by Tracy Wolff
“At all?” I quirk a brow, trailing the silky edge of her scarf across the tops of her breasts and down her stomach.
In the mirror, her eyes—wide and stormy—follow the path of the scarf as it slowly moves lower and lower and lower.
“Well... I mean...what are you going to do with that?”
“With this?” I wiggle my wrist a little, make the end of the scarf dance lightly over her abdomen. “Whatever I want to.”
She draws in a fast, harsh breath. “I thought you said you wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want you to.”
“I won’t.” I wrap the scarf around one wrist—just one—and leave it there as a suggestion of what could be. “But if you decide that you want to explore this with me, then you’re going to have to trust me.”
“Trust you?” It’s little more than a whisper. “I barely know you.”
“Is that what you really think?” I slide the other end of the scarf from one of her collarbones to the other. “Because after seeing that exhibit, I’d say you know me better than almost anyone.”
Her expression doesn’t change when I admit that, but her eyes—those fascinating, glorious eyes of hers—go soft. Warm. More open than I’ve ever seen them, or her.
And that’s when I know I’ve got her. Even before she holds her hands up and murmurs, “Just the wrists?”
“For now.”
Again that indrawn breath. Again a long pause. I keep my eyes locked with hers in the mirror and though I’m dying to wrap myself around her, dying to plunge inside her, dying to give her more pleasure than she’s ever dreamed of, I wait.
It feels like forever before she clasps her hands in front of her and whispers, “All right.”
I want to howl in triumph—and in need. Instead, I slide my hands over her shoulders, down her biceps, along her forearms. I go slow, really slow, relishing the feel of her soft, delicate skin beneath my fingers. Relishing even more the way her body melts against me as she surrenders herself into my care.
In that moment, I swear to myself that I’ll take care of her. That I won’t disappoint her and I won’t hurt her. Ever.
When I finally get to her hands, I slide my fingers around her wrists and gently tug until she gets the message and unclasps her hands. She looks confused. “I thought you wanted...”
“I do, luv.” I caress her cheek, then slide my thumb across her lips. That’s when she nips sharply at me, grabbing the pad of my thumb between her teeth and biting down. It’s a warning that she’s not helpless, even like this. Especially like this. And it turns me on like nothing else could, because I don’t want her helpless. I never have.
In response, I take hold of both her wrists and pull her arms behind her. The move immediately pulls her shoulders back and thrusts her breasts forward in a way that makes her dusky pink nipples look like they’re begging for my mouth.
“Jaxon.” She whispers my name and it’s so low that I can’t tell if she’s terrified or turned on.
I tend to think it’s a mixture of both—after all, she’s totally exposed right now, with not even her arms to hide behind. Which is precisly the point of this kind of restraint.
Still, I take my time, not wanting to push her too far too fast.
“Look how beautiful you are,” I tell her as I wrap my hand around both of her wrists. “How gorgeous you look.” I run my free hand down the center of her body, from her throat to her sex.
She shudders, arches into my touch. And that’s when I know I’ve got her. I toy with her clit for a few seconds, flicking over it with my index finger as Grace presses her hips into my touch. But just as her skin grows flushed and her breathing shallows, I pull away. Then, with careful, precise twists of the scarf, I tie a single column knot around her wrists.
Normally, I’d do a double column knot, but this time I keep it at single column so Grace can pretty easily slide her hands out on her own if she wants to be free. While I’m dying to tie up a lot more of her than just her wrists—for me and for my art—the last thing I want is to freak her out or upset her.
“How does that feel?” I ask, tugging on her wrists even as I press my mouth against the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. “Not too tight?”
She twists her wrists back and forth against each other. “It’s okay.”
“Good.”
I cup her breasts in my hand as I kiss and nibble my way over her shoulders and upper back. She moans low in her throat and I reward her with a flick of my nail across her sensitized nipple.
