Worth The Wait: A Nature Of Desire Series Novel

by Joey W. Hill

  “When you want to touch me”—his gaze met hers— “I didn’t want this to startle you. It’s an insulin pump.” He tapped the pager-looking device. “You don’t have to worry about dislodging the cannula just by bumping it. The cannula’s the tube part. The adhesive over the injection site is so strong I have to have prescription wipes to remove it.”

  He was suggesting he anticipated her touching him, something she rather anticipated herself, despite any pointless admonitions to the contrary. She wanted to trace the muscles of his abdomen now, brush her fingertips over the arrow of silky hair between them.

  “So you can shower in it and everything?”

  “Shower, sweat like a roofer. It’s not moving.” He flashed her a smile. “Though I sometimes remove the pump when I do roof work because I burn through so many calories I don’t have to worry about insulin. I can use other pieces of tape to hold the connector to my body, unless it’s a day when I’m moving the injection site, and then I just remove it all together and check my numbers more often.”

  He’d made the decision to tell her, but she could tell he was ready to move on, so she glanced up at him through her lashes. “If I asked to touch it as an excuse to fondle those awesome abs of yours, would you be okay with that?”

  “Well, I told you about it because I wanted to avoid a clinical discussion during a passionate moment. It sounds like you’re right on board with my unsubtle plan to get you to touch me as much as possible.”

  His tone was teasing, but mild, as if he anticipated her flipping back to gun-shy again. She was sure he could feel the chemistry between them as strongly as she could. The only way that chemistry wasn’t going to trigger something between them was if she bolted.

  The look in his eyes as his attention dropped to her mouth and slid down over her torso to her hands wasn’t conducive to that move, because his expression was no longer kind. He’d mixed his gentle tone with the gleaming edge she craved, and she was losing ground fast.

  Her clever wit deserted her and, when his hand closed over hers, she was tense. He didn’t pull her hand toward him. Instead, he shifted his grip to her wrist, holding her as his fingers slid over her pulse, stroked her forearm. She kept her gaze on his throat as he brought his other hand to her face, caressing her cheek. His thumb moved over her lips to her chin, exploring her. She closed her eyes, absorbing his touch.

  The breeze wafted through the courtyard, the sun a mild heat on a partially cloudy day. The flowers offered a mixed musk of light fragrance, deep earth, nourishing fertilizer.

  At last he drew her hand to him, sliding it up under his shirt. She touched the tube and round adhesive lightly, his grip still guiding her, and then she caressed his abdomen on her own as his hand loosened and he let her do as she wished. He returned to his absorption with her face, fingertips gliding over her cheekbone, back down over her lips, around the back of her neck to thread through her ponytail as she dipped her head, brushing her ear and cheek against his hand.

  His abdomen was muscular, but not so overly pumped that it was more rock than flesh. He was a manual laborer, and she liked the way that translated into layers of muscle and warm skin. She pressed her fingertips into it like she would firm, damp clay. As she did that, she also felt small hard lumps beneath the skin.

  “Scar tissue,” he told her, as her fingers quested. “Over time, the pump causes that. They don’t hurt.”

  His grip returned to her wrist, and he drew her touch away from him, holding their fingers loosely linked on his knee. She opened her eyes, and he glanced toward the entrance to the garden, a subtle pointing. A group of chatting Red Hat ladies were wandering into the White Garden.

  “Thirsty?” Des asked as she took in the delightful array of purple and red hat designs, embellished with velvet, feathers and sparkling brooches. “We could grab a drink from the café before we walk over to the Conservatory.”

  “That sounds great.”

  They rose and he escorted her through the main lobby to the café to get them both a drink, her a soda and him a flavored water. Finding an outdoor table with a peaceful overview of the Four Seasons garden, they settled in. They sat across from one another, and Des slid his long legs out so his calves bracketed one of hers, rubbing companionably against it.

