by Tracy Wolff
“Don’t tell me what I mean.” Forget slap, now his voice slices like a knife. “You are entitled to your own feelings, whatever they are. But don’t presume to tell me what I’m feeling.”
I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m trembling, shaking, freaking out at just the thought of sending Jaxon away. But I can’t keep him either. I can’t let him stay. No matter how hard it is to say good-bye to him now, it will be a thousand times harder to do it later, when I’ve given myself to him completely and he walks away because he’s tired of me.
There’s a little voice in the back of my head telling me it’s too late. That I’ve already given myself to him completely. But I ignore it, beat it back down. Because if I don’t, I’ll implode.
“You need to go.” I force the words out.
“Are you kidding me? We go from fine to fucked up in the space of fifteen minutes and you think I’m just going to walk out?”
“We’re not fine,” I tell him. “We were never fine.”
“What the fuck is going on, Grace? Why the fuck are you doing this to us?”
I don’t know what to say—maybe because there’s nothing to say—so I just shake my head. “You need to go.”
“Fuck that. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You need to go.”
“Goddamn it, Grace, at least look at me if you’re going to send me away.” He grabs on to my upper arms then, pulls me toward him until we’re eye to eye, breath to breath. “At least tell me the truth if you’re going to break my heart. I love you. Do you understand what that means? I love you.”
I want to believe him so badly that I’m shaking with it. And still I say, “You don’t. You can’t.”
“I do!” He shakes me a little, not hard, not to hurt me, but because the desperation is welling up inside of him. I can see it in his eyes, can feel it in his not so steady grip on my arms. “I know it’s only been a few days. I know it seems fast and overwhelming and maybe even absurd. But I don’t care. I love you. I love everything about you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“That’s bollocks, Grace, and you know it. You can hand yourself all the bullshit you want to, but don’t try handing it to me. You think I don’t know you? Give me some fucking credit here, will you?”
He shoves a hand through his hair, glares at me even as he says everything I didn’t know I wanted to hear. “I know that art means more to you than breathing. I know you have the best eye I’ve ever seen in a curator. I know that you don’t take shit from anybody, that you live your life according to your rules and no one else’s. It’s one of the things I love about you.”
His voice gets softer, the anger in his eyes not going away even as it shifts into something else. Something more. “I know you try to be tough but you’ve got a soft spot a mile wide inside of you. I know that someone has done a number on you, has tried to convince you that you’re not enough, but you are. You’re so much more than enough.”
His words slice me to ribbons and I hold a hand out in a desperate attempt to make him stop. “Jaxon, please.”
But he’s not done yet. “I know that you like to sing old Aerosmith songs in the shower when you think I’m not listening. I know you drink your coffee with two sugars and your tea black. I know your favorite color is red. I know—” His voice breaks, so he clears his throat. “I know you’re afraid, but I also know that you love me.
“Trust me, Grace. Please, for the love of God, trust me to take care of you. Trust me to love you.”
He holds a hand out to me then and I know I need to send him away, know that I need to push him away. But I can’t. Not when he’s standing there looking so vulnerable, heart on his sleeve and fear—real fear—in his eyes. And not when he’s right. I do love him. So much.
So, so much.
“You better not screw me over,” I tell him, my voice rusty from all the tears I’m holding back. “You better not make me love you like this and then throw me over for the first hot woman who gives you the eye.”
“You’re the only hot woman I know, Grace. The only hot woman I want to know.”
“Good answer. It’s bullshit, but it’s still a good answer.” I reach for him, let myself sink into the warm strength of his embrace. “No one’s ever chosen me before,” I tell him, my forehead resting against his.
“I don’t believe that.”
“It’s true.” I think about my mother with her half a dozen husbands, all of whom were more important than me. Of my father, who disappeared when I was two days old. Of the few boyfriends I’ve let myself have through the years, and how they all left me because I wasn’t open enough or affectionate enough or just plain enough. “No one has ever loved me enough to stick around once I pushed them away.”