She moans again, and she’s trembling now. I press her backward, into me, so that I can support more of her weight. She lets me, her body sinking into mine as her eyes drift shut.
And while I love that she’s so overwhelmed, love that she’s shaking and gasping and rubbing herself against me in a desperate attempt to get more, I hate that she’s closed her eyes. Hate that she’s blocked me from seeing the one part of herself that can’t hide what she’s thinking and feeling.
It’s that thought that has me barking, “Look at me!” before I even know I’m going to say it.
Her eyes fly open, but this time they’re narrowed as she shoots back, “You don’t own me!”
The challenge gets me even harder—I love her spirit—even as it gets my back up. “Don’t I?” I taunt, sliding a hand down her stomach. “Because right now, it feels like I do.”
To prove it, I thrust two fingers inside of her. She’s already drenched, so they go in hard and fast and she cries out, her body bucking wilding against mine. She cries out again as I pull my fingers back out.
“Don’t,” she chants, her hips moving urgently against me. “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I slide back in, making sure to rub against her G-spot as I do.
She doesn’t answer, just rolls her head back and forth against my shoulder as her whole body pushes against my hands. And fuck. Just...fuck. She’s so beautiful, so fucking beautiful like this. Skin rosy, body straining, sex wet and open. I want to fuck her more than I want to breathe, want to fuck her more than I want to make art and that has never happened to me before.
But I’m not ready for this to end, though, and I’m sure as shit not ready to let her go.
There’s a small voice inside of me warning that I may never be ready to let this woman go, but I ignore it, push it away. And growl, “Don’t what?” a second time.
“Don’t do this to me,” she whimpers even as she bucks her hips against me. “Don’t make me give you everything.”
Her words send electricity through me, along with a dark, primitive need I can’t deny. “I want everything,” I answer, pinching her clit in just the right spot to send her hurtling straight into orgasm.
She cries out, her knees going soft and I slide my other hand over her belly and hold her pressed against me. “I need everything, Grace.”
“Why?” she gasps, her hips writhing against my hand as I draw her orgasm out.
Overwhelmed by the feel of her, by the smell and sound and sight of her, I blurt out, “Because I’m giving you everything I can.”
The words echo in the room, echo between us, and—though it makes me a hypocrite—I hate how vulnerable they make me sound. To combat it, I do the only thing I can, I shove my fingers deep inside her at the same time I bite down on her shoulder and she goes flying over the edge a second time, her body convulsing against my fingers.
“Jaxon!” she gasps as she comes. “Jaxon!”
And fuck, just fuck. I love the sound of my name on her lips as she comes. Hell, I love making her come, love watching as she loses it. I love how responsive she is and how she spends most of her life all buttoned-up only to lose it completely the second I put my hands on her.
Because I want to see it again, I squeeze her nipple hard at the same time I snap my fingers inside her. Combine that with a couple firm circles of her clit and she’s coming again, only this time she’s silently screaming as she does.
“I’ve got you,”
I tell her over and over again as I stroke her shoulders, her stomach, her sides. “I’ve got you.”
But it’s not enough to calm her, not enough to bring her down from the physical high she’s riding. “Please,” she whimpers, twisting and arching against me. “Please, Jaxon.”
“Please what, darling?” I whisper against her damp cheek. “What do you need from me?”
I’m still behind her, so her bound hands cluch at my shirt, my belt, the waistband of my jeans. “Fuck me,” she pants. “Please, fuck me. Right now. Right now. I need you. I need—” Her voice breaks, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve heard more than enough.
My own need rampages through me, makes my knees shake and my hands sweat as I pick her up and carry her to the couch. Desire’s riding me hard now, the need to come a sudden, desperate drive inside of me.
Instead of taking the time to untie her—I’m too desperate for that—I press Grace over the back of the couch so her beautiful heart shaped ass is in the air and so are her bound hands. I didn’t think it was possible, but the sight turns me on even more. Suddenly, my hands are trembling as I reach for my belt, my need spiraling out of control.
