My head is busy, buzzing with too many thoughts I can’t silence.
“Hey.” Crispin’s voice snaps me back to attention. “You’re mine now, and you’d best remember it. Don’t make me remind you again.”
“Yes, sir.”
My cheeks heat. It’s embarrassing to be called out, and a phantom Rey clucks over my shoulder. He’d be so displeased. He trained me better than that.
“If you’re having trouble focusing, maybe I can help you with that.”
Oh, please. “Yes, sir.”
He guides me by my clasped hands to a vacant corner of the studio. He’s never brought me over here before, but I’ve stared longingly at the metal hooks and attachment points from where I’ve been tethered to the table or draped over his lap on the couch.
When he urges me into where the walls meet, I start to get wet. He lets go of my hands, places them at shoulder height on opposite walls, and kicks my feet apart until my stance is noticeably wide.
“Nose against the wall, bad girl.”
The spring loosens as my pelvis tightens. This is the kind of discipline that gets me unbearably hot. I lean forward until my nose grazes the wall, my back bowed slightly and enough weight in my arms that I feel it, will think about it.
“You’ll stay there until I come back. While I’m gone, I want you to think about all the things I’m going to do to you.”
If that weren’t enough to draw my attention back to the present, the warm, broad hands sliding up the insides of my thighs would be. He stops short of where I’m aching for him and backs off. I mewl in protest. That’s met by a firm smack to my ass, as I knew it would be.
“If you move or make a sound, you’ll be punished. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?”
“No, sir.”
No, I don’t. I want him to praise me, reward me with his approval. I will stand in this position until he deems me forgiven for shirking my responsibilities.
He leaves me with a brush of his hand over my ass, and I close my eyes and sigh. There are sounds in the studio as I stand against the wall: Crispin opening and closing drawers, withdrawing the tools of his trade. With every slide of the runners in the tracks, I speculate about what he’s getting. Cuffs? A gag? Clamps? A paddle? My kingdom for a paddle.
His devious plot works. I get so focused on every sound he makes, every demand he might impose, that by the time he’s close by, my mind is now racing with thoughts of him. He lays his hands over mine and bends down to murmur in my ear.
“Not so distracted now, are you, pet?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. You can stand up straight, relax.”
I ease my nose off the wall and immediately miss the sensation, but I’ve traded it for more contact between my body and his. A more than fair exchange. I slide my feet closer together, and he guides my hands off the walls, leaving them to rest by my sides.
“I’m going to put you through your paces soon enough. You need a break.”
My eyes bug slightly. He rarely warns me about what he’s going to do. This is going to be good. There are sounds and motions behind me, and I’m at a loss as to what he might be doing. Then he slips thick leather cuffs around my wrists and each ankle. Cuffs are standard; that doesn’t help me narrow down the possibilities.
Next, he unclips my hair and finger-combs the locks until they spill down my back. He gathers it up, but instead of plaiting it or twisting it, he cinches some kind of tie at the base of my skull. Tightly. He divides my hair, starts to braid, and I can tell from the light tugs that whatever he used to fasten my hair is being threaded through the plait. When he finishes, he ties off and lays the result over my shoulder. I don’t look down because he hasn’t told me I can, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see strands of thin rope dangling down my body, a bright red that’s a pretty contrast to my black hair and pale skin. In a moment of fleeting vanity, I wonder if he bought this for me.
He lays a hand against my shoulder blade and pulls back my arm, testing my range of motion. He makes an appreciative noise at how far back he can bend it. My flexible joints have been delighting bondage enthusiasts for over a decade, and now I have a pretty good idea of what I’m in for.
“No shoulder injuries?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ll tell me if this gets to be too much.”
“Yes, sir.”
There’s a slight roughness to the rope that makes it impossible to ignore the drag of it over my skin. He winds it around my chest, shoulders, and arms, tying precise knots at careful intervals. You’d think his deliberate pace would bore me, but it doesn’t. I love the feel of him positioning me just so, the way the rope cradles and holds me even as his hands move on to the next knot. He’s giving me time to think about how vulnerable he’s rendering me in this very methodical way, and it both terrifies and thrills me. The pretty fishtail of color draws my arms closer behind my back until my elbows nearly touch and my wrists are cinched together.