“Yeah, well, now someone does.” He cups my face in those beautiful artist’s hands of his, uses his thumbs to brush away tears I didn’t even know I was crying. “So don’t try it again. Or else.”
“Or else, what?”
“Or else the next time I tie you up, I won’t let you go.”
I think of Jaxon’s beloved ropes, of the way it felt to be tied up by him—the way it feels to be tied to him—and I say the only thing I can think of. “Promise?”
He laughs. “Damn straight.” And then he lowers his mouth to mine and as our lips meet I know—really know—that things are going to be okay. That Jaxon is going to stay and I am going to love him forever.
And that is all that really matters.
Wednesday: Grace
I can’t believe I’m doing this. More, I can’t believe I let Jaxon talk me into doing this. I’ve spent my whole career treading the straight and narrow and now I’m going to blow it all up for a man.
A brilliant, talented, gorgeous man who I’m going to love for the rest of my life, I remind myself as I slide on the lacey white demi bra and panty set Jaxon left on the bed for me. Because it will look good with your coloring and my ropes, he’d said. The photographs will be stunning.
The photographs. Just the thought makes me nauseous, has my stomach churning and sweat working its way down my spine. There are a million models out there he could tie up and photograph, so why does he want it to be me?
He’d laughed when I asked him that, had pushed my hair back from my face and whispered, “Because in fifty years, they are going to say this was my Grace period. That you were my muse.”
And just like that, I’d fallen under his spell. Just like that, I’d agreed to let him do whatever he wanted with me—including photograph me for the whole world to see. But that was last night when we were lying in bed and I was riding a whole sea of he loves me endorphins. Here, now, in the cold light of day, what had seemed so sexy—so perfect—last night, only seems foolish and crazy.
And yet what’s the other option? Go in there and tell him I’ve changed my mind? He’s been so excited all day, like he’s a kid on Christmas morning and I’ve just given him the best, most amazing present in the whole world. Someone else might be able to look into his ridiculously happy, ridiculously charming face and tell him no. But whoever can do that obviously isn’t in love with him. And obviously isn’t me.
There’s a mirror on the dressing room wall, but I refuse to look in it once I’m dressed. Or undressed, depending on the point of view. Seeing how ridiculous I look will only make me more nervous and that’s the last thing either of us needs right now. I mean, if Jaxon doesn’t want to take pictures of me puking my guts all over his precious ropes...
I take a deep breath, blow it out slowly. Remind myself that Jaxon promised me if I hated the pictures he wouldn’t use them for anything but his own personal collection. That alone makes me uncomfortable but he flat out told me there was no way he’d destroy them. I can choose what he does with them, but their existence is at his discretion, not mine.
That’s what I get for falling in love with a genius, especially one who’s got a hell of a lot of dom in him.
Just the thought has shivers running d
own my spine as I open the door between the dressing room and the studio Jaxon rented out for the evening.
I don’t know what I’m expecting when I walk into the room, but it’s not to find him standing in the middle of the room in ripped jeans and a black turtleneck that makes his eyes shine like dark diamonds. His hair is loose around his face and he’s never looked more beautiful. Or more terrifying.
In one hand he holds a black rope, in the other a bamboo pole, and fuck. Just fuck. Something tells me I have no idea what I’m getting myself into here.
For a second, just a second, I think about telling him to forget it. About turning around and walking back into the dressing room where my clothes—and my sanity—are waiting for me.
But even as the thought flits through my head, I know I’m not going to do it. I can’t, not when he’s standing there watching me so darkly. Hotly. Possessively. And not when I know that I want him to keep looking at me like that forever.
“Grace. Luv. You look...exquisite.”
I can’t help the blush that creeps up my cheeks at the look in his eyes and the way he’s staring at me.