I try to lock it down. The first time I take her I need to be steady. I need to be in control of myself and the situation. And yet every second that passes makes it harder for me to remember that. Harder for me to do anything but wrap myself up in Grace and just feel.
Still, I take a few breaths as I finally manage to get my belt undone and my jeans shoved down. I count to ten as I pull out a condom and slide it over my dick. Close my eyes and try to settle down just a little as I stroke a hand up and down Grace’s bare back.
But then she moans and any small amount of self-control I’ve managed to muster abandons me—maybe forever. All I can think about is getting inside her. All I can imagine is how she feels and how she’ll sound and—
Fuck. I plunge inside her and this time when Grace screams, there’s nothing silent about it. Her hips buck against mine, her pussy clenches on my dick, and I see stars. Grabbing hold of her hips, I slam into her again and again as I try to hold on long enough to take her over the edge one more time.
She calls my name in that voice—that goddamned rough velvet voice that’s had me hard from the second I first heard it—and it takes me even higher.
I’m close, so fucking close, and every second I hold out brings me closer and closer to insanity. Leaning forward, I slide a hand between Grace and the sofa, and I stroke her clit. Once, twice, a third time, and then she’s going off, crying my name as she convulses around me.
With a cry of my own—of thanks, of need, of bone-wrenching desperation—I come.
It goes on forever, this emptying of myself inside her in a mind-numbing, soul-searing orgasm that has my toes curling and my brain on fire.
And when it’s over, when I’ve untied Grace and pulled her trembling body onto my lap to pet and protect, I can’t help wondering what I’ve done. Can’t help wondering what will happen to me—to us—now that art and reality have merged in a way I never expected.
Sunday: Grace
I wake up slowly to the sound of heavy breathing in my ear. Not snoring, but breathing—deep, rhythmic, all-encompassing.
A quick glance at my bedside clock tells me it’s three in the morning. Three in the morning and Jaxon is still here. That’s never happened to me before. On the rare occasions when I actually allow a man to get this physically close to me, I’m usually out the door (or he is) ten minutes after we’re done.
Today, Jaxon broke that custom wide open. Not only has he stayed more than ten minutes, he’s stayed more than ten hours. And considering he’s currently in my bed, wrapped around me as he snuffles into my favorite pillow, it’s a pretty sure bet that he has no intention of leaving any time soon.
Which is fine. I mean, if I’d wanted him to go, I would have asked him to leave instead of sitting around naked with him while he fed me cold coffee and waaaaaay too many donuts. I sure as hell wouldn’t have let him fuck me three more times and I definitely wouldn’t have watched a Friends marathon and eaten take-out Chinese with him while we argued over which Friends character is the best.
Turns out he’s all about Phoebe, btw, which isn’t quite the character flaw that choosing Ross would be, but still. Considering I’m a Chandler and Joey girl, it’s a big indiscretion.
Despite that, it was a good day—a really good day. Which is probably why I’m lying here right now, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell just happened. And what the hell I’m supposed to do about it.
I slept with a man who tied my wrists together and threw me over the back of a sofa while he fucked me.
I slept with a man who made me sit on his face for over an hour as he ate me out.
I slept with a man who made me scream when I never scream. Who made me cry when I never cry. Who made me beg for more when I never beg and I never ask for more. And then he held me, petted me, rocked me, until I could think again. Until I could breathe again.
Which leads me to two questions—what kind of wizard is Jaxon Silva and what the hell does he turn me into when he’s with me? One look from those black magic eyes, one word from that gravelly voice, and I melt when I never melt.
And now I have a man in my bed. And not just any man, a man who wants to tie me up and take pictures of me for the whole world to see. Normally, I’d laugh and say never going to happen, but this man has a way of making me do things I never thought I’d do, of making me want things I never thought I’d want.
