by Wolff, Tracy
He grabs my wrist and gives it a tug that sends me spinning right into his arms. Right into his lap. “I’ll show you anything you want, luv.” He sweeps my hair to the side, kisses his way across the nape of my neck.
Just like that, I’m ready for him again. My breath quickens, my nipples peak, and I can feel myself growing damp as shivers work their way up and down my spine.
Jaxon laughs—of course he does—a dark, wicked sound that only makes me hotter. “Is it me that does that to you? Or the thought of the ropes?”
He slides my robe off my shoulder and kisses along the newly bared expanse of skin. Heat flares through me at the contact, so I tip my head to the left in an attempt to give him better access. And an attempt to make myself forget his question—and the way it amps up my arousal for no reason I can understand.
With Jaxon, it’s easy to do. Especially when he slides his hands inside my robe and pinches my nipples hard enough to have me crying out. “Stay here,” he tells me as he lifts me from his lap and onto the nearest chair.
“Easy for you to say.” I squeeze my legs together in an effort to assuage the sudden desperate need I have for his hands, his mouth, his cock. “You’re not the one—”
“Oh, I’m the one. I’m definitely the one.” He grabs the back of my neck, pulls me to him for a kiss that has my toes curling and my heart pounding. But just as I start to melt against him, he breaks it off. “Don’t move,” he reiterates before disappearing through the archway into the living room.
He’s back in under a minute, a long length of red rope curled around his wrist. And ohmygod. There’s something about the red rope against his lightly tanned skin, something about the way it coils around his wrist, that has my entire body going hot.
Jaxon sees it—of course he does—and he laughs even as his eyes turn to molten obsidian. “You like that, do you?”
I don’t want to say yes, don’t want to admit to the feelings bouncing around inside of me just from the sight of that rope against his skin. But I don’t have to admit it, not when the answer is written in my flushed skin and strangled breathing.
“Here.” He uncoils it little by little, then reaches out and strokes one end of the rope against my wrist. I jump, not because it hurts, but because it’s cooler, softer, than I ever could have imagined. “Do you want to hold it?”
I’m surprised to find that I do. I don’t want him to tie me up with it, don’t want to be that helpless or out of control. But I do want to know what it feels like in my hands. Against my skin. So I nod as I reach for it and Jaxon hands it to me, transferring the coil from his wrist to mine.
For long seconds neither of us say anything. He studies me and I study the rope, twining it around my fingers and hands just to see how it works, to test its flexibility and its strength.
“Do you want me to wrap it around your waist?” Jaxon asks after a couple of minutes have passed with no sound but that of the rope sliding against my skin. His voice is lower than usual, raspier, and when I glance at his face, it’s to find that he’s even more aroused than I am.
I glance from him to the rope, a hundred different answers—a thousand different thoughts—bouncing around inside of me. In the end, I go with the most honest. “No, I don’t.”
“Okay.” He doesn’t look disappointed so much as resigned as he reaches for the rope. “I’ll put it away.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.” I clutch a length of the rope between my hands and slide it over my exposed collarbone, across the tops of my breasts.
“Fuck. Grace.” Jaxon’s voice is full-on tortured now, his eyes wild as he watches me stroke myself with his rope.
I’m a long way from letting him tie me up with it, but I’d be lying if I said the feel of it doesn’t arouse me. As does the implied control it gives me—over myself and over Jaxon.
Slowly, I reach down and untie my robe, letting it slip off my shoulders to pool at my feet. Then I stand in front of Jaxon wearing nothing but a coil of rope around my wrists.
“Jesus Christ, Grace,” he groans as he reaches for me. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
I do. I absolutely do. And I like it.
In fact, I like it so much that I pull the rope taut and slide it over the tops of my breasts to my nipples. Once there, I rub it back and forth, up and down, enjoying the slight rasp of it against my sensitive skin almost as much as I’m enjoying the fucked out look in Jaxon’s eyes as he watches me. Almost as much as I’m enjoying his clenched fists and shallowed breathing.
Eventually I have enough of the nipple play and slide the rope even lower, down my ribcage, past my belly button, over my abdomen, until I get to my mons. I pause then, hesitate, unsure of myself or how far I really want to take this.
At least until Jaxon growls, “Do it!” in a voice so strangled it barely sounds human. “Fucking do it, Grace.”
And I can see it in his eyes, can see it in his clenched jaws and his tight shoulders and the hands he’s squeezing into fists. He wants to touch me. Wants to fuck me. Wants to tie me up and listen to me beg as he makes me come again and again and again.
The only problem with that scenario? Turns out I want to do the exact same thing to him.
But first...first I give him just a little bit of what he’s asking for. I slide the rope between my legs, wrapping it first around my left thigh, then around my right, just like I saw in the picture earlier.
Jaxon grinds out my name, his breaths coming fast and hard and loud as he watches my every move. And I watch him.
Who knew turning the tables could be this much fun?
Who knew tying myself up could give me this much control?
I finish wrapping my thighs and then—under Jaxon’s watchful eye—I do what I saw in that photo. I bring the ropes up right between my legs, sliding them along the inside of my slit and back and forth against my clit.