  She locked her fingers around her soda. Neither of them had said a word about what they’d just done, what it meant. He seemed as comfortable now as he’d been before they’d entered the White Garden. She didn’t want to be the idiot who had to put a label on it, dress it up, make it anything beyond…feeling. Words ruined things. It had felt sexy, stirring, comforting. Time had stopped and things had balanced, while all the right things somersaulted and tilted. Maybe this was all part of him acclimating her to a future rope session together. That would make sense, right? No need to make more of it than that.

  “You know,” she said. “You’ve totally ruined my chance to talk about my traumatic adolescent experiences. Training bra woes, dealing with the cattiness of Paula Winfield and her letter girl squad. Pimples. All that sounds so trivial compared to facing death at six years old.”

  His eyes sparkled. He had thick, dark lashes, and his eyebrows were ebony thickets she wanted to trace and smooth. “You’re right, it was selfish of me to bring it up,” he said. “But you can still tell me. I’ll make sympathetic noises. And if you and the letter girls had a fight in the locker room where everyone was half naked, I will listen very attentively. So what was wrong with Paula? Was she too pretty?”

  “It wasn’t that. It was what was under the melts-in-your-mouth, not-your-hand, candy coating. That wasn’t pretty at all. ”

  Des took a sip of his water and nudged a Ziploc bag of snack mix he’d pulled out of his pack toward her. It appeared to be a combination of pretzels, cereal and nuts.

  "I've never heard a woman compared to a peanut M&M."

  "Women are plain M&M’s.” She took a handful of the mix. “Men are peanut ones. For obvious reasons. Did you make this, too?”

  "Yeah. It’s pretty easy." He crossed his arms on the table, leaning forward, his lips quirked at her M&M observation, she was sure. She realized she was in a similar position toward him, creating an intimate triangle of body language.

  She drew back and cleared her throat. "All right, I promise I’m not obsessing about work, but I’m too curious not to ask some questions about the Dom thing. Is that okay?”

  He cocked his head, his lips unsmiling and eyes intent upon her, capable of waking up every part of her body. She wasn’t usually this easy of a mark. He was a roofer who dressed like a homeless surfer, and, and, and…

  “It’s okay to ask.” He interrupted her internal redundant babbling, thank God.

  “From the stuff I’ve read, each Dom and sub seem to have a sense of who they are, deeper layers of meaning. The more I understand those layers, the better scenes I can help create. So tell me what kind of Dom you are. "

  Unfolding an arm, he slid his fingers through her ponytail again, bringing it forward over her shoulder. He had an obvious liking for her hair, and she had a vision of him wrapping his hands in it, pulling hard as he pushed her down to all fours and…

  Seriously? Julie, rein it in.

  "I’m hearing your professional interest,” he said. “How about the personal one?"

  “I meant what I said about having relationships, or talking about mine.” She stiffened when she detected a mild flash of impatience in his expression, gone in a blink. She couldn’t blame him for feeling that way, which just irritated her with herself. “I know that’s stupid, after what we did a few minutes ago, but…is the way you’re acting toward me just to make me comfortable with the rope stuff?”

  “You’re interested, I’m interested. If you were really as relationship-shy as you claim, you wouldn’t be here,” he said, not answering her question. He wasn’t helping her bullshit herself. She didn’t want him stepping inside the boundaries of her personal dysfunction, so she bristled.

 
“I don’t need to be told what I am or am not.”

  “Am I wrong, New York?” He tapped her hand, a reproof and caress at once.

  He wasn’t. She sighed. “I’m okay with flirting, but you're kind of intense, Des. It’s easier for me to wade in the shallows on the rope stuff, but it feels like you want to go deep sea diving. I don’t want to make a fool of myself over someone, and I don't play the games well."

  He touched her face before she could close down entirely. "Let’s go with straight honesty, then. I’d prefer you be interested in the Dom/sub stuff for yourself, first. Because you interest me that way. And it works better that way, however you use the information."

  Well, that was direct and reasonable. The sliding touch of his hand on her face was something she wanted to follow. She wanted to reach out and thread her fingers through the strands of dark hair on his shoulder. She shivered, drew back.