Which is the real truth about why I’m staring at the ceiling instead of rolling over and going back to sleep. I’m terrified I’ll give Jaxon whatever he asks for and in doing so, lose myself completely.
God knows, I’ve been lost in his art for more than a decade. What makes me think the man behind that art won’t have an even more powerful effect on me?
It’s that thought that has me rolling away from his warm, inviting body and that thought that has me grabbing my robe off the floor and shrugging into it as I all but run from my own bedroom—and the man sleeping in my bed.
I hit the kitchen up for a cup of cinnamon tea, then sink down on the couch with my laptop. I spent so much time with Jaxon yesterday that I didn’t even bother to check out the online reviews of the exhibit I worked for so many months putting together.
Which is just more proof of why my fears of losing myself are justified. That exhibit has been the main focus of my life for the last six months and yesterday I couldn’t even be bothered to see how it was received.
Because you already know how it was received, a little voice in the back of my head tells me. You saw Jaxon’s face when he walked out of the spiral for the first time. You felt how overwhelmed he was in the way he grabbed on to you like a lifeline. No art critic is going to give you a more honest response than that.
And still... I open up my laptop and log onto the website for the local paper. Jaxon’s reaction isn’t something I can quantify to Richard in an effort to support my choices—especially considering how many times my boss and I locked horns because of those choices.
It only takes a few seconds to find the article in their life and arts section. I skim the article first, my stomach flip-flopping as words like triumph and fascinating and well-orchestrated jump out at me.
Relief slams through me and I release the pent up breath I wasn’t even aware I was holding. Instead of reading the article right now, I click over to the site for the alternative paper in town. They tend to be a little harsher on local exhibits and... The first frisson of joy works its way through me as I see the words “a retrospective as bold and brilliant as Jaxon Silva himself.”
As I go on to read the article, which is an amalgamation of praise for the exhibit and for Jaxon himself, there’s a part of me that can’t believe I did it. That I pulled it off. That I created “a retrospective that provides powerful insight into one of the world’s most private and enigmatic artists.” And that th
at private and enigmatic artist is even now sleeping in my bed.
I finish the article, then spend another few minutes poking around to see what else is out there on the exhibit. I find a couple more articles in the Houston and Dallas papers—the retrospective was a big enough deal that they sent reporters down to check it out—as well as preliminary reviews on a couple of the big art magazine sites. All say the same thing, that the exhibit was an unqualified success—and most of them mention my name, as the curator who put together such a triumphant show. I can barely breathe with the magnitude of what this praise means to me, on a personal and a professional level.
It’s while I’m on one of the big art mag sites that I find another article about Jaxon—this one detailing an upcoming gallery show for his latest work. The show is in Paris and it opens in a few days, but that’s not what catches my attention. What has me gasping, and clicking to get a closer look, is a photo of a redheaded woman, naked except for the black ropes tied around her.
She’s suspended horizontally, hanging face down from a large ring that has five separate ropes leading to it—one for each of her limbs and one for her torso. For the limbs, the ropes are all doubled, but the torso rope is quadrupled.
I stare at the photo—titled Marionette—in a strange mixture of fascination and horror. Fascination because, in truth, it’s really, eerily beautiful. Ropes are tied around her upper thighs and ankles, her wrists, her waist, her chest and shoulders, all with artfully placed knots to bind her securely. And while she is completely trussed up—the ropes alone holding her suspended in mid-air—there’s a look of such peace, of such happiness, on her face that it’s hard to think of this as bondage in the BDSM sense of the word. Is she tied up? Yes. Is there any actual sadism at all in the ties Jaxon chose to use? It sure doesn’t look like it. Even with the way her right leg is bent, the calf and thigh bound together as she hangs there.
And still I’m horrified—not by the photo, because Jaxon is very good at what he does and the composition is absolutely beautiful. But at the idea that this is what he expects from me. To let him strip me naked and tie me up in front of the entire world—or at least, the world’s art community. Just the idea is appalling.