“Okay?”
“Yes, sir.” Oh, god, yes.
My chest is cracked open, my heart beating like horse hooves against my sternum. Grabbing my hips, he backs me up a few paces and nudges my ankles apart with a bare foot. He attaches a spreader bar to the cuffs at my ankles, easing them still farther, and my breath quickens. He wasn’t kidding about putting me through my paces. When he’s satisfied, there’s the familiar snick of a carabiner closing near my wrists and a tug at my hands. I get the urge to bow forward. Cris bands a warm forearm across my collarbones, gripping my shoulder with one large hand.
“You’re all right. I’ve got you.”
He pulls the rope taut with his free hand, supporting me with his arm as I fold toward the floor. My thighs feel the strain, and I give in, my head falling forward and my shoulders going loose. When Crispin’s satisfied with my position, he lets go of my chest and ties the rope off. It’s only then that he grasps the thin strands trailing from my hair and tugs until they’re wound around a small eyebolt in the floor. I’m completely immobilized.
He won’t be able to leave me like this for long—the strain on my muscles is already starting to tire me—but he doesn’t need to. Every last molecule of thought is focused on the predicament he’s put me in and what he might do to me. I’m hoping the answer is touch me, fucking touch me, and I’m not disappointed.
“You’re so pretty all bound up like this, kitten.”
He runs his hands from my forcibly spread ankles, up my legs, and over my hips to my stomach and my ribcage, coming to rest at my breasts where he fondles and squeezes, tweaks and pinches my nipples. I couldn’t pull away even if I wanted to. With my hair bound tightly, any movement causes a yank at my scalp. Devilish man.
After a few minutes of Crispin toying with me, my breath comes short, and I’m whimpering with desire. His hands wander back to my waist before slipping to the insides of my thighs. He runs a finger along my labia and sighs.
“You’re so wet. You love this, don’t you? Being completely at my mercy?”
I squeak as two fingers find their way inside me, and Cris winds his arm around my hips so the thrusting motion doesn’t put any more strain on my shoulders. Keeping me pinned, he drives his fingers into me over and over, occasionally slicking a thumb over my throbbing clit.
“What are you thinking about?”
His question startles me. Nothing. I’m not thinking of anything. I’m not parsing the data being flung at me. My mind isn’t analyzing the flood of sensations. It’s happening, and I have to accept it, like a sensual tide coming in. There’s nothing for it. Who’s done that for me?
“You, sir.”
“Then you’re going to come for me, aren’t you pet? Do it now.”
A few weak thrusts of my hips later, my orgasm overtakes me, and my limbs tremble and shudder in their bondage. My body feels pulled apart, the stretch and the raging against my restraints making me feel expanded and constricted a
ll at once. His fingers dig into my hip, and I cry out, my release rolling on and on, my vision going spotty.
My muscles go limp, and the strain on my shoulders grows with the added weight. His arm stays around my hips, but the vague draw on my hair stops and my scalp is freed. Next he unclips my ankles from the spreader bar and urges my feet closer together. I should be able to take more of my own weight, but I’m wilting like an under-watered plant.
He kneels in front of me and wedges a shoulder between my chin and chest, rolling my head to the side. “You can lean on me, mili. I’m not going to let you fall.”
When I give up, give in, he releases the rope holding my hands high. I sink to my knees, landing in a limp straddle over his thighs. The blood rushes out of my head into my arms, and I try to blink away the dizziness and the ache. He lifts me, one arm bearing my weight and one holding me close, and brings me to the couch, setting me down so I’m facing the back. I rest my head on the top, absorbing the heat from leather that’s been warmed by the rays of sun spilling through the narrow windows.
His hands slip over my bound arms, caressing, inspecting. “Are you okay like this for a little while longer?”
I wiggle my fingers, and the tingling in them says I can take it. “A little, sir.”
His voice is tight as he mutters, “I don’t think this will take long.”
