Twisted Strands

by Lilia Moon

  She settles her arms on her belly and sighs happily. “I went to one of those resort places with palm trees and endless alcoholic beverages once. This is so much better.”

  It’s warmed up considerably since we started out, and with this view, I’m not going to disagree with her. I collect what I need. Rope bag, paddles, the bits of foam we were using to pad our knees, the small switchblade in my back pocket. I don’t know a thing about canoes, but I know a lot about rope scenes, and they always start with one golden rule.

  Make sure the floor can’t dump you on your ass.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Liane

  This is bliss. Warm breezes, the light rustling of leaves that still wear the gorgeous green of spring—or they would if I opened my eyes, anyhow—muscles happily worked over from an hour of paddling, and a sexy man about to eat chocolate cake with me.

  I’m mildly curious what he’s doing to stabilize the boat, but not enough to open my eyes. Sometimes lazy eyelids are the heaviest things in the world, and today I plan to indulge them. Naps are an excellent part of playing hooky, especially if I can convince a certain sexy man to bring me some chocolate cake before I nod off.

  My mind offers up happy images of nibbling it off his fingers, which revs me up just enough to slide one eye open. That means I catch the very satisfied smirk on Matteo’s face as he stands up in the canoe and rocks hard with his feet.

  My brain initiates emergency preparations for the incoming freeze, until I realize we’re not tipping over. We’ve barely rocked at all. I lever up onto my elbows, squinting at the sudden brightness. “What did you do, anchor us to a dozen rocks?”

  He chuckles. “No. That would have required getting wet, and I don’t have polar-bear genes.”

  The water’s not that cold. Quite. I peer at his tie job. He’s rafted us up with the log, paddles running crossways and lashed off at multiple points with knots far neater than the ones I would have done. He’s also been thoughtful enough to use the kneepads and his t-shirt to protect the boat and paddles from any friction, with the added bonus that I now have a half-naked and very sexy man in my canoe.

  I can feel the ripples of that under my skin, raising pebbles where there was only sun-warmed bliss moments ago. He’s gorgeous. Not the body-builder-and-ripped-abs kind of sexy—something better. More real. Lithe muscles, probably from his rock climbing, and an ease in how he moves as he crouches down to check one of his knots that has me swallowing hard.

  He might not belong in my world, but he’s a really yummy addition.

  I lie back down and prop my head on my hands to better enjoy the view. “Not bad for a beginner.” We’re secure enough to handle a tsunami, which seems like a teeny bit of overkill, but whatever. I snag the chocolate cake container from the trip bag and open it on my belly. Time to fulfill a craving that doesn’t come with any complications. “In the fall, when the wind blows hard down the main part of the lake, we paddle up to the north end, raft three or four boats together like this, throw up a tarp on a couple of paddles, and go for a sail.”

  He eyes me like I just suggested roasting marshmallows over a live volcano. “You paddle upwind? On purpose?”

  There’s a quick brain attached to that sexy chest. I wish I didn’t find the combo quite so potent. “A few people drive, but most of us paddle. It’s not too bad if you stick close to shore.”

  He shakes his head and reaches into the cake container on my belly. “And here I thought you were a sensible person.”

  My insides are trying to take my sensible person and pitch her down a deep well. “You’re the guy who climbs up sheer rock faces just to come back down them again.”

  His grin flashes, hot and dangerous, and he offers a nice bite of cake, hand delivered right to my mouth. “I never claimed to be sensible.”

  I’m suddenly deeply aware of that. My lips open and take the cake before my sensible person manages to climb back out of the well. It’s delicious—and it tastes of sun-warmed skin and salt.

  He brushes his fingers along my bottom lip and something inside me goes molten.

  His lips quirk as he heads back in to the container on my belly, this time coming out with a bite-sized chunk of cake for himself. He stops in mid chew, his eyes widening. “Damn. Did you make this?”

