She’d have to convince herself.
Cheyenne
I rubbed at my clit a few seconds and realized I didn’t fucking want to masturbate.
My second realization came seconds later, and hit me like a two-by-four.
I’d expected him to punish me for trying to have an orgasm.
It was like that puzzle piece that suddenly makes all the other puzzle pieces you’ve put together off to the side work together. I hadn’t seen the big picture, but now I did.
He’d been taking charge during sex, but not so much in between. He hadn’t really needed to, since I’m incapable of having an orgasm unless he gives it to me, but he hadn’t tried. I’ve had kinky friends over the years, so I understood enough to know that until I handed him my submission, he didn’t own it.
And he hadn’t tried to pretend he did. That’s why he’d had a conversation with me about my needs instead of punishing me.
And that was why he wanted me to kneel in front of him if I wanted him to keep controlling my orgasms. He was going to formalize it, and I knew it was right.
I mean, sure, part of me wanted to rebel, but in my gut, I knew this was the next step. Our sex life had always been skewed towards him bossing me around. It’d started when I was Banshee to him. The dynamic was totally different now, but it still depended on him bossing me around and me needing to hear his bossy-assed voice.
I took my time bathing, drying off, and rubbing coconut oil all over. I worked on my hair while it soaked in, and then put makeup on. It seemed important I come to him as me — self-confident, sure of myself. Sure of my submission.
Walking through the house, barefoot and naked, seemed natural. However, when I reached the door of the den, it was suddenly hard. Instinctively, I knew this would represent a sea-change in our relationship.
I wasn’t really sure how to kneel, when it came to it. I ended up with my butt on my feet, my hands open and facedown on my thighs, and my eyes focused on the floor just in front of my knees. Within a minute, he’d saved his game and set the controller to the side.
“We would have moved forward and figured things out no matter your decision, but I’m glad you trust me enough to make this one.”
A finger touched under my chin and it sent a tingle all through my body. He pushed my chin up, and I met his gaze. Crystal clear blue, but not cold.
“Can you tell me that you give me your orgasms? Can you make it official?”
I nodded, and he waited. It took me a good thirty seconds to manage to actually say it.
“I give you my orgasms.”
“And I accept them. If you ever want to take them back, or feel I’m not being responsible with them, you need to promise to come talk to me about it, and not to take matters into your own hands. Can you make that promise?”
I nodded again, and he kissed my forehead.
“Okay. You’re allowed to masturbate and edge all you want unless I specifically tell you I don’t want you to. You aren’t allowed to try to get yourself to orgasm. Do you agree?”
I nodded, realized he wanted more, and said, “Yes. I agree.”
“Okay then. Go put clothes on, and then we’re going to play a game of chess.”
Frost
I worried that if I edged her after our talk, she’d see it as punishment. At first, the idea of denying her seemed the perfect way to provide consequences, but I’d changed my mind. I wanted it to be part of our life. I didn’t want her to see it as a negative, but as a positive.
So, we played chess instead of having sex. My sense of smell sucks, and yet I could still scent her arousal. Her body language and micro-expressions gave it away as well, but I ignored it. No more orgasms this year, and I didn’t want the evening to feel punitive.
I kicked her ass in chess, of course, but I gave lessons as I did it. Cheyenne is smart, and the cat understood strategy also, so she learned fast.
When it was time for bed, I tucked her in and held her, but didn’t initiate sex.
“At least let me give you a blow job.”
“Not tonight. Go to sleep, kitty cat.”
She sighed, and I realized she didn’t understand my reasoning.
“Tell me why we aren’t having sex.” I tried to keep my voice soft. I didn’t want to come off as ordering her around, though in reality, I was.
“You’re punishing me.”
“No orgasms this year, right? If we have sex, it’ll just be me edging you. Frustrating you.”
“Then why have the stupid rule? Surely you don’t mean to keep from touching me until after New Year’s?”
“No, you’ll get edged and frustrated again tomorrow. I’m just giving you a night off tonight, as a reward for being honest with yourself and with me.”
“Reward?”
“Yes, Cheyenne. So many women would have fought themselves and the man they loved tonight, refusing to admit they needed power exchange in their life. You figured it out and accepted it, and that’s one of the reasons I love you so fucking much. You’re smart, and you’re honest, and you don’t fuck around with pretense.”
She relaxed in my arms. “Oh. I love you, too, and for the same reasons.” She took a breath. “There’s more, though. The way you are with the kids, the way you handled Gil — with power and strength and aggression when it was called for, but then with cooperation and diplomacy when they had a chance of working. A lot of men would have hung onto the fact they’d kicked his ass and didn’t need to negotiate or use diplomacy, and I love you for not doing that.”
I chuckled. “He knows how thoroughly I kicked his ass. I don’t have to keep reminding him. You love those kids, so whatever I could do to keep them in your life, I did.” I rubbed my hand down her arm and rested it on her hip. “I told you when we first started this dance that I didn’t want to complicate your life, that I’d do my best to fit into it.”