Fireworks go off inside me, but it’s nothing compared to what happens to Jaxon. It’s like the first touch of the ropes against my sex breaks something in him because in the space of one breath to the next, he’s across the kitchen.
Another breath and he’s on his knees in front of me.
One more breath and his tongue is buried deep inside me as I come against his mouth.
As I come and come and come.
Seconds later, he’s pulling me to the ground and positioning my knees on either side of his hips as he thrusts up into me.
I turn my head, bury my mouth against my biceps in an effort to muffle the scream that wells inside me at the first slide of his cock against my sensitized flesh.
But Jaxon is having no part of it. “Fuck that,” he snarls, twisting his hands in my hair and yanking my head back. “I want to hear you scream.”
He thrusts up into me again and again, and though I’m the one on top, he’s very much the one in control here. One hand is still buried in my hair, holding my head immobile while his other hand strokes my clit, my mons, my labia.
“Give it to me, Grace,” he demands as he tightens his hold on my hand. “Fucking give it to me.”
And I do. Of course I do, my body spasming out of my control as he sends me flying over the edge once more. I call out his name as I come, over and over again until it’s my own personal mantra.
And then Jaxon’s coming, too, growling my name as he empties himself inside me, so deep that I know I’ll never fully be free of him again.
Monday: Jaxon
“What’s your favorite color?”
Grace is obviously surprised by the question, and maybe it is a ridiculous question coming from the man who’s spent the last three days fucking her every way that he can. But how else am I supposed to learn anything about her? I’ve tried more indirect routes numerous times over the last forty-eight hours, but she’s always very non-committal. I know she’s reserved everywhere but bed,
know that she likes to keep things pretty close to her vest, but does that mean she has to deflect everything I try to ask her?
As she continues to look at me, her lips twisting in obvious amusement, I can’t help wondering if she’s going to dodge this question, too. And if she does—if she refuses to tell me something as simple as her favorite color—what am I going to do about it? What can I do?
“Red,” she finally answers, and the way she says it makes me think she’s starting to figure out just how impatient I’m growing with her lack of communication. “Why? What’s yours?”
That’s easy. “Silver.”
“Silver? You mean gray, like the shades in a black-and-white photograph?” She looks puzzled as she lifts her wineglass to her lips.
“No, I mean silver, as in the color your eyes turn when you’re in the middle of an orgasm.”
She chokes on her wine, I mean actually, full-out chokes on her wine. And while I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the way those eyes of hers go wide the second she hears the answer and the way her cheeks turn that crazy shade of pink I’m growing more and more used to, the choking I can definitely do without.
Leaning over the table, I smack her back several times with the palm of my hand. “You okay?” I ask, when the coughing fit finally stops and she manages to take a few deep breaths.
“What do you care, considering you’re the one who caused it?” She glances around, then shoots me a glare that does nothing but turn me on. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in public, Jaxon! You’re not supposed to say things like that where other people can hear.”
“Why not? If they hear it, it’s because they’re eavesdropping on our conversation, in which case, they deserve whatever they get. Besides, I didn’t want to lie considering all I’m trying to do here is get to know you outside of bed half as well as I know you inside of it.”
If possible, she turns even pinker and I’m reminded of the first night we met. Of how sexy I thought she was and how desperate I was to get inside of her. Now that I have, that desperation hasn’t gone away. It’s only gotten sharper and more all-consuming. Which is why I’m here, with her, instead of where I’m supposed to be, in New York, having dinner with my agent.
“Jaxon!” she hisses as she glances around us with narrowed eyes.
“What?” I put on the most innocent look I can manage, which isn’t very, since yanking Grace’s chain is so damn much fun. “You’re the one who wanted to know why I asked, remember?”
“Yes!” she hisses again. “But that doesn’t mean you get to embarrass me. I have a million things I want to ask you, too, you know. But you don’t see me making a scene.”
“Luv, it’s obvious you’ve never dated an artist before if you think this is making a scene.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” she asks. “Dating?”
Jesus Christ. Seriously? I’m obviously doing something really wrong here if she even needs to ask. “Flowers. Dinner. Sex,” I say incredulously. “If you don’t think that’s dating, what exactly do you think we’ve been doing?”
The waiter chooses that moment to deliver our pasta and Grace watches me warily over the rim of her wineglass, as if she’s trying to gauge my mood. Or waiting for me to say something else to embarrass her. Which isn’t going to happen. Teasing her, watching her blush from just the idea of someone overhearing what we’re talking about, is one thing. Actually doing something to humiliate her is something else entirely, something I will never do. Not to Grace who is so brazen one moment and so shy the next. So confident in some things and so lacking in others.
I was right that first night when I labeled her a dichotomy. That hasn’t changed. In fact, the more I get to know her, the more differences I see between her two sides.
“It’s not like I thought we weren’t dating,” she says once the waiter has finally taken his leave—after spending forever grating parmesan onto our pasta.
Shit, does she know how to turn the knife. “Key endorsement there,” I tell her, stabbing my fork into a pasta dish I no longer have any interest in eating.
