Amber’s enthusiasm increased April’s—suddenly, it did sound fun, which was an unexpected perk of the idea. They soon got everything set up in the small spare bedroom April had allowed Amber to use as her art studio—and they’d decided April would do a large painting of a warmly hued sunset over the ocean, complete with a silhouette of a small sailboat that Amber assured her she could create with ease.
In one way, April was a little nervous that the painting would turn out looking childish or silly, but on the other hand, she trusted Amber’s artistic senses, and if Amber believed she could do this, then maybe she could. “And trust me, a sunset will be supereasy with me guiding you. It’s mostly about blending colors, which I’ll teach you how to do.”
They were choosing shades of paint—April reminding Amber that she wanted to keep them warm and not too pastel-like given what a masculine guy Rogan was—when Allison showed up, bearing cupcakes. “I had to make some for the play group tomorrow, but ended up with way too many. I thought you guys might like them.”
Given that Allison was usually less thoughtful, even in small ways, than Amber, the gesture surprised and pleased April enormously. “Thanks, Allie—they look great,” she said, taking the plate of them from her sister and setting them on the kitchen table.
“We’ll dig in to them later, as soon as we’re done painting,” Amber added, seeming in a rush to get back to what they were doing.
Which made Allison ask what was going on and why on earth April was wearing one of Amber’s painting smocks. She, too, had been told April was dating someone, and now April explained the gift she wanted to give Rogan.
In response to April’s plan, Allison gave her head a thoughtful tilt. “I never thought about trying to do something like that,” she said, “but . . . do you think I could try to paint something, too? Maybe for Tiffany’s room?”
Amber just shrugged. “Sure. Let me get another smock and canvas. Sheesh, if I’d ever known you guys wanted to learn to paint, we could have done this a long time ago.” Then she looked toward the kitchen. “Do we have any wine? We should open a bottle. I may need it, trying to teach you both at the same time.”
They laughed, opened a bottle of Chardonnay, and painted. And though April found it challenging, she was happy with her creation by the time it was done. And not only that, but she’d had a fun evening with her sisters. A much more fun evening than she could remember having had with them in a very long time—maybe even since they were all kids, before the accident.
No one mentioned her recent “neglect” of them, and she got the idea that they’d already accepted it—that fast—and maybe they’d even begun to realize how many demands they made on her and that the time had come for her to do more things for herself. She’d never dreamed a transition like that could go so easily.
But she’d never dreamed she could paint a picture of a gorgeous sunset, either.
Or have such a pleasant, laughter-filled evening with her sisters.
It seemed that life was just teeming with good surprises lately.
* * *
Rogan’s blood rushed a little faster through his veins when he heard the doorbell. She was here. He felt like he’d been waiting all damn day for nine o’clock to arrive. Why the hell hadn’t he told her to come earlier? Why hadn’t he thought to take her out to dinner?
Though the last thing he expected when he opened the door was to find her standing there holding a big painting of some kind.
He lifted his gaze to her pretty eyes to find her smiling. “Surprise,” she said, looking more relaxed and vibrant than he thought he’d ever seen her. Then again, he’d definitely started seeing more of those qualities in her lately—though he didn’t know for sure why.
“I made this for you,” she said. “To hang above your sofa.”
Oh. Wow. Damn. He dropped his eyes back to the painting—it was a sunset of deep pinks, purples, oranges, and golds, yet none of the colors felt girly. And a sailboat floated along the horizon in the distance. “You made it? You painted this? Seriously?”
“Yes,” she said, looking a little sheepish. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s pretty fucking great, Ginger,” he told her, and he meant it. “I didn’t know you did stuff like this.” He was truly impressed, and surprised to find yet another new side of her.
A pretty blush climbed her cheeks as she said, “I don’t. I mean, this is the first time I’ve painted anything. So I’m very glad you like it.”
He finally got over his shock long enough to carefully take the painting from her grasp. “Here, let me get this. Come on in.” Once both she and the painting were inside, he leaned it against the nearest wall, by the door, and stood back to admire it again. “So this is really your first painting?”
She nodded, clearly flattered by his praise. “But it was fun, so I might do more. My sister helped me—the artsy one.” She’d told him enough about her various family members along the way that he knew she meant Amber, the youngest.
Though he remained taken aback, he flashed her a grin. “You have hidden talents, babe.”
She returned a playful smile. “Apparently I do.”
And then the other part of the equation hit him. “Are you sure you want to give it to me? Sure you don’t want to keep it for yourself?”
But she only gave him another happy nod. “I made it for you. Your walls are too bare,” she said with a teasing laugh he could only have imagined from her a few weeks ago. “So I thought you needed something to fill them. Or at least one of them.”
The fact was, Rogan had seldom been so touched. And probably this was a result of telling her that fairly embarrassing story about his old neighbor, Mrs. Denby, and the afghan. But it was true—he hadn’t received many real gifts in his life, especially ones that had come from the heart. And to know she’d taken the time to make this just for him, that she’d created something to give him as a gift . . . hell, it touched him. A lot.