“You did. That’s why I let you spank me in front of everyone. It was important for me to try to fit back into your life.”
“I know.” I kissed her cheek and settled in behind her again, willing my body to relax. “Sleep, kitty cat. I have you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Cheyenne
He made good on his promise to begin tormenting me again the following day. He woke me the next morning by licking and sucking my clit, and twenty minutes later, he came deep in my ass, and I was nearly in tears because I needed to come so fucking bad, but I knew it wasn’t going to happen.
Ten minutes later I turned my warm shower into a cold one, hoping it would help, but my insides clenched even harder, and even more blood went into my clit.
Fuck.
For dinner one evening, he rubbed vapor rub on my clit and put a remote-control vibrating butt plug in my ass, and then took me out to a fancy fucking restaurant.
Long before we made it to New Year’s Eve, he only had to look at me like he was considering giving me an order to make my clit throb and my entire lower abdomen go tight and hot.
The morning of December twenty-ninth, he handed me a sheet of paper at breakfast, without saying a word to prepare me. The top part was legal-type wording, saying we were creating an agreement, basically, and then there was this list:
Frost has complete control over every sexual decision between the couple, every minute and second of every day, with the exception of situations including the kids, Cheyenne’s work, or Cheyenne’s art.
Frost will decide Cheyenne’s clothing worn at the clubhouse or on a date, whether the children are present or not.
Frost has the right to decide Cheyenne’s underwear, 24/7/365. He may or may not choose to exercise this right daily. He will clear out any garments he doesn’t like, so they are no longer an option. He may also forbid the use of any underwear at all, for special occasions.
Cheyenne needs Frost’s permission to orgasm, 24/7/365.
Cheyenne will not act submissive around the kids or when at work, but she will immediately obey all of Frost’s orders, otherwise
. Discussion about not liking an order should happen later, not when the order is given (see below).
Cheyenne is Frost’s biggest treasure. She will take care of herself and keep herself safe.
Cheyenne will always be available to Frost via text or phone, and if she realizes she won’t be and it can’t be helped, she will notify him to let him know before it happens.
Cheyenne will come to Frost and talk to him anytime the power exchange isn’t working for her, no matter how small the issue. The best time to discuss this is over breakfast, or at the first private meal, or any time after their first meal when the couple has privacy. This should not be put off until later — it should be discussed within twelve hours of the incident if possible, and no farther out than twenty-four hours.
There was more legal wording, and then a notation that a signature wasn’t necessary, that a verbal agreement was all the parties needed between themselves.
And that, more than anything else in this agreement, was a testament to how well this man knew me. There is no way in hell I’d have signed my name to this piece of paper, but I had no problem whatsoever agreeing to it verbally.
Okay, so maybe one small issue.
“The first item, I think you want me to argue with you, but I’m not going to because I know you’ll never do anything to screw with the kids’ perception of us as a healthy, working couple. You want them to find healthy relationships when they grow up, and you know they’ve seen two that didn’t last. You feel responsible for them.”
He nodded.
“I’m going to want to decide what I wear to the clubhouse, most of the time. I don’t think you understand the way women work. What I wear is a reflection of my personality, of who I am. It’s important.”
He sat back, clearly considering my argument. I sat quietly for nearly two minutes, waiting. Finally, he leaned forward and crossed through the “at the clubhouse” portion of that line, and then wrote in another bullet point, below the others. “Frost will have the power of veto for Cheyenne’s outfits worn to the clubhouse or at RTMC events, and Cheyenne will take Frost’s advice into consideration when deciding what to wear to in-town events. For out of town events, or when we have out-of-town chapters visiting, Cheyenne will follow Frost’s directives regarding her clothing.”
“So long as you’ll let me negotiate within those directives,” I told him. “Tell me what you’re going for and I’ll find an outfit that does it, and that still lets my personality shine through.”
“And trust that if I’m adamant about an outfit, it’s important,” he countered.
“Only if you’ll explain why.”
“I may not always be able to explain, but if I can, I will.”
My turn to decide what I was willing to agree to. I didn’t take two minutes, but I still sat and took my time. Finally, I told him, “Okay. Worst case scenario, we can’t reach an agreement and I stay home.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“I don’t think it will. I trust you to listen to me, you trust me to listen to you. We’ll figure it out.”
He nodded. “Okay, then I can give my verbal agreement. Can you?”
“Yes. I agree to these stipulations.”
“Excellent. I have a request for your clothing for the New Year’s party at the clubhouse. I need you to look both badass and sexy, and I want you to wear black and silver. Black jeans, the black riding boots I bought you, and I don’t care about the color of the shirt as long as it shows acres of cleavage. I’d also like for the ripped abs to show, but that can either be because the shirt is short, or that it’s so damned tight it’s like it’s painted on. Oh, and I need the makeup and hair to look badass, too. Can you work with that?”
Well, that wasn’t what I expected. Not at all. For some reason, I thought he’d put me in a miniskirt and exercise bra, or something equally not me, but I had no issue with what he was saying. It fit the party, and it fit me when I was at the party. It was Cheyenne and not Banshee. I should have trusted him and not argued with him about the wording, maybe, but I was glad I had. It seemed wrong to just capitulate without any negotiation.
