by Jenna Mills
Aidan missed nothing.
He stood so still. There in the shadows of the room, he stood without moving, his gaze fixed on the night beyond the window.
It was one of my questions. A standard question I'd found on a list somewhere—what do you want? What do you dream about? What do you fear?
I'd always planned to ask him those questions.
But never like that, in the middle of so much quicksand.
"Aidan—" I prompted, and he turned, eviscerating me with the absolute lack of emotion on his face.
"Nothing," he said, and I knew he was lying.
"Everyone is afraid of something," I pointed out. "Just like everyone wants something."
His mouth twisted. "Not after what you fear most has already happened," he said, and then he was turning and walking across the room, toward the window.
Away from me.
I watched him. I watched him stand there. I watched him look out the window, into the night. Watched him pretend. Pretend he could walk away like that, and make everything go away. Make my question go away.
Make me go away.
The truth.
But I knew. I knew the truth.
He was afraid.
That's why he tried to twist the tables back on me. Because he was afraid.
But I wasn't going away, like he wanted me to.
"My turn," he said, his voice lower than before, hoarse almost. "Do you always create such tight little boxes to live in?"
I almost laughed. "Is that what you think I do?"
He shifted, his eyes glowing in the candlelight. He was too far away to see the blue, but I knew, I knew that it gleamed. "I think you hold on tight," he said. "And I want to know why. I want to know what you're afraid will happen if you let go."
The tightening was automatic. "Nothing."
"You're not afraid."
"No."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "What if I asked you to help me?"
It made no sense, but a fierce little blade of panic slipped in, and stabbed deep. "Help you with what?"
His eyes, they met mine. "A different kind of research."
Blind Trust
The width of the room separated us, but in that moment, there was no space, not even an inch between us. Because I could feel him. Feel the way he held me there, held me without touching.
"Is that not enough?" he asked in a voice so quiet I felt more than heard the words. "Do you need more explicit details before you decide whether you'll say yes or no? More than that before you decide...if you're afraid?"
Normally he was more subtle. Normally, he plotted and manipulated with excruciating finesse. But there was no finesse in the way he was trying to back me into the corner he didn't want to occupy, leaving me no way out, other than to say what he wanted me to say. Say yes. Yes, I would help him. Yes, I didn't need more information. Yes...I trusted him.
Because no...I wasn't afraid.
That's what he wanted.
That was reason enough to say no. No, I wouldn't help him. No, I didn't trust him.
But the hum inside me grew louder, stronger, and with it, the temptation.
"I'm here, aren't I?" I said.
"Then stand up for me."
My heart slammed so hard. Stand up. It was a simple command. And yet I knew. In that moment, in that room, with Aidan watching me like a predator tracking his prey, I knew there was nothing simple about the request.
But I did as he asked anyway. I wasn't about to let him think I was afraid.
"Now cross to the duffel." His voice was flat, no emotion, no aggression or excitement, an instructor giving casual directions.
And with no trace of emotion, not eagerness or caution, I crossed the room, toward the bag. Or at least I tried to. But it was harder than it should have been. Not because of him or what he was asking me to do...but because of the wine. And how much I'd consumed.
The whole room was wobbling, tilting...spinning...but I made it across, and looked back at him.
He still stood by the window. Still watched. "It's not too late to say no."
Yes, it was, and we both knew it. Yes, it was, unless I wanted to give him the win. "What next?"
His gaze flicked down, toward the bag. "Look inside."
Working hard not to wobble, I went down on my knees and slid my hands inside. I wasn't sure what I expected, more wine, yes. Maybe candles, a flashlight.
But not the small bundle.
Not the softness.
Breath locking in my throat, I pulled out my hands—
For a moment, everything blurred. There were no finite edges, nothing hard or concrete, just...soft, fuzzy lines, everything running together.
But still I saw. I blinked and I saw, the neatly folded silk of the purest, darkest, black.
I flicked my wrist, and the bundle unfurled, revealing two long strips, each about eight inches wide.
And from across the room, I felt more than heard the rough breath tear from Aidan.
Aidan.
Aidan who was watching me.
Aidan who had the strangest look on his face.
Heart racing, I lifted the silk between us, winding it tight around my hands. "What's this?"
"For my research," he said, and then he was moving, crossing the room and going down on his knees, lifting a hand to the center of the silk. "Unless you change your mind."
I was supposed to let go. I was supposed to give it to him—because he wanted it.
But I held on tighter.
Because with every slam of my heart, fascination slipped deeper.
"Tell me."
He rocked back, no longer rigid, but fluid now, languorous, a faint little dark smile curving his mouth. "You might not like what I'm going to say."
I realize now that should have been my warning—his body language, the quiet edge to his voice. It was clear I should change my answer, tell him never mind. I didn't want to help him.
But it was also the impossible answer, not with the shadows shifting around us, and we both knew it.
"Tell me anyway," I said.
"Then you're going to have to let go."