A glow of pleasure blooms on my cheeks, and a slow smile spreads across my face. I’m not the only one affected. His concentration’s been as focused on me as mine’s been on him, a black hole of hedonism and desire that’s sucked the air out of this room as we indulge in each other the way we like best.
There’s the unmistakable sound of a fly being unzipped before he lays his hands on either side of my head. His thighs brush mine before he thrusts into me, gliding easily through my wetness. The friction is delicious. The sensation of penetration, of being possessed, is heady. It raises the possibility that he might not be the only one to find satisfaction here. When he grips my throat, hard, possibility turns into inevitability.
“Please, sir. Oh, please.” My soft pleading is in no way indicative of my violent desperation. Luckily, he doesn’t seem offended.
“Again, pet. Come for me again.”
My climax isn’t the explosive release of earlier because I’ve been reduced to jelly already. There’s nothing left to shatter, only waves of pleasure rolling through. As my muscles contract around him, he comes with a few hard thrusts and lets go of my neck. There’s a quick pat of my hair before his weight is gone.
I rest complacently against the couch back as he unties me. My head is empty of anything except his touch and the slow loosening of the rope. He takes it off, knot by knot, strand by strand, with the same concentration with which he put it on. The ties he’d laid so carefully have tightened under my weight, and now he has to work them free. The focus and the attention he lavishes on me every time he pulls the long lengths back through the knots, careful not to pull too fast and burn my skin, simultaneously delight and mortify me. But no matter how I feel about it, I have to take it. So I do, until he’s removed it all and eases my arms to my sides.
He rubs the strained muscles and tells me to turn around, hefting me into his arms for the brief trip to the bed, where he lays me on my stomach and massages my limbs. His dexterous fingers dig into my sore muscles, helping blood find its way back to where it’s supposed to be. I moan softly as he works me over; he strokes and soothes me, laying kisses and sweet words as he goes until I’m reduced to a puddle of worn flesh. When he’s through, he says low in my ear, “Take a shower. Get dressed. I’ll see you on the porch when you’re ready.”
I was kind of hoping for a nap, but apparently, that’s not in the cards. His very well-played cards. God, he’s good. It’s been a while since I’ve been this worn out after playing. He knows how to exploit my weaknesses, and he does but not cruelly. Not in a mocking, I-told-you-so kind of way. It’s more like running your fingers over a fading bruise until you’re pressing really hard but it doesn’t hurt anymore. What were you so afraid of in the first place? It makes me feel safe. And strong.
I make myself a cup of tea on the way back through the house, then pad barefoot out to the porch where he’s waiting for me. He showered, too; his hair’s still damp. He’s pulled on jeans and yet another T-shirt from a surf competition. Does the man have an endless supply? He has been surfing for thirty-two years, longer than I’ve been alive.
I settle myself into a cushy chair and draw up my legs, resting my still-too-hot tea on my thigh.
“Did you ever talk to Hunter again?”
If I’d thought Crispin was going to ease me back into this, I was mistaken. I can’t blame him for diving in, though. I might’ve weaseled my way out of finishing this…unpleasantness. So, though I twist my mouth up and blow a sigh out my nose, I answer.
“Yes. While I was with Rey. I called him the next afternoon. He answered the phone like nothing had happened. Called me baby. I couldn’t believe it. The fucker didn’t even pretend to be surprised. I swore at him, and he started tallying my punishment.”
Ten strokes for asking him what the fuck he was thinking and ten more after he’d asked me if I’d care to ask him again. I had, with emphasis on the fuck. Hunter didn’t approve of foul language. He rarely swore himself, thought it was gauche, and he wanted me to act like a lady. As I describe the call, Crispin’s jaw goes rigid. He doesn’t punish me for that sort of thing. I think he likes my dirty mouth.
“I asked him how he could do that to me, and he said, ‘I had a problem and I solved it.’”
“What the fuck was his problem?”
