by Joey W. Hill
He loosened the rope over her neck and removed the tether between her wrists and thighs. When he took off the wraps around her thighs, he soothed the abrasions he'd deliberately put upon her. After wrapping her up in a blanket, he shifted to hold her against him. Both of them reclined on the bed, his head bent over hers, arms sure and strong around her. She clung to his forearms over her chest, twitched and jerked, made little noises he answered with peaceful crooning, holding her even closer. Since her body kept convulsing, she wondered if some of her neurons had shorted out.
"It's all right," he said, many times, in different ways. He spread kisses over her jaw, her throat, her lips. He stroked her body, long, soothing passes that helped bring her back to earth. She realized he'd left her wrists bound, and her fingers were curled in the blanket.
"It helps with the aftercare, to leave at least one restraint on," he said, noticing her awareness. "For some subs in particular, like you."
It spotlighted that this was a normal thing for him, rocking some woman's universe. Stop it, she told herself fiercely. Did she think he'd done his wedding dress routine with every sub? She wasn't going to require him to reassure her over and over again about something he'd made clear. It was her problem to figure out how to trust, how to get past a bunch of baggage from past assholes. She wasn't going to make him responsible for unpacking all that debris and incinerating the suitcases.
"You remember what I told you?" he asked. "That I'm not much into the whole call me Master or Sir thing?"
Had she called him that in her passion? She wouldn't be surprised, but had it bothered him? He squeezed her, dissipating her sudden tension. He untied her wrists but kept one, putting his mouth on her pulse, then her forearm, the crook of her elbow, tickling her biceps with his morning beard, an intimate reminder that he'd spent the night with her in his bed.
When he shifted to her throat, releasing her wrist, she gripped his arm over her chest, holding on as tingles shot through her, up, down, spiraling, somersaulting in her heart, stomach, loins.
He cupped the side of her throat, holding her fast, letting her feel the pressure of his callused palm against her frantic pulse. Then his mouth was against her ear.
"Just because I don't tell you to call me that, doesn't mean that's not what I am. Right?"
"Yes." She breathed it, closed her eyes. "God, yes."
He drew back, caressing her as he did, and pressed another kiss to the top of her head. "You don't have to call me that, either."
She snuffled over a part chuckle, part sob, and hit him with a half-hearted fist. He chided her with a tsking noise, recaptured and kissed it. He sobered, though, touching her cheek and drawing her eyes to his face. "I know you've been hurt, love. I can tell you're having a hard time letting go of the shields, no matter what assurance I give you. I get it. We've known each other what, less than a month?"
She grimaced. "I really want to, but..."
He shook his head, silencing her. "It doesn't have to happen all at once. That's the journey, and what makes it so nice. We can take our time." He rubbed his thumb on her lips, seeming to enjoy their swollen fullness in the aftermath of their passionate kisses.
"This is new for me, too," he said. "I don't want to rush a fucking minute of it. I love the way I feel when I'm with you, though I'm surprised you're not running away screaming."
She tipped back her head. "Why would I?"
His brown eyes took on a leonine golden cast. "Because the more time I spend around you, the more I want. It's a good thing we both work such hellacious hours, else you would have already figured it out." He shifted her so she was on her back and he was leaning over her, his expression even more potent. "I want to devour you, love. Tie you up in a million different ways. I've seen the ways women's bodies, minds and souls respond to what I can do to them with my rope. It never occurred to me I could find a million different experiences with one woman, but when I look at you, I get so many ideas I have to write them down so I don't forget a single one of them."
He gestured to his side table, where a ratty pocket notebook and pen resided. "I carry that with me for the ideas I get. Since I met you, I've filled up twenty pages. There's this patch of woods that I like, far away from anything or anyone. I want to take you there, modify the design I did with Missive. I want to use an actual tree to do it, put you in a cocoon of rope hanging from a branch. Then I'm going to lie beneath you on the ground and look up at the beauty of your body, stretched and shaped however I tie you, helpless so I can touch and stroke you all the ways I want. I want to do dramatic things like that, but I want to do simple things, too. Share a sandwich, sleep with you in my arms. Ah, love."