  "You’ve said your main relationship outlet happens in the BDSM world. I like the sub angle, but I haven't really explored it much. It may end up being purely academic for me. I don't know about what kind of Dom you are. We may be entirely incompatible…"

  "A lot of maybes, and only a couple ways to answer those questions, love. There’s a fine line between staying away from the games and drawing a complete map that leaves no room to explore." He curved his hand over her shoulder, thumb pressing into her collar bone in a distracting way. "Breathe for me. The nice thing about Dom and sub interaction is you can negotiate the lines and boundaries with no censure on either side. I may be intense when I want something, but I’m not pushy and I’m not going to ever make you feel like crap because you want to move at your own pace and define your own finish line. All right?”

  She believed him. It was part of his dangerous appeal. She knew the bulk of this unpleasant feeling was coming from her own worries.

  “Why don’t I just answer the question?” he suggested. “For you, not the theater manager."

  “I’ve forgotten what the question was,” she said.

  He smiled. “About what kind of Dom I am. I’ll answer the question in the Conservatory. How about some more snack mix?”

  “Why not?” She rolled her eyes and scooped up another handful. She’d noticed everything he made seemed to be both healthy and tasty, even his PB&J sandwich. Another eerily wonderful thing about him. Maybe he was an alien.

  “So do you know why I asked you to meet me here, instead of at the theater?” he asked, turning them to a different subject. She latched onto it gratefully.

  “Because you wanted to win points by inviting a woman somewhere she’d enjoy, instead of to a monster truck rally or gun show?”

  “You strike me as the type of woman who’d enjoy a gun show. But there wasn’t one in town this weekend.”

  “Damn. I wanted to add to my assault rifle arsenal.” She sighed. “Another weekend maybe.”

  “See? You’re already contemplating another date with me. Progress.” He rose. “I’ll answer both questions in the Conservatory.”

  It was a short, sunlit stroll to the glass building where the orchids were. As he opened the door for her, the moist, close air enveloped her skin, the smell of growing things saturating the senses.

  “Oh, look at all the different shapes and colors.” Moving along the concrete path, she stopped to gaze at orchids in shades of orange, purple, pink, red, white, magenta…countless colors. They weren’t planted like daisies in a field that grew thick together and formed a carpet. They were spaced to display their assets in a jungle-like environment, surrounded by rock formations and water fountains. They looked like jewels in carefully designed settings, so the delicate twists and shapes of the petals could be examined from all angles. Some grew out of tree trunks. Others twined like vines over branches. Still others grew on their own stems, nodding from the wind generated by the fans mounted throughout the building.

  “So why do you come here?” she asked. “What do you like about it, beyond the obvious that it’s amazing?”

  He’d stopped before a trio of white orchids. As he shifted his weight to one hip, he drew her over. “Notice the shape of the petals. When I look at them, I imagine transforming the female form into the same shapes, using rope. I get a lot of ideas from gardens, particularly orchids.”

  She shifted her gaze to the white orchid in the middle. He traced the air before it. “Imagine that’s her thigh, lifted, bound to her ankle. Her back arched, arms behind her so her breasts form this curve here… I’d suspend her, but I’d also twist a rope beneath her, so it would become the stem of the flower and anchor her.”

  As he described it, she could see it. “Why does it give you such a charge? It’s not just about tying a woman up so you can do whatever you want to her, or is it?”

  He gave her a quick, very male smirk. “That’s a very important perk. But yes, there are other reasons. I explore a lot of rope disciplines, and one of my personal favorites is semenawa, torture rope. Not as scary as it sounds. It's about contrasting stimuli."

  They moved in front of another display, this one of lavender orchids grouped around a stone pool with a trickling fountain. He shifted behind her. "Pull all your hair over your right shoulder."

  He could say things in a manner that wasn’t saying them at all, as much as commanding them. What made it so intoxicating was that he pulled it off in such an unexpected moment. As Madison had said, Des didn't appear the commanding sort…at first glance. Yet he could compel a woman’s attention with his unwavering gaze, the set of his jaw and an energy that emitted from him even when he was saying nothing at all. Some people were a fulcrum around which people unconsciously kept their radar attuned. When he was in this mode, he was one of those fulcrums.