“When did you get so sweet, April Pediston?” he asked, delivering another grin.
She tilted her head to one side, her ocean-blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight. “Good question. I guess you just inspired me.”
“How’d I do that?” he asked, curious to hear her answer.
“You . . . make me happy,” she said, her voice going a little softer. And that answer wasn’t what he’d expected. It even made his chest constrict, seeming to press inward on his heart, lungs. Because he wasn’t sure he’d really ever made very many people happy. Happy enough to make them want to paint him a picture.
And that inspired him to grab her and kiss her. It seemed the only thing to do in that moment.
Her arms twined around his neck instantly as her lithe little body—tonight clad in dressy shorts and a silky multicolored top—pressed against his. Getting lost in the kisses that came from somewhere deep inside him, he ran his hands over her curves, exploring them, wanting more of them.
And it would have been easy to just start undressing her right then and there—God knew that was what everything in him suffered the urge to do. But he’d invited her here tonight for a specific reason. And even as much as he wanted to fuck her right now—on the couch, on the floor, wherever—there was a very big part of him that knew he had to draw back, slow down, and do exactly what he’d planned with her tonight.
As he released her and backed away, she was reaching for the button on his blue jeans—but he caught her hands in his and said, “Wait.”
She sounded beautifully breathless asking, “Why?”
And it was almost hard for him to tell her right now—because at this moment he already felt so in sync with her in so many other ways that maybe this part really wasn’t necessary tonight. Except that . . . it was. And not just for her needs—but for his, too. “Because you’re not the one calling the shots here, Ginger,” he told her, his tone deepening.
“Oh,” she said, her voice still gentle, breathy—and beautifully acceptant.
Was sh
e disappointed? He couldn’t tell. And though he didn’t know enough about this sort of lifestyle to be sure, it struck him that this was very likely the mark of a perfect submissive. An idea that made his heart beat even faster.
So now he pointed down the hall toward his bedroom. “As luck would have it, I have a present for you, too. On my bed. Go put it on and wait for me there.”
Chapter 16
April had no idea what to expect when she entered Rogan’s bedroom. It would have struck her as odd that she’d never been there before if anything about this relationship had seemed ordinary. Dimly lit, it was equally as stark and plain as the rest of his place, complete with beige walls and simple furniture.
Well, simple except for the bed, which had both a headboard and footboard of wrought iron that created sharp angles in an interesting design.
And that was when her eyes fell on what lay on the dark brown comforter.
A black leather corset and black, strappy platform heels. In the recent past, the heels would be what most people thought of as stripper shoes, but she supposed current styles dictated otherwise. Though she’d personally never worn a pair of shoes that felt so . . . openly sexual.
And that was it—nothing else there. So I’m supposed to wear only a corset and shoes.
Truthfully, the notion made her uncomfortable. She appreciated nice lingerie and had had occasion to feel sexy in it in the past, yet this went beyond lingerie.
But you have willingly become his submissive plaything. Almost technically his . . . sex slave. And this is what people who indulge in that sort of thing wear. And the fact was, she truly did enjoy her now-mindless surrenders to him, so it never even occurred to her to do anything but what he’d told her to, whether she was comfortable with such apparel or not.
It felt strange to shed her clothes the same as if she were at home and she soon found herself standing before his dresser mirror, fully naked. The sight of her body brought back to mind how aroused she remained after their kisses by the door. The sight of the black leather had perhaps squelched that for a moment, but no more.
Though it felt even more bizarre to close her body into the black corset, tightening the black ribbon lacings that zigzagged up the center in front, and to discover that while it shoved her breasts up high, it didn’t even cover her nipples. Not that it mattered, she supposed, since it certainly left her pussy on display, too.
She stood before the mirror, studying herself—it was like seeing some version of herself she didn’t know. And yet . . . maybe that was the point? Rogan had indeed introduced her to sides of herself she’d never encountered; perhaps this was just one more. And if she was really honest with herself—even as odd as it felt to see herself this way—under the surface, there also existed a certain level of excitement, some added arousal. I never thought I could look this sexual, this much like a man’s sexual plaything. Willingly. And she didn’t dislike the sensation.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she put on the tall shoes, strapping her feet into them. Then she carefully stood up and realized how much more sexual she felt just by virtue of adding them.
And then a turn toward the closed bedroom door revealed a floor-length mirror she hadn’t noticed before, and she took herself in from head to toe. And felt oddly . . . powerful. To be so bold as to wear something like this. To be a woman that confident in her sexuality. Not that she really had been—it was Rogan who was this confident in it—but maybe the reflection she studied now was making her that confident.
Just then the door opened.
She stayed where she was, met his gaze.
Though it didn’t linger on her eyes for long—he took a lengthy, sweeping glance down her body and back up again. And then he murmured, “Jesus.”
That same fresh, new power she’d just experienced ran through her veins. “You like?”
“Hell yeah, baby. I fucking love.”