She was crying. He let her press her face into his throat and he held her, just held her, the most wonderful thing a man could ever do for a woman when her heart was melting into her tears. He said things to her, some of which she caught and some she didn't, but she absorbed the meaning through his grip.
He was right. It was too soon for her to believe it, too overwhelming, but she'd never responded to a man the way she did to him. Her soul was fighting to believe, to surrender to it, even as her cautious mind and guarded heart were scrambling away from that precipice as hard as they could go, tearing her apart inside. That was why he'd told her not to worry, to take it easy. Just let it happen as it would happen.
"Ssshh....easy, love." He rocked her, pulling the blanket around her. "Enough of that, now. You're all right. I've got you."
She took a shower while he made them breakfast. She'd just stepped in under the spray when he ducked into the tiny stall to press her against the wall. He was naked, not even wearing the cannula since he'd removed it when they rose, saying he'd be changing out the injection site this morning.
It meant she could slide her hands over him without any worry of snagging it, though last night when she'd shared that concern with him, he'd told her if she accidentally pulled it out, it was no big deal, that he could fix it in no time. He didn't want her to hesitate to touch him however she wanted, with whatever passion and enthusiasm she desired.
Not a problem this morning. As he fondled and stroked, she was thinking of all the contortions they'd have to accomplish to have sex in the small space, let alone shower together, but before she could act on those ideas, he'd pulled free and stepped back out.
"Since my job is so dirty, love, I usually shower at the end of the work day. Just wanted a taste of you before I scramble eggs."
When he abandoned her in her simmering state to pull on a pair of jeans and head for the kitchen, she sent a few choice words after him. He threw a warning look over his shoulder.
"I'll remember those insults next time you're tied up."
"Asshole. I want cheese in my eggs."
"My omelets don't come without it. There might even be tomatoes and green peppers if you're good."
"Ugh, no green peppers."
He stopped and surveyed her with leisurely enjoyment. She had her head poked out around the seagull curtain, but a glance down showed a full, wet breast visible and the curve of her hip.
"This relationship is not going to work if you can't appreciate the vitamin properties of a fresh green pepper," he told her, a sparkle in his gaze.
"I appreciate vitamins. When they come in a pill form so I'm not required to eat healthy food to consume them."
"Sad. So very sad. I'm due at a job site later today, but--"
"Oh, well, don't worry about breakfast. I'll just grab something on my way to the theater."
He raised a disapproving brow. "Yeah, a biscuit or some unhealthy thing."
"You ate PB&J for lunch the first day I met you."
"With natural, no sugar added blackberry jelly. On homemade wheat bread chock full of nutrients. And this is breakfast, the most important meal of the day. If you were kind enough to have sex with me, I have time to make you breakfast."
"You're right, it was a sacrifice." She sighed. "Better make that French toast with powdered sugar."
"Just keep it up, smart mouth."
She grinned and ducked behind the shower curtain.
As she washed herself with his pleasant peppermint soap, she discovered the faint aroma in his thick hair came from an inexpensive quart-sized bottle of Suave Deep Clean for men. She took an extra deep whiff, just to revisit the olfactory memory. As she thought of what he'd told her in bed, she knew she felt the same way. She didn't want to be away from him.
Be brave, take a risk. She raised her voice, realizing the benefit of a small, one-room apartment, where everything was in hearing range.
"Um, it's probably going to be a slow day for me. Would you like me to come see you at lunch? I know you usually take your lunch, but I could bring some for both of us, and we could hang out during your break, if you have one. Or not. I mean, you don't have to--" She stopped herself. Don't be pathetic, Julie.
