and something being thrown to the floor. His suit jacket? Is he getting undressed? I hear buttons popping, a sound so faint but so clear in this room, where it doesn’t have to compete with any other noise. Ever since we closed the door, we haven’t heard any more noises from the other rooms—no panting, no strangers moaning, no spanking and whipping as others play their own games.
In here, it’s just us.
I hear his belt buckle next, and the knowledge that he’s freeing that beast of a cock I met a few days ago makes my core clench with desire. I was sore after the last time, feeling the effect of how his massive girth stretched me even a day after it happened.
My pulse races by the time the sound of him undressing diminishes. Nothing but our erratic breathing breaks the complete silence surrounding us.
I fight hard to stand still when I feel him approaching, closing in on me and fiddling with something in his hands. I want to reach forward, trying to find his length. I want to see if he’s as hard for me as I’m wet for him. But I don’t do it. He never provided me with a certain protocol to follow, but something tells me that I shouldn’t touch him when he didn’t ask me to do so.
I flinch in surprise when I feel his hands next to my head, brushing strands of hair behind my ear before he pinches my earlobe and pushes the plug in. I have worn earplugs before, but it’s always been in loud environments when it’s meant to cancel out annoying noises that kept me from sleeping. I’ve never experienced earplugs in an already quiet room.
It’s weird.
Once he pushes in the second plug, all I can hear is my own blood rushing through my veins, my own breathing, and my own heartbeat. I’ve never been this aware of all the sounds my body produces while keeping me alive. It’s odd and distracting in a way; so much so that I’m doubting this whole endeavor.
My doubts are cast aside when I feel his hands on me, instantly pulling all attention back to him and what he’s doing to me. He’s standing so close that I can feel the heat of his body and smell his intoxicating scent when he leans in to steal another kiss. This one is nothing more than a peck on the lips. It’s innocent and almost loving, like a final reassurance that I can trust him.
I follow his guiding hands as he leads me to the other end of the room, the corner where I know the blue satin bed is waiting for us. He makes me sit on the edge of the bed, my feet barely touching the ground as he beckons for me to lie on my back.
I oblige, smiling as my back meets the soft sheets, and I close my masked eyes.
18
Rowan
What do I get out of this?
She should see herself right now and then ask that again.
Melina is lying before me; her naked body stretched out on the bed with her toes barely touching the ground as she spreads her legs for me. I never told her to do so, and I don’t know what she expects me to do. Does she think I will fuck her right away? Just like that?
It’s not that I don’t want to. My cock has been hard since the moment we stepped inside this room, recalling the memories from the last time. I’m throbbing with need, and for a moment, I doubt my decision to take my time with her tonight. I’m yearning to be inside her again, the need pulsating through every fiber of my being when I step closer to the bed.
She can neither hear nor see me, but she senses me coming closer. Her body tenses, her little hands digging into the sheets beneath her when I position myself between her spread legs. She’s wearing a cute set of lingerie for me, a black thong with a matching bra and laced stockings held up by a garter belt around her waist. The sight is endearing, to say the least, but I need her naked for what I’m about to do.
She sighs when I lean over her and arches her back to help me as I reach behind her back to unhook her bra. The view of her perky breasts sends another hot shiver down my spine, causing my cock to twitch with need dangerously close to her core. I remove the garter belt, unfastening the clips that hold up her sheer stockings before I hook my finger beneath the slim lace of her black thong. It sticks to her center as I slowly pull it down, baring her in front of me.
I’m down on my knees, naked, rock hard, and faced with her arousal. She’s heaving heavy breaths in nothing but her heels and her stockings.
The beast inside me is raging furiously, desperate to be inside her, to take her roughly. My fists are clenching while I fight it back, calming the disruptive voices and pushing the urges aside, no matter how loud they may scream for attention.
I get back up on my feet before it’s too late, and the fight is lost. But I can’t stop myself from getting a little taste of her. She moans when my hand dives between her legs, my palm cupping her mound as I let two fingers slide between her hot lips. She’s dripping wet, her back arching as she leans into my touch.
A sinister smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I fondle her just a little bit, watching her react to my touch and filling the room with her sweet moans in the process. Her body coils with heat, the muscles in her legs tensing as she tries to lift her hips, inviting me in to stretch her.
Not yet, little girl.
She mewls with disappointment when I retreat, leaving her alone with her profuse desire as I walk over to the cabinet. Most of the utensils displayed in here are not meant to deliver actual pain. There are feathers, different pieces of fabric, some rope, vibrators, and massage balls. But I reach for the two items that are not like the others, two metal items meant to tease but have the capability to inflict pain, if handled accordingly.
When I walk back to the bed, I find she hasn’t moved an inch. Her soft panting is the only sound filling the room as even the carpet muffles my careful steps. I return to my position between her legs, careful not to touch her in the process, but she knows I’m there.
She stiffens, holding her breath in anticipation as I kneel before her, placing the items I just fetched on the bed right next to her. Her head tilts to the side for a split second, following my movements even though she cannot see me.
I tell her to relax by placing my hands on her inner thighs, gently massaging her sensitive skin as I make my way up to her core. I stop right before her heated center, deliberately sparing the most sensitive place between her legs as I move my hands farther up and out to her hip bones.
She squirms beneath my touch, leaning into it and begging for more. My hands trail along the sides of her body, following the shape of her slim waist to her tits. I cup her small curves, kneading gently while observing her reaction. She jerks when I take her nipples between two fingers, threatening to pinch them. Even when I only apply a hint of pressure, she groans in a blend of ecstasy and agony. She’s sensitive. I like that.
Her sigh of relief travels through the room when I release her tits, caressing the sides of her waist as I move back down to the curve of her hips. I take the exact route, following the same path along her hip bones back to her center, surpassing her sensitive core before I reach the soft skin on the inside of her thighs.
