by Cara McKenna
He tucked his arms close to her body. His savaged wrists stung where they pressed her skin, but it wasn’t that old taboo that had lust surging hot. It was knowing she’d made him sore, and how. It wasn’t from the degradation, but the indulgence. He smiled at the realization, so broad and humble that she smiled in return, looking happily perplexed.
“What?” she whispered, and bit her lip.
“Just you. Being with you. Inside you.”
Her fingers curled against his sides, short nails scraping. For once, though, friction was overshadowed by more pleasant sensations—her warmth, and this feeling of being held by her, hugged, nearly. He drew out all the way, and eased back in, smooth and slow.
Her hands slid to his arse, following the rhythm he set, then urging him to go faster. He took her orders, arriving at a quick, steady pace, and her hands moved to his shoulders. Her face mirrored everything he felt. Lips parted, brows drawn tight with the most heavenly disbelief. Eyes darting, wanting to look everywhere at once.
“Will you need more?” he asked.
“Eventually, yeah.”
“Show me how.”
Her lips pursed for a moment, shy, then she reached her hand between them. Rob sat back, still thrusting, and watched the way she touched herself. Two fingers circling, at the same tempo as the sex. Yes, he could do that.
He took her hand, setting it on his ribs. His fingers rested just above her curls, and he put his thumb to her clit. A harsh breath retreated between her lips, then her dark eyes shut.
“Like this?” he asked, circling.
“Yes. Exactly like that.”
He wanted to be closer to her. With his free arm braced at her side, he leaned in again, as much as he could without disrupting his hand. Her legs widened, offering that exciting bit of impact, the way his hips bumped the backs of her thighs. She liked it, too. Her eyes opened, watching where their bodies were joined. Then her gaze jumped to his face. She tucked his hair behind his ears and touched his cheeks, his neck.
I’m making love. The realization struck him like a punch in the nose.
Making love, the way they do in films. Normal, missionary sex, utterly free of contempt and humiliation. And I’m hard.
It was so normal, and yet it was the most exotic sex he’d ever taken part in, the rarest act. An impossible scene.
Beneath him, Merry was changing. As the hands squeezing his shoulders grew more frantic, he took her quicker. A bit rougher. Rubbed her faster. Her damp palms roamed his arms, up and down in plaintive strokes. Yes, please. Let him give a woman exactly what she needed, for once in his selfish life.
“You feel so good,” he told her.
She replied with a soft moan, cupping his neck.
This was a different kind of servitude, Rob realized, but it excited him much the way degradation did. He took her rougher, without even meaning to. The intensity echoed through her, the same excitement he felt. He knew what she wanted—he’d sensed it. He could please her.
She wants your voice, as well as your body. And he didn’t even need to think to find the right words to say. He simply let them fall from his lips to her ears.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” he murmured. “That you’re real.”
One hand trembled at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the other gripping his arm.
“No one’s ever made me feel this.” He prayed she knew it was more than mere flattery. The truest words he’d ever spoken. He planted his knees wider, took her in long, rigid thrusts, needing the sex to match these confessions. The physical reflection of how spread open and exposed and plumbed he felt.
It was absolutely startling, this sex. It was about so much more than a scenario, or friction, or his cock. There was surrender in it, though, and a need to serve, but it was pure, so pure.
“God, you’re beautiful.” He took her in. Her face, her skin, her body and the ways the sex changed it, tightening her muscles, flushing her cheeks, making her shake and gasp. The way the impact echoed through her flesh, and how hot she felt around him. Wet, possessive, lush.
“No one’s ever made me feel this wanted,” he told her.
“Me, neither.”
“No one’s ever . . . No one’s ever been with me. This me.” It occurred to him then—they weren’t role-playing at all, but he felt all those perfect dynamics, regardless. He felt power radiating out of her, even flat on her back. He was eager and desperate, but at the mercy of her pleasure, not some indulgent imitation of sadism. He felt adrift and wild in a way he’d never imagined he could achieve without a drink.
“This is amazing,” he said, staring down at her in disbelief.
He felt close. He felt close, from this alone. There was even that edge to the arousal that he’d thought only the rope could bring. He recognized it for what it was—that weakness he loved so much. Was the mean rasp of the rope just shorthand for that? Helplessness, concentrated into a single, physical sensation? Right now, he felt it with nothing more than her eyes on him. They burned and bound him, just like rope. She used his cock, just as he craved, only now he was giving it to her, not having it taken.
This is mad. Mad and miraculous.
More miraculous still was Merry, beneath him.
“Faster,” she mumbled, face flushed.
He did as commanded, hips and thumb racing.
“Oh.”
“Yes. Please, Merry.” His wrist ached and he savored the pain, so similar and yet so different than rope burn. His body was overheated, breath short from this fevered pace. Everything he needed was here in this act. In the most unexpected ways.
“Oh, Rob.” She rose up, grabbing him around the neck, nearly dragging him down.
He kept his thumb moving until he felt her climax milking him, then slowed, drawing it away when the contact made her buck. He held still as she relaxed back against the bed, chest heaving.