She yelped as he reappeared, pulling back the curtain and snaking his arm around her to pull her soapy wet body against his bare chest. As he kissed her deep and thoroughly, his palms molded her curves at waist and hip, sliding around to her ass to take a firm grip. "I would love that," he said against her lips. Then he was pulling her out of the shower, dripping.
"What..."
"Fuck it. I'm a selfish bastard and want this more than I want us to have breakfast first."
It took him less than a second to open his jeans and push them to his thighs. Lifting her against the wall outside the bathroom, he sheathed himself into her willing body. She gasped at the force and demand of it. His eyes were molten as he drove into her, his gaze fastened to her face all the way through to her orgasm.
"All mine," he muttered against her ear as he finished, with thrusts powerful enough to thud their bodies against the sheetrock. Never in her life had a man taken her with such savage need. I want to devour you, was what he'd said. Her thundering heart believed it. When he let her down, he was breathing hard and so was she. He touched her face, his eyes so close.
"Don't you fucking doubt me," he told her in a growl. "I don't care what I said earlier. I want your trust. I need it and I demand it, no matter how unreasonable that makes me."
She managed a nod. Whether or not she had any control over her dysfunctional doubts and insecurities was irrelevant. He was trusting her enough to show her his own raw needs, the irrational level of the soul every person possessed. He had her pinned, her pulse fluttering like captured prey, and his expression required instant, total submission and acquiescence. That alone could work her up again, while leaving her heart a confused, fluttery, fabulous mess.
He broke eye contact to nuzzle her neck, closing a hand over her breast to stroke and play. "Yeah, I'm going to leave you worked up," he said. "Before you leave my place, you're going to lie on my bed, put my pillow between your legs and masturbate to climax. When I come home tonight, the scent of your pussy will be on it and on my sheets, where your sweet body was writhing and gushing. I want you thinking every minute about what I'm going to do to you next."
"Okay," she breathed. He kissed her again, another branding. His gaze swept over her, her flushed, trembling body, her parted lips and feverish eyes. He looked satisfied with his examination.
"That's it. Get back in the shower, love. Meet me in the kitchen."
"I thought you said you had to work?"
"Not until this afternoon. They have a good crew working this morning. You need a ride back to the theater anyway."
"A home cooked breakfast and a ride home. This is a first class date." She summoned the will to tease him, to try to act more casual than she felt. Aroused and needy, her foundation shifted.
He touched her face, his eyes softening as if he picked up on all of that, but he stuck with humor, her comfort zone. "What can I say? I spoil my woman."
When she emerged from the shower, she found she'd been right about last night. He'd packed her a favorite pair of jeans and her ivory and gold Guggenheim T-shirt. Though he'd never seen her wear it, it was one of her tighter T-shirts, and the bra he'd packed had almost no padding, so the light-colored shirt would give him a nice view of the shape of her nipples. Men must have some kind of radar for that kind of thing, she thought.
While in the shower, she'd resolved to transition back to more lighthearted and casual behavior, to balance the earlier unsettling intensity. However, when she came out of the bathroom and approached the kitchen counter, carrying her brush and hair bands for her unruly mane, that resolve disappeared.
He was putting the finishing touches on two plates of food. While doing that, he was listening to All Things Considered, the NPR news show, on a radio that looked twenty years old and was plugged into an outlet by the stove.
It should be silly, to be captivated by the sight of a man making her breakfast, but it was seeing him do it in his home environment, a different picture of who he was, wrapped up with everything that had happened over the past few hours. It took away her ability to play it cool.
She circled behind the counter, slipping her arms around him from behind, brushing her lips over the sunburst between his shoulder blades. He made a pleased noise at her spontaneous affection and dropped the spatula and skillet in the sink so he could turn and put his arms around her, return the hug.
She noticed he'd pulled up the jeans but hadn't fastened the top button. He'd set a new injection site, the pump back on his belt. Reaching down, she buttoned the button for him, her wrists brushing evidence that he was interested in her attentions, despite the two of them already having pursued that...how many times in the past few hours? Hell, the past few minutes? It didn't seem to matter.