His hand was on the middle. Mine were on the ends, wrapped tight. "Then what?"
His eyes met mine. "That's what I want to find out."
The pulse of heat was automatic.
Research.
It was why he was here. Why we were. For a book.
And I knew what happened in his books.
Never releasing his gaze, I let the black silk fall like a liquid caress to the side of his hand. "Now what?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"You."
Control. It wasn't something he typically handed over. "I'm listening."
"Which role you want to play," he explained. "Researcher—or subject."
Everything inside me quickened. He kneeled there in the candlelight, so close the warmth of his body dissolved into mine.
Six days ago he'd been nothing more than a name, an assignment, a distant, fuzzy memory from a long-ago corner of my past.
Now he held black silk in his hand, and my blood thrummed in a dangerous, intoxicating rhythm.
"And if I hadn't agreed to stay?" I asked. "What would you have done then? Or...were you that sure what my answer would be?"
He didn't move, not his body, but the light in his eyes burned darker. "I learned a long time ago to never be sure of anything," he said quietly. "Not even tomorrow."
Before it had been heat. This time it was a chill, and again, it was automatic.
"Life is about contingency plans," he said, still in that same low, black magic tone. "Always be prepared."
I grinned. I'm not sure why. It wasn't a grinning moment. "Like a Boy Scout," I said wickedly.
He ran the slinky fabric through his hands. "Like a Boy Scout," he agreed. "Or...not."
It was the not that got me, the not that had the room tilting hard.
That, and the wine.
&n
bsp; "So what do you want—subject, or researcher?" he asked again, and again, a corner of his mouth curved in challenge. "Or nothing at all?"
Nothing at all.
I didn't want to be nothing at all, not tonight, with Aidan. I wanted—
"That's all you're going to tell me?"
"For now."
I looked from him to the silk, from the silk to the flickering votives, back to him. And my imagination ran. Ran so hard.
So many places.
"Subject," I shocked myself by saying. "I'll be your subject." Researcher sounded cold, clinical, and I didn't want that, I realized. I wanted heat. I wanted to be involved, to feel.
Aidan gave no reaction one way or the other. "You're sure?"
"Does that disappoint you?"
"Not at all." His t-shirt stretched tighter over his shoulders. "I only want you to be sure. I never want you to feel forced."
I told myself not to be nervous. This was Aidan, and this was safe...whatever this was. But the walls of the spacious room edged closer, and the stillness turned unnatural.
"Now what?"
He pushed to his feet and crossed to the far wall, near the window. There, he went down on a knee. "Come here."
The darkness almost claimed him. There so far from the candlelight, the shadows thickened to more of a veil, and his black jeans and t-shirt melted into nothingness.
But I did what he asked, and went to him.
"Sit against the wall," he instructed, and again, I did.
Heart slamming, I watched him ease closer, until no space breathed between us, and he was reaching for me, my arms—and pulling them behind my back.
The streak of vulnerability was immediate. I was fully clothed, but with my arms behind my back, I felt suddenly naked, naked and exposed in ways I'd never expected.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
He took my hands into one of his and with the other, began to wrap the silk around my wrists. "Experimenting."
Another flare, deep, deep inside me. Vulnerability maybe—yes. But more. Something else. Something...different.
Once the silk was wrapped, he released my hands and pulled the binding tight.
The urge to yank away was strong.
But I made myself stay right where I was. "If I'd said researcher," I said, or tried to say, but the words were more breath than voice. "Would I have gotten to tie you up instead?"
I couldn't see his face, only feel the warmth of his body as he snuggly tied the silk behind my back. "Yes."
The image formed, roles reversed, and the warmth of his body became the heat of mine. "Then what?"
He rocked back and lifted the second slip of silk, and I knew. I knew before he lifted it to my face. I knew before shadows became darkness. I knew before absolutely nothing was left, nothing but the feel of the blindfold against my face, and his hands working the ends together, behind my head.
"What would I have done then?" I asked.
Only his voice now. Low. Oddly reassuring. "What every good researcher does."
I swallowed hard, and told myself to breathe. In, out—slow, steady. But I didn't, couldn't, not when sensations washed over me, pressing—tightening.
And even without being able to see, I knew that the room was starting to float, rock.
Or maybe that was me.
The candles—subtle, masculine, I realized, like pipe smoke and vanilla.
And the floor, it was hard. And...cold—
But that made no sense, that I could be cold, not with Aidan—
I no longer felt him, I realized.
I no longer knew if he was there.
Jerkily, I reached out—
Except I couldn't. I couldn't reach out, because my hands were tied behind my back.
"Kendall."
His voice. Strong, hypnotic. I tried to gauge how close, but silence rushed from all directions, taking everything, even the sound of his breath.
"Aidan—"
"Are you afraid?"
My mouth was dry. Swallowing was hard. "Is that what you want? For me to be afraid? If I keep saying no, will you keep trying?"
"You're alone in an old, rundown house. You're with a man you barely know. You're bound, blindfolded..."