“Please, Jaxon, don’t be like that.” She reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “I know I’m not your usual type, so I didn’t want to assume anything—”
“What does that even mean? Not my usual type?”
She gives me a look like I’m being deliberately obtuse. “Beautiful. Passionate. Adventurous.”
“There’s so much wrong with that statement that I don’t even know where to start. First of all, how is it you think you know what kind of women I like?”
“I know you like women who will let you tie them up.”
“That’s it? That’s the end all, be all of what you think I want in a woman?”
“You have to admit it’s important to you. You’ve brought it up to me half a dozen times.”
“I’ve brought it up to you because I want to tie you up. You, specifically, not every woman I see on the street. I don’t get my jollies binding any woman who will let me.” I reach for my wineglass and take a long, calming sip. I can feel myself getting angry and I don’t want to do that. Not here, not now, and not with Grace over something so fundamentally important to our relationship.
“I want to tie you up, Grace, because I think it’s beautiful and empowering and yeah, sexy as hell. I want to share that with you because I want you to feel all of those things. But if you never let me tie you up? It won’t matter. I’ll still want you and I’ll still want to be with you.”
“You say that now, because this thing between us is new, but—”
“I say it now because I mean it. And I’ll still mean it in six months or a year. Because this thing between us—” I gesture back and forth between the two of us “—is a relationship and it’s not going anywhere any time soon. So I’d really appreciate it if you stopped trying to get rid of me every chance you get.
“Oh, and for the record, with or without ropes, you are the most stunning, passionate woman I have ever seen. I’ve never responded to any woman the way I respond to you. And I’ve never had a woman respond to me as powerfully, as honestly, as you do.”
Grace doesn’t say anything to that, just shovels a forkful of pasta into her mouth and takes a long time chewing it. Then again, she doesn’t say much for the rest of the evening, so much so that by the time I get her back to her place, I decide it’s better to give her some space than to try to talk my way into her apartment when she’s so obviously tired and so obviously fired up to ignore anything I happen to say.
Maybe I should have met Rachel in New York tonight—dinner with my agent would have saved me from putting my foot in it with Grace, if nothing else.
Except when I pull up to the front of the building, instead of getting out when I come around and open the door for her, she just sits there. And asks, “Don’t you want to come up?” in a voice so small I have to strain to hear it.
“Of course I want to come up.” I squat down on the sidewalk next to the car so I can look into her crazy beautiful eyes. “I just wasn’t sure how you felt about it and I didn’t want to push.”
“I don’t want you to go.” Her voice is still soft, but it’s decisive—at least, those six words are. It’s not perfect, considering where we left things at the restaurant, but it’s enough. At least for now.
I hop back into the driver’s seat and pull around to the parking garage beneath the building. Five minutes later, Grace is opening the door to her apartment and gesturing for me to precede her inside.
I put my camera bag—it goes everywhere with me—near the couch as she asks, “Do you want some wine? Or coffee?”
“No.” I turn to face her. “Thank you.”
“Oh.” She looks nervous, really nervous, as she clasps her hands in front of her. She also looks gorgeous as fuck—uncertain, submissive, real. “Do you, um...do you want to sit dow
n?”
“No,” I say again, walking toward her. Because there are a million things I want from her right now and none of them are coffee. None of them are a space on her sofa.
When I reach her, I take hold of her arms right above the elbows and pull her against me. She comes willingly, her body soft and pliant. And then I kiss her, really kiss her, and there’s nothing soft—nothing uncertain—about it. Or about the way she kisses me back.
Our mouths move together, lips melding, tongues tangling, air sputtering between us. I kiss Grace until her mouth is red and swollen, kiss her until she’s breathless, kiss her until her hands tangle in my shirt. And then I kiss her some more.
When I finally pull back, she’s shaking and so am I. I can’t believe how much I want this woman—can’t believe how much I’ve come to need her in the short time I’ve known her.
Because the thought arouses me nearly as much as it makes me nervous, I take hold of her wrists and turn her around so that her back is pressed to my front.
“Do you think I need ropes to bind you to me?” I whisper in her ear as I slowly unbutton her blouse. “Do you think I need ropes to keep you here, where you belong?”
I slide the cool silk off her shoulders, let it pool on the floor at our feet. “You’re mine,” I tell her as I move on to her skirt. “Ropes or no ropes, fight or no fight.” I unhook the clasp, lower the zipper. “I don’t want some nebulous woman you think I’ve made up in my head, Grace.” I slide the skirt down her curvy hips and over her long, lean thighs, before letting it fall in a heap at her feet. “I want you, and no messed up argument you try to make is going to change that fact.”
I turn her back to face me, with a hand on her hip. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” I ask, moving my hands to cup her face and burying my fingers in her hair.
She nods, all wide-and wild-eyed, and it’s a good look for her. A sexy look. And so is the red lace lingerie she’s wearing. Every day this week she’s been in black—which has also been hot as hell—so the red is a happy little surprise, especially considering it consists of little more than a couple cups of lace sewn together.