Crispin’s rage is bubbling out of his ears. I think if he knew where to find Hunter, Hunter would be a dead man by morning. Or at least a sorry one. The idea of the two of them facing off entertains me in a sick way. Crispin would have a couple inches and about twenty pounds on Hunter, though they’re both in good shape. I’d bet on Crispin in a fight, obviously, but I’m not sure who’d win. Hunter would be cool and dispassionate, probably have some unfair advantage I can’t fathom, whereas Crispin would be all fervency and bloodlust.
But Hunter wouldn’t fight for me. Not anymore. I have no doubt he wouldn’t have hesitated when I was his, but I’m not now. Haven’t been for years, and I doubt he thinks fondly of me, if he thinks of me at all.
“His problem was that I wanted to get a job.”
Crispin’s rage fizzles into confusion. “A job?”
“Yeah. I was going to be finishing school in a year, and Hunter wanted to know what I planned to do after I graduated. He hadn’t been thrilled when I decided to go to grad school and law school, but he hadn’t tried to talk me out of it. It reflected well on him that I was so educated. But he’d had enough. He wanted me to be all his, all the time. Twenty-four-seven, TPE.”
He’d asked for it before, many times, and I’d always said no. Would have continued to say no. I’d refused him other things, and he’d accepted my limits—with grace, even. No sharps, no breath play, no playing with other people if I wasn’t there. I trusted him to respect my denials. I was fine with him asking as many times as he wanted to, needed to, as long as, at the end of the day, my answer was what mattered most.
“And you didn’t want that.”
I stare into my mug, the cooled tea the color of putty because I take it with milk. I could say no. That’s what Crispin wants me to say, what he expects. He didn’t phrase it as a question because he can’t imagine me being anything other than what I am with him, but I wasn’t always like this.
“Sometimes it seemed like a good idea. To not have anything to worry about. To have no responsibilities. To drown out the chaos in my head.”
I drag my eyes up to his, fearing what I’ll see. Pity or disgust are both possibilities, and I steel myself for either one. But instead I get a patient, cautious nod. “I know that’s what you like about it.”
Yeah, that, and the incredible amount of sensation anot
her person can inflict on my body, whether pain or ecstasy. Preferably a mix of both. “Anyway, I said no. He offered to let me get another degree. He’d even gotten catalogues for some programs he deemed appropriate. And I still said no. I knew he was pissed, but I thought he’d get over it. Like when I got my law degree and my master’s. I miscalculated.”
“You didn’t miscalculate. The guy’s a fucking psychopath.”
He puts verbal air quotes around “miscalculate.” Coupled with his earnest exasperation and outrage, it warms me. I think sociopath is closer to the truth, but I won’t argue semantics. “He thought he’d back me into a corner, and I’d give in.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.” A burst of pride and a tiny speck of regret fill my ribcage. “I told him I wanted out of our contract. He said I could have it, but he reminded me there was a clause that stipulated it had to be broken in person. So a few days later, I showed up at his house with Rey.
“Hunter had my things ready to go, boxed up by the door, but he invited us in like we were there for a cocktail party. And it made me want so badly to go back to the way things were, to pretend nothing happened and be led down the path Hunter paved for me. It was Rey who kept me anchored to reality, to do what I needed to do. If he hadn’t been there…”
If Rey hadn’t been there, I’d probably be with Hunter right now. On a Friday evening? Depending on the company, I’d either be on my knees at his side, being fed bites from his plate in exquisite submissive silence, or I’d be discussing the latest Dave Eggers over cocktails. A thrill of want runs through me. To be back in that house, under Hunter’s iron hand, always knowing what was expected and the consequences if I didn’t make the grade—it was so fucking simple.
The temptation to give in was real, despite the fact that he’d mangled my life beyond repair. Maybe because he had. That’s what made Hunter so dangerous. And so goddamn good. “Anyway, I’m glad he was there.”
“Me, too.”
Crispin’s soft words yank me back to the present and wedge a crowbar under the bands of metal crushing my insides, loosening it enough for me to catch a breath. Jesus, Burke, get your shit together. This happened a lifetime ago. Read the fucking script. Make it entertainment. I look into his earnest eyes and crack a smile.
Personal Geography Page 18