No, I told myself. I wasn't afraid. That's not what I felt. It wasn't. "Is that what you want?" I asked again. "For me to be afraid?"
"This isn't about me," he said in that same stripped-bare voice. "This is all you."
And it was an experiment. For one of his books. "I'm not afraid."
"Then what are you?"
"Alive." The word materialized without thought, and with it came a swell of awareness, heightened suddenly, a vibration from deep inside me. "I'm tuned in," I said. "More aware."
Something warm shifted against me, a breath maybe, a flame.
"Aidan—"
The warmth faded.
"What was that?" I asked.
Nearby a floorboard creaked.
Cooler air settled in from the unseen.
"Aidan?"
And then the cool was cold.
I didn't want to shake. I didn't want to shiver or make a fool of myself. So I made myself sit there, so very, very still, even as my chest locked and my throat closed. And my eyes burned.
And the cold slipped inside me, slipped deeper.
Researching. He was researching.
And I was the subject.
And I could resist—
But I had no idea what. No idea what I was resisting. Only that the spinning wouldn't stop, that it kept spinning faster, that I'd had too much to drink and never should have let him blindfold me—
But my thoughts had been elsewhere, on other uses for silk bindings.
"Aidan," I said again. "Answer me."
But there was only the whisper of silence.
"Are you still here?"
Nothing.
I twisted my wrists against the bindings—
Nothing.
I tried to stand, but had to kneel first, then press one foot to the floor, then the other.
At first I just stood there, not sure which way to move. Then I made myself shuffle forward—
The wall stopped me.
So did the breath.
Not mine.
Behind me.
Soft, rough.
"Aidan?" I said again, and this time I twisted around and inched forward, one cautious step at a time. The candles. They still burned. If I stepped on one or knocked them over—
"Is this what you want?" I asked. "Is this what I'm supposed to do?"
A few more creaks, one in front of me, the other behind.
Or maybe it was more of a scrape.
Do you have any idea what you're doing?
Sloan's warning. The memory of his words, the way he'd looked at me, sent another blast of cold knifing through me.
Once you're in his world,
you're in his story—that's his gift.
The spinning slowed, reversed, the room revolving backwards, away from me. Or maybe that was me, trying to walk straight. The blindfold stole my sense of equilibrium. The restraint on my wrists took my balance.
I tried to think, remember the layout of the room, to grab onto logic and hold tight. Research, I kept reminding myself. That's all this was. I'd asked him about it in the Ninth Ward. I knew he was all about hands on—
Another wave of dizziness, bringing with it new questions—what exactly was he researching?
I held myself there, so, so still, listening. "I know you're still here," I said. "I can hear you breathe...I can feel you."
But he said nothing.
Frustration pushed me to move again, to find him. Maybe that was the game—
A light then, bright—sharp, cutting through the edges of the blindfold. On me.
And my fascination with his research turned to something far darker. "Aidan—"
A few quick clicks told me he had his camera. And he was taking pictures.
Of me.
And my sense of fun and games unravelled a little more.
"Say something," I said, shuffling again, in the direction of the sound.
Silence—no more clicking. No more breathing.
And my imagination stirred, slashing against everything I knew to be real.
Research. That was all.
Aidan was the one in the room with me. It was him. I knew that. Only him. Nothing.
I don't know what Nicky—Aidan—will do, Sloan had said. But I do think you'll get hurt, yes.
I swallowed hard.
"Why won't you say anything?" I asked, my voice threadier than I intended. "Just tell me this is what you want—"
Something tall and solid stopped me.
Him.
"Aidan—" But I couldn't touch, not with my hands. I could only feel the heat of him against me, body to body. The way his chest expanded with breath—the hard, steady thrumming of his heart against the side of my face...
"Now what?" I asked in that same threadbare voice, the one that revealed too much, a confusion and a relief I didn't want him to hear. But it was too late, because it wasn't only my voice that betrayed me, it was everything, the way I pressed into him, against him, closer, needing to absorb—
I didn't know. Didn't know what I needed to absorb. The moment. The wash of relief. Or something else.
"Why won't you say anything?" I asked.
His chest expanded, fell in a rush of warmth.
"Aidan—" More. It was all I could think. More.
"Please," I whispered.
And he did, he gave me what I wanted. He gave me more, his hands, so big and strong, sliding down my arms until they reached my waist. There, he slid his fingers, spreading out against my stomach, higher, toward the ache tearing through me.
On some level, I was aware of the low mewling sound. On some level I was aware it came from me, that it ripped from me, a sound I'd never heard before. A desperation I'd never felt, trapped there behind the blindfold and without use of my hands, at his complete mercy, wanting—
Wanting.
It made no sense.
Wanting more.
Wanting him.
Needing.
So much.
So bad.
And the dizziness, it kept the room spinning, kept me from locking onto anything, anything real or concrete, only his hands on me, feathering high, the tips of his fingers sweeping along my breasts.