He watched her, his head tilted, uncombed hair falling over his bare shoulder. Following her desires, she picked up her brush and lifted it to his head. Agreeably, he propped his hips against the cabinets, bringing his height down a few inches. He stretched out his legs on either side of her so she could stand closer and brush his hair back from his face.
He didn't say anything, just watched her, so she indulged herself fully. She brushed through the thick locks, her fingers following her strokes, working until the strands became smooth and gleaming again. As she did it, he stroked her hips, her ass, her breasts, her abdomen. His fingers slid beneath the T-shirt along her navel, exploring and learning even more about her responses. Where she was ticklish, where he could make her tremble, what he could make coil with desire.
When she pulled a band from the several she had on her wrist, her fingers were trembling, but she gathered his hair into a tail and looped the band around it twice. She had to move closer to do it and, as she did, he wrapped both arms around her. When she finished, he was holding her in a full embrace, her head on his shoulder and her arms gripping him as much as he was holding her. He brushed his jaw over her hair.
"I'm in love with you, too, Julie."
She closed her eyes. Later today he would drop her off and go to work. She'd review Harris's stage manager report on the opening night and address a bunch of other details necessary to handle before the next showing. She'd call Madison about some of that, and maybe give herself the post-opening reward of an afternoon nap.
All normal things, and yet he'd just said something to her no man ever had. Not and meant it the way he did.
"What?" He had his strong fingers buried in her hair, stroking her scalp, the two tendons of her neck. His touch was easy, casual, yet made her feel just as he'd reinforced, a couple times now, though she couldn't see herself getting tired of the message. She was the center of his world, his anchor, his tether to what mattered. She also imagined he was even now deciding how he next wanted to tie her up, play with her, because they were still at that point where desire was a constant strong surf washing through all the other emotions. She lifted her head, trying to blink back the tears. She didn't want him to think she was a constantly weepy female.
He wouldn't let her get away with it, though. He cradled her face. "What, love?" he repeated.
She traced the dragon's body
on his biceps where it transitioned into rope. "I just thought it would be more difficult. After all this time, the heartache, the waiting, the despairing and giving up, the pure pissed-offness of dealing with near misses..." She blew out a breath. "And there it is. With you, easy as breathing. 'I'm in love with you.' You said it and meant it. It changes the universe, but the way throwing a stone in a pond does. All those ripples. It's...amazing."
She frowned and cocked her head. "There should at least be dramatic music."
"I can retract it if you want. Brood for a while, play commitment paranoia games, alienate you so we break up, sort of, and then I chase you down before you make some monumental decision, like moving back to New York, or signing up for a three year stint in the merchant marines. Then we can have a big makeup scene."
She pursed her lips. "Complete with dramatic music."
"Absolutely. If I could afford it, I'd hire John Williams to come up with the score."
"You'd do all that for me?"
"Hell, no." He snorted, puffing a short, playful breath against her. "I'd tie you up and keep you in my basement until you contracted Stockholm syndrome and couldn't breathe without me."
She tipped her head back, sobering. "Sometimes, it feels like I can't. Crazy, right?"
He put his mouth on hers and took her air in the best kind of way, all while giving it back to her.
"You don't have a basement," she pointed out when he lifted his head. He smiled at her, boyishly appealing, but then sobered.
"We're normal, extraordinary people," he said. "It took us a while, but we always knew what it would look like when it happened. The simplicity of it is what makes it extraordinary. A tadpole gets legs and walks on land, and evolution begins. All in a simple blink, the whole world changes."
Maybe his intuition and articulateness was a Dom thing. Or spending so much time by himself as a boy, something about his history she'd deduced on her own. She thought of the first time she'd seen him. His dark hair fluttering over his shoulder and his loose-hipped stride like a rock star roadie. Something in her had felt and registered all he'd just said then. At an unconscious level, but that didn't make it less true.