She knew what he meant—that he loved the way she looked right now. But she also heard that, unexpectedly, it had sounded almost like he’d said he loved her.
And yet somehow in the intensity of this particular moment, that hardly mattered and she wasn’t sure why. Maybe what she felt for him, right now, was just . . . enough. Without bringing questions of love into the mix. She felt special. She felt amazing. She felt empowered. Maybe nothing else mattered.
And the empowered part of her wanted to demand that he fuck her right now, hard and fast.
But then she remembered—he was the dominant one. And they both liked it that way. And a good little submissive didn’t rock the boat. So she spoke quietly, asking, “What would you like me to do?”
“Lie down on the bed. And spread your legs as wide apart as you can.”
She tensed slightly at the request—mainly the last part—but then complied, still surprised at how closely being submissive and being powerful could mirror each other. Because as she parted her legs at his command, she felt as if she were truly exhibiting both traits at the same time.
Rogan came to stand at the foot of the bed, in the center. “God, baby, your pussy’s so fucking wet and wide open.”
“Just for you,” she whispered, and felt the words warm them both.
He leaned over the bed, ran his palms slowly up the insides of both her legs, stopping them high on her inner thighs. Then he leaned over and blew a cool stream of air over her exposed clit.
A shiver ran through her in response, and it made Rogan say, “You never fight me anymore.”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to. I thought I was supposed to be your good girl.”
A gentle grin turned up the corners of his mouth. “You are. But there were times when it felt good . . . to hold you down, to know I was giving what you needed whether you knew it or not. I guess the rules to this can get a little tricky.”
She nodded against the pillow because that was so true. Then said, “I’ll do whatever you want me to, Rogan.” And realized just how complete her transformation had become.
“Is there anything that would make you fight now? Anything you really wouldn’t want me to do to you?”
“Nothing,” she said instantly, without even weighing it. Because she trusted him that much. And she saw in his eyes how deeply he understood that. Like so much between them, it didn’t need to be said.
Slowly then, Rogan placed one knee up on the foot of the mattress between her legs and eased his way onto the bed. He hovered over her, making her hotly anticipate the contact of their bodies, then finally lowered himself onto her. As his hands closed on her waist overtop the corset, then one palm rose to roughly massage her exposed breast, his breath came warm on her ear. “Fight me, Ginger. Just a little.”
And so she did. She began to struggle beneath him, to twist and writhe in his grasp. His grip on her breast tightened, making her let out a small cry as she attempted to push him away. When he pinned her parted thighs with his knees, her pussy wept with the harsh pleasure of it, and they continued that way, both clearly swept back to what it felt like to have him hold her down, make her accept his affections.
When his teeth closed over one beaded nipple, she moaned, “Oh God,” overcome by thick delights that spread through her whole body, making her even wetter between her legs. His erection pressed against her there, though denim separated them, and as she continued to fight him she loved the friction created in that spot most of all.
When he pinned her arms above her head, she gave it little attention—until she felt the bite of cold steel against her wrist, then heard a sharp click.
She leaned her head back with the instant urge to see what was happening, though it was only after the same sensation and subsequent click came at her other wrist that she caught a glimpse of the handcuffs that now held her. She felt both trapped and excited beneath him, realizing he’d cuffed her to the wrought iron bed.
The impulse to try to pull her wrists free was automatic, and their eyes met, only a couple of inches between them, as she continued her strugg
le, now more against the steel bindings than the man on top of her.
Never before had anything felt at once so restrictive and thrilling. Her breasts heaved against the boning within the leather that cupped their undersides, and in response, Rogan resumed sucking and biting at them, turning her on all the more. She continued to twist and turn beneath him, feeling it all: his hands and mouth, the leather that bound the center of her body and the hot friction her every move within it created, the hard handcuffs that bit at her tender flesh. Each and every sensation added to her overall arousal, which had already far surpassed what she had even been able to imagine upon coming into this room.
And when he suddenly backed off, rising back up on his knees, it practically killed her to have him go. It took everything within her not to protest, but she managed to emit only a small whimper of distress at his departure.
The next thing she knew, he was back on his feet, standing at the foot of the bed again. Only—oh God—there were more handcuffs. And he was hooking one cuff around the wrought iron of the bed and the other around her ankle! She gasped at the sight. These cuffs were larger, perhaps made for a bigger person, but still held her ankle tight. And then, just as quickly, her other leg was being stretched a little farther than it already was in order to be cuffed to the other corner of the bed. So that now her legs were forcibly spread.
She waited for him to come back then, praying he would finally fuck her now—so it surprised and disappointed her when he instead walked around the side of the bed to a chest of drawers. He turned back to face her a few short seconds later, but now he held a cop’s nightstick in his fist. Gripping the handle, he began drumming the opposite end into his free hand in a slow, rhythmic way, same as bad cops in old movies when they were threatening someone.
“Know what cops do to naughty little girls?” he asked her then.
Her stomach contracted within the leather. “No. What?” she breathed.
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