  I grin. “Yes. The east shore is a little short on fancy bakeries.”

  He closes his eyes and chews and it’s all I can do to hold back a whimper.

  His eyes open, like he heard the sound I didn’t make. He studies me for a minute, and then he holds up my rope bag. “Is this precious to you, or can I chop it up and replace it later?”

  Everything inside me sits up and takes notice. Nothing about his tone or his body language has shifted, but somehow I know the lightning has arrived. “Why?”

  He traces a finger down my ribcage, back to the cake container, and his smile is slow, lingering, and dangerous. “Because I want to tie you up and feed you chocolate cake and see how you look when you come on my fingers.”

  It takes me actual, countable seconds to remember how to breathe again. Long, frozen seconds where I don’t know whether to bolt or to strip naked in the fastest possible way.

  His fingers reach out and slide under my chin. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Tell me what just ran through you.”

  Gods. So many things. His lightning makes me uncomfortable. Scares me. But I want it. I like the gentle, patient guy, but I like him more knowing the lightning is there —and I don’t know what to make of that. I’m not a woman who seeks storms in her life. “I’m confused. I’m not sure whether what I want right now is a good idea.”

  He waits, the patient guy holding the lightning still.

  I lever up out of my makeshift hammock, because there’s something I suddenly absolutely need to know, and some questions just shouldn’t be asked lying down with chocolate cake on your belly. “Why do you tie women up?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Matteo

  So much for easing her into this.

  It’s not a hard question she’s asked, all solemn eyes and aroused, tense body. It’s one I know how to answer, and it would make this a whole lot easier if I gave her my standard spiel. But I don’t want to. I want her to feel the answer, not hear it.

  Because this matters to me, maybe more than it should. “You make amazing rope. Stunning rope. There are words I could use to describe how wondrous it is, but they’re a really poor substitute for actually holding one of your ropes in my hands and wrapping a double-column tie or feeling a bite come to life as I thread it.” Keeping my hands off her is killing me, but it’s one of my first rules. Consent first, then touch. “I could tell you why I tie, but I’m hoping you’ll let me show you.”

  She swallows, but it’s not fear. It’s confusion. A woman who can feel her own answer and doesn’t know why it’s there. “You already did.”

  I won’t diminish what that was—but she needs to know it’s not all. “It was a pretty sweet start. There’s more. A lot more.”

  My words slowly penetrate, adding to both her arousal and her tension.

  I sit with all of it, letting it hone my intentions and sharpen my need.

  A deep, slow breath lifts her gorgeous breasts up in ways that shouldn’t be legal—and then I see the strange alchemy that happened yesterday in her studio. The one where caution and steadiness transmute into something entirely different.

  She looks down at the parachute cord in my hands. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

  My hands reach out to touch, because finally they can. I run them up her denim-clad thighs. “Lie back, just like you were. Preferably naked.”

  Her eyes snap up to mine. There’s shock there, but also flames.

  I don’t back down. I want her fire. I want it contained in my ropes, and then I want to feel it wrap around my cock. Which she needs to know too. I reach out and wrap my fingers around hers—the ones she’s just moved up to the buttons of her flannel shirt. “I want to t
ouch you and make you come, Liane. I also want to dig out the condom I put in my back pocket this morning and use it.”

  The tiny whimper she lets escape entirely fries my circuits.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Liane

  I want to say no. I want to say yes. I can feel both answers straining to get free—and the paralysis running between them.

  There’s so much wanting in me for what he offers, and so much certainty that accepting it will change me in ways that can’t be undone, and none of me knows how to do that gracefully or well when the man whose life is on a totally different trajectory than my own keeps following his road.

  This isn’t the nice, comfortable arrangement I have with the blacksmith to occasionally scratch our mutual itches. This is me knowing just how much Matteo could crack me open. How much he already has.

  He leans in and kisses my forehead. Nothing more. Just a sweet, entirely non-pressured kiss. Giving me time.

