by Lilia Moon
I eye him as we both step out of the car. The man chooses his words very carefully, and I suspect chatting isn’t a euphemism. “What exactly are we going to talk about?”
He opens the trunk and hands me a black duffel bag. “The contents of this, for one.”
The bag is elegant and a bit surprising, just like its owner. Black leather and well-worn copper accents. I trace the one on the handle, a stylish Celtic knot that looks handmade.
He smiles faintly, watching my fingers, and picks up two of the coolers Liane uses to transport food.
I raise an eyebrow. “You talked Liane into feeding us for two days?”
He chuckles. “No. I talked her into lending me her kitchen.”
“You cooked?” I know he can, but those coolers hold a lot more than bread and mashed potatoes.
He grins. “I did. Liane may have snuck in some of the chocolate cake she was icing this morning, but the rest is made by my hands, for better or worse.”
Liane would have surveyed our provisions. We’re unlikely to suffer. I scoop up the small bag I packed and the even smaller one he did, ignoring the odd weight of the leather duffel already over my shoulder. It’s clearly full of an assortment of things, and none of them are the kind of soft that suggest they’re needed for swimming or sleeping.
He nods for me to head to the door first. I hear the trunk slam shut behind me, but my attention is facing forward. This is a house that unveils itself as mine does, one fascinating feature at a time. It wasn’t built that way—unless I miss my guess, that’s a basic West Coast cabin behind the landscaping, but even in winter, the meandering path to the front door and the bushes with naked branches of red and gold are anything but ordinary.
It’s also a place I’ve never seen, and I would have sworn I knew every rental around this lake. I set down my bags and cast a look at the man beside me. “How did you find this?”
He smiles and enters a code into the keypad at the door. “Rafe is a friend of the owner. She’s an artist married to a master gardener. I’ve heard the inside is as unique as the landscaping.”
That’s a high bar, one that has me nosing through the door as soon as it cracks open.
Callum chuckles behind me. “Go on in. I’ll just set the food in the kitchen and join you.”
Lights turn on as we enter, more high-tech wizardry in play. It isn’t meant to do anything as pedestrian as light the hallway—we’re still standing in shadows. But the art is exquisitely showcased.
I move toward a sculpture in fiery red glass, dazzled by its color and sinuous, erotic curves. It’s suspended at eye level over the center of the main room, and it absolutely demands that I touch it. The glass is cool under my fingers, which is somehow surprising. I know, right down to my toes, that I’m touching fire.
I look over at Callum as he joins me. “This is her work?”
He smiles. “Yes.”
I don’t take my fingers away from the glass as I scan the rest of the wonderland we’ve entered. The structure of the cabin is simple, windows and white walls that melt into backdrop. A gorgeous stone fireplace anchors one side of the room, with handmade shelves on either side that look like they came from a faery wood. They’re covered in books and photos and glass sculptures, and my feet are on the move before my brain manages to stop gaping.
I make it almost to the bookshelves, distracted for a moment by a photograph of a handsome man and the laughing goddess who clearly made the art. Everything about her speaks of fire. Then my eyes travel back to the shelves, and I realize what I’m seeing.
I slide to a halt, my eyes scanning more carefully.
Erotic glass, every piece, some of it explicit, some of it gorgeously abstract. I grin at the flower petal candleholders. And at another photograph of the handsome man who clearly takes his life in his hands on a regular basis.
The sexy art doesn’t stop with the glass. The photographs on the shelves are mostly nudes and even a brief scan of the book spines suggests a classy and eclectic erotica collection.
I turn to Callum, who’s watching me from beside the fire sculpture. “Rafe has some interesting friends.”
His smile is rather wry. “Indeed. And clearly some ideas about where he thinks this interlude is headed.”
I walk back over to the man who brought me here, letting the energy I’ve collected from another artist’s work stream into my skin. I set my hands on his chest and let it reach for him. “I have some ideas about where I hope it’s headed too.”
He covers my hands with his. “Good.” He turns and leads me to the dove-gray couch behind us, one with handwoven throws that I recognize from the barefoot weaver who lives down my road. He settles me on the couch and seats himself, turning to face me. “Let’s have a talk about that.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Callum
She scowls at me, which does lovely things for my ego. Clearly she has priorities for our stay that don’t involve talking.
Sadly for her, the man I’ve grown to be requires it. I stroke my hand along her thigh, enjoying the firm and soft of her. “I believe I understand what you’re asking of me, and it requires that I show up as all of who I am. Which includes being a Dom.”
Her eyebrows slide up. A woman who’s asked for an invitation from the man and isn’t at all certain about the package he comes in. “I’m not a submissive.”
“No, you’re not. And I don’t need you to be. But being a Dom is more than wearing leathers and giving orders. It’s about self-control, about awareness, about a commitment to truth. About putting a partner’s pleasure first, but also her needs.”
She looks at me a long time. “So you still intend on being a Dom. Even though I’m not a sub.”
That cuts right through to the heart of the matter. “Yes.”