I want to look away, want to give myself a moment—just a moment—to collect myself. To breathe. But Jaxon won’t let me, his gaze holding me—trapping me—like a fish on a line.
And so I wait, helpless, hopeless, for him to make the first move.
It doesn’t take long.
“Did you do the stretches?” he asks as he prowls toward me.
I start to answer, but I’m so nervous that my voice catches in my throat. It’s ridiculous to be this nervous, I remind myself as he draws closer. This is Jaxon. Just Jaxon, taking a few photos of me. The fact that it feels like so much more is all in my head.
“Grace?” he prompts, and I nod because it’s easier than trying to put letters together to form words.
“All of them?” He pushes for an answer. “It’s a complicated tie and I don’t want—”
“I did them.” I manage to get the words out, mostly because the longer he talks about how complicated the tie is, the more nervous I’m going to get. Not about the ropes, because I loved what he did with them the other night, but about the pictures.
The damn, damn, damn pictures.
“Good,” he says with a wicked grin that has my heart beating fast and my sex growing wet. Damn him for making me want him and double damn him for making me want this.
He’s closer now and I catch his scent, sexy, familiar, so quintessentially Jaxon that it turns me on and settles me down all at the same time.
“You okay, luv?” he asks, eyebrow raised.
“Yes,” I say, and as I take another deep breath—and another whiff of his orange and bergamot scent—I’m thrilled to realize that I mean it. Seeing Jaxon, hearing him, smelling him, settles me as few things ever have.
“Good. Now come here.”
I do as he instructs, closing the small distance between us.
“Lace your hands together in front of you like this.”
I watch as he demonstrates, then follow his instructions, pressing my wrists together as I intertwine my fingers.
“Beautiful,” he tells me, eyes gleaming as he wraps his rope around one of my wrists, threading it in and out, then under and around before securing the tie with a knot. Then he lifts my arms straight up, so my wrists—one tied and one not—are directly above my head.
“Hold them there,” he orders, and the hint of Britain is back.
His breath is touching my neck as he sweeps my hair out of my face. There is more rope, some tugging against my scalp, but I’m lost in his eyes. In his smile. In the warmth of his body against mine. It’s not until he unlaces my fingers and pulls my arms down behind me that I realize my head is tilted at an angle, a small rope woven into my hair and connected to the rope he’s wrapped around my wrists.
Panic beats inside me as he relaces my fingers and completes the wrist binding, but his lips are on the nape of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. “I’ve wanted to see you like this from the moment you walked into that bar.”
“Because that’s not creepy at all,” I tell him, aiming for sarcastic but ending up with affectionate.
He just laughs, and traces a soft finger down my spine. “If you had a clue about all the things I want to do you, you’d probably run for the hills, my sweet Grace.”
My mouth goes desert dry, but not from fear. From desire. Because as I stand here letting him tie me up, preparing to let him take pictures of me, I realize there are very few things in the world I won’t let this man do to me. Very few things in the world, I don’t want to do to him in return.
I don’t say that, though. Instead I settle for more sarcasm. “Not creepy and totally comforting.”
He laughs again, a warm, sly sound that has my nipples pebbling and my sex growing wetter. Then his lips are on the nape of my neck, breath hot against my skin. “You know I’ve got you, luv. You know I’ll always have you.”
His arms come around me and he pulls me back against his long, lithe, strong body. I can feel him, hard and thick and hot against my hip and it turns me on. “You know that, don’t you,” he continues.
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway, no longer trusting myself to speak.
His hand comes up to circle my throat and with my head tilted back, there’s nowhere to hide. I’m completely exposed to him. Completely open. Jaxon’s for the taking.
He strokes my throat with tender fingers, presses his thumb into my pulse point hard enough to make me gasp. Hard enough to bruise, but not to hurt.
Then he moves on, his fingers trailing over my breastbone to the upper curves of my breast and down to my exposed nipple which is already tight, hard, ready for his touch. For his mouth. For his ropes.