  And like an elastic band snapping, it somehow breaks me free.

  I don’t know if I can find words, so I find my actions instead. I let my fingers move under his, undoing one button. Sliding our joined hands down slowly to the next. There are only a couple to undo, and under it, I have on my favorite cami. It’s bright-red merino wool with spaghetti straps and some flowers that just might be orchids outlined on the fabric. Sexy, Crawford Bay style.

  The breath he sucks in steadies me. I’m not the only one drowning in want here.

  He slides my flannel shirt down my arms slowly, his eyes drinking me in. The breeze brushes my newly uncovered skin and his fingers travel in its wake. He smiles and traces the shadows cast by dappled leaves on my skin. “You’re so beautiful.”

  The petals inside me shimmer. I feel beautiful.

  He runs his thumb down the side of my breast and I don’t want layers between me and his touch anymore. Not even my favorite sexy red. But we’re out on the lake, and I know just how public it can be. I lean my forehead on his shoulder and watch his thumb stroking my softest curves. Brushing over my nipple. Cupping my breast as he does it again.

  His other hand slides down to the button of my jeans.

  Those he can have. There are plenty of summer days I’ve gone swimming in my underwear. I reach down to deal with the zipper.

  He wraps his hands around my wrists and moves my arms up to his shoulders. “Let me. I like unwrapping my presents almost as much as I like tying them up.”

  My forehead is back on his shoulder again as his words try to melt my limbs.

  He chuckles and somehow manages to stand both of us up, fairly gracefully until it plants both our heads in greenery. He looks at me, eyes dancing, and wraps my fingers around the nearest branch. “Hold on while I discover just how much I’m going to love your legs.”

  I’m still trying to think of a reply to that when I feel my jeans slide down my butt. The breeze joins his fingers again, tracing the edge of my simple black panties. More than my skin quivers this time.

  A low chuckle, laced with need, and then my pants are peeling down my legs. Strong hands wrap around my waist. “Let go and sit down, sweetheart.”

  My legs manage to follow that order, but just barely.

  He makes quick work of getting my jeans the rest of the way off and sits back on his heels, his hands on his thighs. His eyes start at my ankles and slowly travel up, and whatever nerves I might have about whether he likes what he sees evaporate.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Matteo

  If I die today, my artist will die really happy.

  Liane’s skin has been kissed by the sun just enough that it will make boring white parachute chord a work of art. And there are no tan lines, which is a fascinating bit of information I will ask about later. I get her jeans out of the way and reach for her ankles, setting her feet in my lap. I stuff a life jacket under my knees to make sure I’m going to stay comfortable, and then I run my hands slowly up her legs, massaging as I go. She quivers as I pass her knees, my thumbs rubbing slow circles on the soft skin of her inner thighs.

  So responsive. I slide my hands a little higher. “Lie back, just like you were.”

  She doesn’t move, her eyes glued to my hands.

  I move one up to press gently on her belly. “If you tell me you want to stop, it all stops. This isn’t about kink today. It’s about art.”

  That last word softens her in a way that tells me just how much power those three letters have for her. Which breathes into the place inside me where that same word is stamped on the blueprint of who I am. She leans back slowly, with a grace that says a lot about the state of her consent and the strength of her abdominal muscles.

  I run my hands over her hips, her waist, her ribs, making my slow, meandering way up her body. I pause when I get to the spaghetti straps holding her wool cami in place. I test my range of movement—I’ve rigged in some tight places before, but this definitely levels that up several notches. Fortunately, I have long arms, and reaching her luscious breasts whenever I want isn’t going to be a problem.

  I reluctantly back away from my new favorite playthings. I’ll be back, but I want her a lot less mobile first.

  I reach for the rope bag behind me. I bend one of her knees, propping it up on my chest, my hands quickly doubling enough parachute cord for what I need.