“Merry.” He dropped to his elbows and pressed his forehead to hers, holding his breath so he wouldn’t miss a single sensation. He felt each fluttering pulsation of her sex around him, ticking with her heartbeat before fading to nothing but soft, welcoming heat. He pushed up to smile at her.
She bit her swollen lip, cheeks shining. “Wow.”
“I know.”
“You, now.”
His cock was throbbing, hot and needy, but there was that curious calm inside him, too. Relief. Pride. She’d blown his mind who knew how many times since she’d arrived, but this . . . This was more shocking than all the role-playing combined. That he could do what he had. Please a woman that way. Serve a woman that way, be completely present for her.
Impatient hands tugged at his hips, and he set the reverence aside and began to move. His cock felt tender, but as always, the friction only added to his excitement. They said nothing for a long while, as he took her deeply, steadily, committing it all to memory. Her thighs hugged his hips and her hands roamed his arms. Her eyes watched him, and he felt embraced by her in a hundred ways at once.
Urged only by those intangibles, his excitement mounted. The need tightened inside him, desire turning sharper and more purposeful.
“Can you?” she asked. “Get there? Without the rope?”
“Without the actual rope? Yes. Without thinking about it . . . ?” He felt crazed. It felt possible. But could he get wound up enough to lose himself? “I don’t know.”
“It’s fine if you can’t,” she said, and trailed mischievous nails along his arms, making his skin prickle.
But he wanted to. To flatter her, and to know for sure, for himself.
“I thought about it,” she whispered. “About the rope.”
His body flushed. “Did you?”
“When I was getting close. I remembered how you look when we do those things. How your face looks. And how t
ense your body gets.”
In turn he remembered how she looked in those moments. That awe and power in those dark eyes, all the hunger and desire willing him to succumb and to let her see it. His release was mounting, a hard urgency winding him up.
“I’m close.”
“What are you thinking about?” she whispered, stroking his hair.
“About . . . about being yours. About coming, for you.” No rope. No punishment or scorn, even, just this perfect, dark powerlessness. No humiliation, only obedience. And worship. “Tell me to. Please.”
She held his face, stroked his ears. “Come for me, Rob.”
“Yes . . .” His hips quickened, and he was close now, so close. Eyes open, wrists free, yet subjugated utterly in his need to please her.
“Come.”
And like a man beckoned home from the loneliest exile, he did.
It was a quenching, merciful pleasure, deep as a lake, swallowing him bodily for long seconds. He breached the surface after a perfect eternity, a drowned man brought back to life, gulping air. Her smile was sunshine warming his face, welcoming him back.
“Oh God.” He could only blink and breathe. Inhale, exhale. The world returned one sense at a time. The smell of sex and latex. Of fire and paraffin. The scent and warmth of Merry’s skin, the sounds of their mismatched breathing in the still, quiet air.
“We should . . .” She glanced down.
Right, yes. The condom.
He got control of his limbs and held the ring in place, easing out. He folded the rubber in his shorts and flopped down beside her on his back, at once energized and exhausted.
Merry twined her fingers with his, drawing them to her lips to kiss his knuckles. She studied their linked hands as though they were some new and fantastic animal. He saw a thought taking shape in her eyes.
“Yes?”
She met his gaze squarely, settling on her side. “You think I’m pretty, right?”
Rob laughed. “Do I think you’re pretty? Bloody hell, of course I do. I think you’re the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen.”
“Is that only because of what we’ve done? Do I maybe only seem really attractive because of how good I can make you feel?”
He considered the question honestly, even knowing his hesitance might land him hot water. He’d never navigated these choppy female waves as a completely sober man before. But he suspected this was her deepest fear, and she deserved an answer that went beyond thoughtless lip service. He’d given her what she needed to feel, in that sex. He could say what she needed to hear, surely. Or talk himself hoarse, trying.
He rolled onto his hip to face her. “I think if I’d never met you—just saw you in the street—I’d say, there goes a beautiful woman. With your shiny hair,” he stroked the cascade from her temple to her collarbone. “And those mysterious eyes, and your skin like . . .” He studied her smooth complexion, struggling for a worthy comparison. “Like I don’t know what. Your perfect skin.”
She smiled.
“If I didn’t know you, yes. I’d say you’re beautiful. But I do know you some, and I know how you’ve . . .” His throat tightened. I’ve let her hear far more damning confessions. No need to fear this one. “How you’ve treated me. And that you’re kind, and smart, and interesting. And strong, and brave. How you’ve let me do all those things with you, and that you didn’t only tolerate them, but you maybe even enjoyed them—”
“Of course I did.”
“If you were beautiful before I knew you as a person . . . you’re a hundred times more gorgeous to me because of those things.”
Merry was grinning, but there was more he still needed to say.
“You know how I am,” he murmured, clasping her hand. “I won’t lie—the way a woman looks isn’t as important to me as it might be to other men. My sexuality’s all buggered. The power a woman might wield over me will always trump how she looks on the outside. But that doesn’t mean I’m not in awe of you.” He wriggled closer to cup her face. “The fact that you’re beautiful, on top of being able to blow my mind . . .” Rob shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re real. And that you found me, all the way out here. I think you’re miraculous.”