Her smile is wry and slow, but it’s her eyes that warm me. The ones that are taking a good, considering look under the packaging. “That seems like it could get confusing.”
That’s a mild word for what it could be. “Most in my lifestyle wouldn’t recommend it.”
She glances around the room before her eyes lock back on me. “We’re here because you don’t agree with them.”
I brush my thumb over her cheek, keeping my own wobbles steady. It matters, so very much, that she’s willing to look. “We’re here because you’re fascinating and bold and sexy and you call to something in me that hasn’t stirred for a long time. We’re having this conversation to figure out some of the details of exploring that.” My hand trails down her neck, over her shoulder. Wanting. Hoping. “You asked for a request from me. I’d like to explore the contours of that.”
She shoots me a lopsided grin. “India says Doms are really fond of talking.”
I laugh, because India is the kind of sub who would tie most Doms in knots with their own words and then merrily do whatever she wanted. “We are. And even if what lies between us isn’t the standard kind of relationship between a dominant and a submissive, there are tools of kink that I think might work very well for us. Including a tendency towards annoying conversations.”
She smiles and leans back against the couch beside me. “Does this mean I need a safeword?”
I adore her. “Do you have one?”
“No.”
It’s oddly easy to find my answer. “Then I don’t think you need one. We aren’t going to be wading into waters where you’re saying one thing and meaning another.”
She tucks into my side, gazing at the sexy glass fire in front of us. Her words, when they come, are hesitant. “Actually, that’s exactly what I fear most. That I’ll say one thing, maybe even believe it—but it won’t be true.”
She’s exactly right. Thank goodness, because my first answer was every kind of wrong. “In that case, I suggest we use traffic lights. Not as safewords, but as indicators. I’ll ask what color you are, and you’ll check with what lives inside you and tell me whether you’re green or yellow or red with whatever’s happening in that moment.”
/>
She’s silent at my side.
I let my fingers meander over her shoulder. “How does it feel to consider using those?”
She shakes her head, laughing a little. “Wonderful, actually. A simple shorthand, and if you ask, I can assume you really want to know.”
There are some things my lifestyle gets really right. “I’m a Dom, sweetness. I always want to know.”
She turns and kisses my cheek. “All right. I have indicator lights. What else? Because the hot springs are really wonderful at this time of year.”
I grin at her. “I was thinking about a nice swim in the lake.”
She snorts. “Red. No matter how sexy you are.”
I slide my palm up her ribs and cup one of her luscious breasts, rubbing my thumb over her nipple. “I’d warm you up after.”
She arches into my touch. “Asked and answered, but you’re welcome to keep doing that.”
I intend to. Right after I finish this conversation. I lean over the arm of the couch and lift my duffel bag, placing it on the coffee table that’s a work of art in its own right. “I’ve tools in this bag. Standard Dom equipment. I’d like to explore the idea of using some of them.”
She frowns at the bag. “What’s the difference between using them on a sub and using them on me?”
Good question. “Sometimes there won’t be a difference, not in the practical aspects, anyhow, but kink is primarily a head game. A power exchange. We’ve a dynamic between us, but it’s not that of a Dom in control and a sub who’s relinquished hers.”
She shoots me a wry look. “Sounds complicated.”
Perhaps. “I don’t think it has to be. When you draw, are you in charge, or is there a give and take with your charcoals and your paper and whatever’s trying to emerge from inside you?”
She laughs. “It varies.”
I lean in and nip her ear. “Exactly.”
I can feel her relaxing beside me. We’ve found language that makes sense to her, and that also speaks to me. Common ground.
Hoping to forge more of it, I reach for my bag.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Daley
I watch his fingers stroke his duffel. He turns to face me again, his eyes serious. “Part of my request to you is that I’d like to use some of my tools.”
I need to make sure I’ve got this. “Kinky play without kinky rules?”
He nods slowly. “Most of these tools existed long before kink was anything formal. The ones I would like to add are about giving us a wider playground to explore sensation.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “I’m a visual person, and I have no idea what’s in that bag.”
He laughs. “Fair enough. I didn’t want to lay them in your lap without permission.”
I stare as he does exactly that. He lays out one object after another, a cornucopia of some things that are clearly sex toys and others that are entirely mystifying. One, however, makes me laugh. I pick up a small flogger. “I know what this is, but it looks like you shrunk it.” I trail the leather spaghetti over my lower arm. It’s butter soft, and oddly cute for a sex toy.
Callum laughs. “That was a gift from a friend who’s a member of a club in Seattle. Apparently everyone laughs until they use it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You haven’t?”
He shakes his head. “No. But it’s a safe impact toy for our purposes.”
I’m not laughing. The sensations it causes as it runs over my arm are pretty interesting.
His fingers wrap around the handle over mine. “This is a yes.”
He doesn’t ask it like a question, but I answer anyhow. “Yes.”
He touches his fingers to something I don’t recognize. “These?”
I make a face. Up until he upended his bag in my lap, I thought I knew about most things in the sex-toy aisle. “I don’t know what those are.”
He smiles. “Nipple clamps.”