Instead of telling him any of that, I answered as simply as I could.
“Jeans and boots, no problem. Silver belt and silver earrings, also no problem. Let’s go up and look through my shirts after breakfast. I’ll try a few on and see if they work for you. Same with the silver necklaces — I have several that will work.”
“Thank you.”
“Why am I being thanked?”
He shrugged. “For not fighting me on this?”
“Then you’re welcome, but I don’t have a problem with giving you input on what I wear around your friends. So long as you let me express my personality, and take into account clothing I’ll be comfortable in — socially and physically — then I don’t think we’re going to have a problem.”
Gil and the kids were spending New Year’s Eve with the Pack, which helped. I’d have wanted to be with them if they spent it at home, but I had no interest in spending the evening on Pack lands. My cat had never been comfortable there. They’d welcomed me, it wasn’t that that they were hostile, it’s just that the cat hadn’t been able to relax around all those wolves.
So, when I walked into the clubhouse on Frost’s arm, wearing low-slung black jeans and a tiny little black shirt that covered my boobs and shoulders and not much else, with a cool silver chain used as a belt, a clunky silver necklace that came to a V to help show off my cleavage, and silver earrings in the shape of old-west pistols. It was part biker-chic and part artist-wear, and I couldn’t have told you which part was which, but it worked. Okay, the heavy black riding boots were all biker wear, but everything else could’ve gone either way.
Frost’s people had come through the fire and come out the other side. They’d lost people, and now they were strong again. They would always live with that loss, but life goes on. I felt, several times, that many of them were using this night as a way to help put that past behind them and move forward. The new clubhouse helped — I could see a huge difference in the attitude, now that they were in a stronghold they’d made, and not in a temporary clubhouse.
The live band was on the stage, and I spent a good portion of the night dancing with the other ol’ladies. A few of Frost’s brothers danced, but most of them sat and watched.
I was back at the bar with Velvet, Tess, and Ember, doing shots and watching the prospects dance. They’d all been ordered to, and a few were having fun with it, but several clearly did not want to be dancing.
I turned and looked at the other ol’ladies, and wondered, again, if Frost was going to give me a vest. I was the only one without one, and it was kind of obvious when the four of us were around. I knew enough about the protocol around it to know it wouldn’t be good for me to ask him, though. It would be tantamount to demanding an engagement ring.
No, the vest meant he was claiming me to his family, and that wasn’t something I could ask for. It had to be something he wanted to do.
Ten minutes later, at eleven thirty, the music stopped and I heard Frost’s voice, booming out across the room. He didn’t need a microphone.
“What a difference a year makes, right? This time last year, ya’ll were two months out from losing so many of us, living in apartments, making do in a temporary clubhouse, and scrambling to keep those of us alive safe on a daily basis. This time last year, I was in jail, scrambling to keep myself and those I was tasked to protect inside as safe as possible.” He looked to Mad Dog. “Ya’ll did what you could to help with that, and I’ll be forever grateful for every bit of it.”
“It’s what we do, brother.”
He nodded. “I know. We’re always there for each other. Always.”
He looked across the room to me. “Cheyenne, can you come up here, please?”
The room was silent while I walked to him, bodies moving out of my way, creating a path. Walking through them had been so hard earlier, and now it was easy.
I thought I’d go up the steps, but Squatch and Dementor both grabbed me under the armpit and knee, and lifted me to the stage as if we’d practiced it, but we hadn’t. Clearly, they’d done the move before.
Frost pulled me the last two feet, so I was standing beside him, facing him and those crystal clear, deep blue eyes, the audience out to my left and his right, the silent band to our other sides.
“I let you go once, and I’m a lucky man, because fate brought you back into my life. I need you in my life, Cheyenne Grace.”
The guitar player in the band walked towards us and handed a large, flat box to Frost. He turned to me and held it between us. “Open the box, kitty cat.”
I looked at him a second and took in how serious he looked. Not only serious, but a little bit afraid. What the fuck? I opened the box, saw PROPERTY OF FROST, and suddenly understood.
He was offering me a prop vest. He wanted to proclaim to the world that he owned me, and he wasn’t sure I’d want to wear it.
Thankfully, I knew what I was supposed to say, so I didn’t make him wait to hear it.
“Will you please put it on me?”
My voice broke halfway through, so it was mostly me mouthing the last four words, but that seemed to be okay, because he held the vest up and let the box fall to our feet. He kicked it back towards the band as it landed, out of our way. I turned, slid my arm into one hole, then the other, and the next thing I knew, I was smushed against his chest and couldn’t breathe. The room erupted in cheers, applause, and whistles. I pushed away from Frost, got a breath, and then jumped up so my legs went around his waist and my head landed on his shoulder. His arms went back around me, and he breathed into my neck.
Frost (Rolling Thunder MC Birmingham Book 3) Page 17