And then he’s gone, his touch disappearing between one breath and the next. I whimper, arch my back in desperate invitation, but he’s already moved on. His hands are behind my back, adding another rope to my wrists, tugging to make sure the binding is secure.
I close my eyes, overwhelmed, and when I open them he’s back in front of me, another rope in his hands. The look in his eyes tells me this one isn’t going anywhere as innocuous as my wrists.
He doubles up the rope, lays it under my breasts, taking care that I can breathe as he presses it against my ribcage. Then his arms are around me, bringing me in closer as he snakes the rope around me.
His hand is on my back now, his fingers stroking my spine from neck to base. He pauses for a moment, resting his palm on my lower back and the heat of him makes me burn. Makes me want. Until he’s all that I can think about. Until he’s all that I can see.
Time passes as he continues to bind me, but it’s a nebulous thing. The world grows fuzzy around us and I can’t concentrate on anything but Jaxon’s ropes. On anything but him.
It’s strange, how clear some things are: the wine and chocolate scent of his breath against my cheek, the roughness of his jeans, the hardness of his cock against my hip. The heat rolling off him in waves and swallowing me whole.
Everything else is a blur as he works. Fast, then slow. Rough, then gentle. Tight, then so fluid I barely know I’m being bound. With anyone else, I’d be a mess by now. Hell, with anyone else I’d never even be here. But right here, in this moment, there’s nothing I want more than Jaxon’s touch...and Jaxon’s ropes.
He touches me over and over again as he builds the ties that bind me. Fingers in my hair, lips on my throat, tongue stroking over my nipple, stubble harsh against the sensitive skin of my shoulders and rib cage as he ties me more and more completely.
My world becomes the rope...and him. Always him. My body craves his touch as he ties a string of knots down my front, from just under my breasts to my sex. A symmetrical set goes in the back, from my shoulder blades to my ass and the more he works, the harder it is for me to stay still. The harder it is not to drop to my knees and beg him to take me, to fuck me, to do anything—to do everything—to me.
B
ut he’s crouching in back of me now, his teeth nipping at my upper thigh in reprimand for the sudden squirming I can’t seem to control. The bite only makes the need worse, though, a startled cry ripping from my throat at the sudden sharp pain of it. And the burgeoning pleasure.
I’m floating more now and time loses all meaning. One minute he’s behind me, he next he’s on his knees in front of me, the heat of his breath adding to the need building, burning, inside of me. More rope, more knots, more restricted movement until it’s all I can do not to rub my thighs together in a futile, desperate need to alleviate the ache that grows with each brush of his hand against me. With each slide of his rope.
It slithers down my leg now, and he winds it around my thigh, looping and knotting it with precision, as if all he can think about is the rope while all I can think about is him.
My whole body is raw, electric, my nerves stretched so tight that when his tongue snakes out and licks at my inner thigh it’s all I can do to hold myself upright as I arch against his mouth. His fingers go to my hips, digging in hard as he uses his tongue—his wicked, wild tongue—to ease the edge of my panties aside just far enough for him to lick his way along my slit.
Heat roars through me and I gasp, my wrists straining against the restraints as a desperate need to touch him overwhelms me. But he tied me tightly this time and I can barely move my hands let alone break free.
I can see in his face that he understands my predicament. More, he relishes it. I start to tell him off, but the words freeze in my throat as he flicks his tongue over my clit, once, twice, before kissing his way back over to my thigh.
And just that easily I slide from desperation into a dark, delirious insanity.
I hiss out his name, half demand, half plea, but Jaxon just grins wickedly at me as he goes back to securing a loop around each of my legs.
When he’s done he moves on, easing me down to the floor, spreading my legs even wider apart. Then he draws my left leg up and weaves rope from my shin to my upper thigh, doing the same with my right leg, forcing my knees up and my legs wide apart until I am completely open to him. Head back. Knees open. Hands behind my back. Completely at his mercy.