  "The other right shoulder." His voice held heat with humor, acknowledging the reason for her distraction. When he shifted closer, his breath stirred the fine hairs on her exposed neck. His body didn't touch hers, but a dense aura stroked her, a cushion of magnetism between two closely aligned bodies, the strength of his interest in her, his desire.

  Curving his hand over her hip, he put his lips over the pounding pulse in her throat. A small breath escaped her, a shudder swaying her into a light brush against him. He moved in, and his lips parted, tongue teasing her.

  "See how the top part of the orchid is slightly twisted?"

  She nodded, her eyes fixed on it. His grip left her hip and cupped her hand, her knuckles nested in his palm. His thumb came over them to press into the flesh at the base of her fingers while his other fingers constricted, capturing her hand fully. Slowly, as his mouth stimulated a thousand nerve endings in her throat, he began to turn her wrist. Not a lot, but his hold and the angle made her gradually aware of pressure and his strength, discomfort edging toward pain. Just when she thought she was going to have to ask him to stop, he did, holding her hand at that unnerving stress point.

  His lips created a lot of mad swirling between her chest and the folds of her sex. His inflexible restraint on her hand sent a bolt straight to her core just as powerful. The mix of sexual stimuli had her reaching for his hand on her other hip to steady her, even as things became far less steady.

  "Imagine I can tie you in the shape of that flower,” he said, lifting his mouth a fraction from her skin. “I can. You’ll struggle between pain and ecstasy, and I’ll use both to break you into a world of your mind you can't imagine, where every reaction you have belongs to me. I have full command of your senses, your body. You're not even sure if your soul belongs to you anymore. You’re stretched to your physical limits, but you’re aroused, too, not wanting the tension to end."

  He turned her around to face him, though his hands remained on her hips, holding her. “You asked what kind of Dom I am. Spanking's not my thing, or putting a woman in a collar."

  "Oh."

  He rubbed his jaw against her cheek, his eyes close to her face. "You’re sounding disappointed,” he teased her in a husky voice.

  She pushed half-heartedly at him and h
e drew back, taking her hand once more, continuing their stroll. Julie wondered if she was as flushed on the outside as she felt on the inside. “Running a theater, bringing a production together, that's your thing, right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Yes.”

  He stopped, showing her a tiny cluster of orange orchids, none bigger than her thumb. “The mice of the orchid world,” he observed before continuing. “You understand theater in and out. It's your passion, your heart. It’s become your bible, in the sense that you can use it to center yourself, to interpret all sorts of things in your life. Rope is my passion for the same reasons."

  He touched her neck, brown eyes turning rust and gold from the sunlight coming through the glass ceiling. "I can tie you up in ways that will leave marks on your skin for days. I can put you in a harness that keeps your hands and arms free, that you can wear under your clothes, but while you have it on, you'll feel completely restrained, captured. I can make it real clear I'm in control. When you’re in my ropes, with a little twitch or tug, I can take you to orgasm. Or I can make you feel the burn, the pain. You'll be begging for forgiveness the way you would in a spanking…all while being wet and hot and wondering if I'll let you go before I fuck you, or if I'll take you while you’re bound like that.”

  When he stroked her mouth, making her lips part, he was reminding her to breathe. She’d stopped.

  "Hypothetically speaking, that is,” he added, straightening. “I wasn't directing that at you specifically…unless you want me to do so."

  Her hands had dropped to his hips as he slid his palms slowly up and down her upper arms. She would have punched him for picking at her, but he wasn't unaffected by her reaction. He was logging and absorbing it. Wanting to drive it, just as he’d described.

  "And if I do?" She dared to ask the question.

  He shot her a look that stilled her racing thoughts. Everything around them had gone behind a curtain, leaving them center stage.

  “Then that opens a whole different dialogue between us,” he said.