  I tie fast. It’s not nerves I’m looking to play with today, it’s pleasure. A simple two-column tie around calf and thigh to keep her leg bent. A second foot on my chest and more passes of the rope. Simple hitches, neat lines. It’s parachute cord, and I’m not going for fancy, but nothing in me will allow it to get sloppy, either.

  She’s watching, her eyes lidded, but her eyes aren’t glued to the path of my fingers today. She’s seeing the whole, the movement of hands and rope, the pattern of twisted strands against naked skin, the beauty of parallel and the slashing accents of angular that never let beauty get boring.

  One day I’ll do this very slowly so that we can both savor.

  Not today, though. She’s a beginner, and partially tied is the most dangerous place there is. My hands are on the move again, portioning out cord, doubling it, laying down the wraps. I’m in the zone, the one where I can somehow be wholly focused on the rope and also deeply connected to her skin and her breath and how she quivers at my small touches.

  The leg ties don’t take long. Her feet are still on my chest, which means she doesn’t really know what I’ve done, just yet. I reach for one of her wrists, and her eyes sharpen. I keep moving, but slowly. Giving her time to make sure she’s still on board. I run the doubled cord around her wrist three times for safety, and then a fourth time because it looks good, and hitch it to the inside of one of the leg bindings. Everything tightens up as I snug the cord, and I move in closer to her ass so her feet don’t slip.

  Which is when I see suspicion finally land in her eyes.

  I wink at her as my cock beats against the inside of my pants, and reach for her second wrist. I have to separate her knees a little to get the second cuff on and attached, and the flickers of suspicion deepen.

  Smart woman.

  I pause, just long enough to appreciate this starting point. She’s like a seed, all tied up, knees over her chest, feet against mine, hands tucked between her legs. A seed I’m ready to start watering—and just like a seed, she might find that a tight fit for a while.

  I run my hands up her arms, back to the thin straps of her cami. I take hold of the two small plastic sliders that dictate the length of the straps and let out all the slack, and then I slide them down her arms, unveiling her breasts as I go. Liane’s breathing shifts to something that holds the edges of a moan as her nipples perk up happily in the light breeze.

  I could do nothing but play with those luscious breasts all day, but the people who will likely mosey on down her lake at some point might not be ready for that. Hopefully her sweet, nosy neighbor can’t see this far. I take the extra line I left attached to her wrists and make a single c
ut. I don’t want to leave her with parachute-cord spaghetti, but I need control over where those knees are. I run my two new lines through a couple of the amazingly convenient metal loops on the underside of the top edge of her canoe, and I have the ropes where I need them to be.

  Now it’s time to see what Liane will let me do with them.

  I take her left leg and spread it outward, then her right. Her eyes sharpen again as I lay her open in front of me. I sit back on my heels and grin. She’s a nicely flexible banquet, and a really appealing one. “I think I’m getting the hang of this canoeing thing.” I’m not a chatty rigger, but I need her brain back with me for this next part. Consent, again.

  She snorts, which seems like a good sign of intelligence, present and accounted for.

  Good enough. I don’t have long, not with a newbie and rope this unforgiving, and I want all the access I can persuade her to give me for the time I do have. I tug on the waistband of her black bikini panties. “Are these precious, or can I chop them up and replace them later?”

  She grins as I echo my words of earlier—and then realization lands. Her eyes widen and shift out to the lake.

  I keep still. Time to see how she feels about being a possible exhibitionist.

  She sighs, her gaze still looking out over the water. “Will you cover me up if anyone comes along?”

  Not an exhibitionist, but willing to dare anyhow. I reach behind me for her flannel shirt and dangle it where she can see it. “Yes.”

  She breathes in deeply, closes her eyes, and exhales one simple word. “Okay.”

  Hot damn. I slide my fingers under black fabric and use my pocketknife to make two cuts, one over each hip bone. The panties fall away, and I don’t chase them.

  I can’t. I’m far too busy looking at the delights I just unwrapped.