I blink. “They don’t look like the ones India makes.” I examine them more closely and shudder. “They have teeth. That’s a no.”
“Wonderful.” He sets them back in his bag.
I shoot him a confused look. “You’re awfully happy about that.”
He kisses my temple. “I am. You had a clear answer. Music to a Dom’s ears.”
Even if the answer is no. I can feel that plucking a string somewhere deep inside me that has no words. I stare at the rest of the objects on my lap. I point at two more things. “Those are also a no.”
He picks them up wordlessly and tucks them away.
I touch my finger to a string of gray spheres and guess. “Anal beads?”
He nods. “And plugs. An array of them.” He’s watching me carefully.
I can feel my gaze narrow. “What aren’t you telling me?”
One side of his mouth twitches up. “It’s not my favorite kink. I can go there if my partner would find pleasure or have her needs met, but they’re not lands I choose to travel otherwise. Which I thought I’d done a good job of keeping off the table, but obviously I’m rusty.”
His last words pluck an entirely different kind of string. A cranky one. “I don’t want them off the table.” My hands start waving, crafting something invisible the way they do when I’m feeling most deeply. “That’s the point of the drawing I showed you. You’ve held back. I want to know what happens when you don’t.” I flail at the pile of toys in my lap. “I want things from here that you want added.”
He studies me, and he finally nods slowly. “Give and take. Four hands on the eraser.”
The answer is fairly beaming out of my skin. “Yes.”
He’s still looking at me, steady and solemn and careful. “Then tell me what your hands want on this. Is anal play something you desire?”
I can feel the thunk inside me as that question lands. Which is exactly why he’s taking care. He told me what he wants and it would be so very easy just to go along, to draw the pretty picture where our needs mesh. But I asked for this, dammit, and I want it, and if our desires on this don’t line up, we’ll go for a swim and play with undersized floggers and things will be okay. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a partner want to go there.” I shrug a little. “But I’m curious. I think Liane likes the beads.”
His smile lands in his eyes first. “How was it to speak about a desire that’s different than mine?”
Troublesome man. “Shaky until I said it. Then really good. How was it to leave yours out there?”
His smile makes it all the way to his dimples. “Lovely. Then shaky. Then lovely again.”
I cuddle into him. We did it. We traversed a bump of desires not meshing and he didn’t hold back and I didn’t hide and lovely is a very good word for how that feels. So I let my hand keep moving the charcoal, bringing light out of the shadows. Because apparently finding one opinion leads to others. “It’s something I’d like to explore. Not now. Not here. I think we’ll find enough things that are a clear yes from both of us for this trip. But maybe another time.” I can feel my cheeks getting red, which is astonishing, but I can see so very clearly what that other time might look like. “Maybe on the rug in front of my fire when we have an hour that’s just about me and my needs.”
Something sparks in his eyes, of glass and heat and fire. “I would enjoy that very much.”
I believe he would. And I’m feeling a little high on the power of what I just did. I wave my hands at the rest of the toys in my lap. “What does that leave?”
His hand cups my breast again, his thumb finding that whisper touch that doesn’t soothe what’s riled up inside me at all. “In a hurry, are you?”
Honesty is paying off this afternoon. “I really want to get to the hot springs.” And the after.
He looks out the window at the oyster-shell colors of a reflected winter sunset. “We will.”
I want, very much, to pounce on him and pull the after into the now, but some drawings need a lot of shading before the erasing begins. I pick up the beads and two things I’m
pretty sure are plugs and set them in his bag. He collects a few more I don’t look at very carefully.
I point at one that remains. “I have a vibrator. I’m not opposed to you using them, but I like hands.”
He smiles. “I’ve only got two of them, and a vibrator can be useful if mine are busy.”
My nipples pucker. I glare down at them. “You don’t get a vote.”
Callum snorts and sets two vibrators by the tiny flogger.
That somehow doesn’t seem like enough.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Callum
My Dom sensor panel lights up. “What just landed, love?”
She shakes her head.
I know mutiny when I see it—and I only I know one way to handle it. I pick up all the remaining toys in her lap and toss them into my bag.
Her eyes fly to mine.
I keep my eyes stern. She may not be a sub, but she needs to know just how deeply I mean this. “I could have done this and been entirely satisfied with zero toys.”
This time, the red of her cheeks isn’t arousal. It’s shame.
I don’t want that either. “I’m reacting strongly because I think you need me to. Your mind took a step in a direction you don’t want it to go. That happens every single day, because we’re human. What matters is what happens after. We have choices about where we step, but you limit them greatly if you won’t talk to me.”
She blinks at me several times as that processes. Then her lips twitch. “I’m pretty sure you already stepped.”
My turn to blink. And sigh. “That may have been a Dom overreaction. I didn’t give you a lot of chance to step first.” My instincts aren’t calibrated to give and take. Not in this context.
“No, you didn’t.” She tips her head at me, still thinking. “But maybe that’s a good thing. Every time you respond that sharply, something inside me settles.”
The tightness clamping my ribs loosens. “Good.”