She pushed at his chest until he turned onto his back, and she lay her head on his shoulder, arm across his chest. She hugged his hips with her leg, and he stroked her hair.
“Was that what you needed to hear?” he asked, desperate to get this right.
She pushed up on her elbow and traced his mouth with her thumb. “That and more.” And she leaned in and kissed him, the softest press of her warm, smooth lips.
One more thing. Tell her.
“I . . . I feel for you, Merry.”
She said nothing, gaze shifting between his eyes.
“So much,” he said. “More than I’ve ever felt for anyone.”
“Do you?” She pursed her lips, face so full of hope it broke his heart.
“I do. And I know this is . . . This is so odd, and impossible, the way we’ve met. But I can’t tell you how grateful I am, just to have felt this with someone. For someone. Everything you indulged for me, but so much more. Everything just now. And just being with you, doing things with you.” Enjoying another person’s company and feeling like a passable companion himself—and sober. Though he was babbling like a drunk.
She buried her face against his neck, hand curled possessively in his hair. “Wow.”
“I know it must sound mad, so fast.”
Her muffled words warmed his throat. “It sounds wonderful.”
He kissed the crown of her head, stroked her hair. It felt so nice, cradling her. Feeling like a man in this simple, protective way, with the complicated dynamics of his fetish quieted for the time being. Packed away, like rope closed in a box.
“I feel for you, too,” she murmured. He waited patiently, rewarded by the next words to heat his skin. “You make me feel alive. Like, really alive. And awake. Plugged in, like my brain and my heart and my body, my sexual side . . . They’re all switched on, with you.”
He grinned, unseen. He really made her feel all that? This amazing, vibrant, loving woman felt all these things, because of him?
“That’s the most fantastic thing anyone’s ever said to me.” No contest. And surely he never could have welcomed such words—nor inspired them—back in his dark days. Drunk, charming Rob might have earned the odd compliment from a peer or patron or woman, but what good were those words when the man they praised didn’t exist without alcohol in his veins?
But what Merry had said meant so much more. Kind, real sentiments, offered now—offered after she’d shined a light into the darkest corners of his sexuality. She knew him. As no one else ever had. And she liked him.
He held her tightly, and even as his heart soared, something painful stirred in his gut. This affair would be over, and so soon. Tomorrow night he’d be alone in this very bed, and her body would be far away. Off to places where he couldn’t follow.
She’d taught him so much about affection and attraction, but her absence would teach him more than he cared to know about loneliness and loss . . . And he’d thought he’d made intimate companions of those feelings long ago. Fool.
“I’m going to miss you,” he whispered.
The hand in his hair tightened, and he felt her lips pressing against his throat, chased by a long exhalation. She pulled back to meet his eyes. “Me, too. But I never expected to find any of this on my trip. So I guess I should just be grateful for it, right?”
He kissed her nose. “Right.” And I suppose I ought to do the same. Be grateful for these few days of easy company and carnal bliss. Not miserable for the rest of my life, to know beyond the shadow of a doubt what I’m missing.
Because he knew this wouldn’t come along again. This connection would’ve be
en the rarest find out in the wider, modern world. That it had come to him here . . .
But it only could have come to me here. Whatever she felt for him, she felt it for a version of Rob who didn’t exist outside these hills.
Could he, though?
Rob had lived in the deepest denial in his former life. In his marriage.
Through his courtship with Helen, things had felt easy. He’d found a fix. He’d found a woman he loved enough to set those old appetites aside, save for the odd moment—just a minute of private fantasizing, enough to push him over the edge during sex. Nothing like how he’d been as a sober young man, when his sexual preoccupation had been a consumption in itself. Drink had dulled it, enough for Rob to trick himself into believing he was normal. Normal enough.
Then that medicine had turned to poison, its draw overpowering all else.
He was in a bubble, here and now, one that couldn’t exist under any other circumstances. Not in any other place, with any other company. He wasn’t idiot enough to think the love of a good woman could prevail over a suicidally strong addiction—not away from these safe and solitary hills. Not back in a town or city, surrounded by all those temptations and triggers, by the sheer accessibility and culture of alcohol.
Maybe he ought to tell her. She wanted to know him, so maybe she’d welcome that sad news as well . . .
But no. He wasn’t holding back any real, relevant truth. This man she knew, he wasn’t an alcoholic. Not an active one at least, and rarely even a pining one. Not these past few days. Telling her would serve no purpose whatsoever. Let her freeze him in her memories exactly as he was now. The way he’d freeze her. Let them frame this fleeting, impossible romance and crop away the needless ugliness of reality.
“I’d like to see you again,” Merry said quietly.
“Oh?” Something else froze, then. His heart, if only for a breath.
“Next year. If you’ll have me. If that wasn’t just a bunch of romantic nonsense we were talking earlier.”
“Of course not. You know where to find me. Come when you come, and I’ll be here.”
But deep inside, a truth unfolded. He couldn’t give her what she deserved, not for more than a few nights. She needed people, friends, family, activities. Society. Though the thought burned, he hoped that next summer, next autumn, next winter would come and go, and Merry wouldn’t return to brighten those long nights. Because he’d know what that meant . . .
