But that isn't what he wants. Not quite. He wants me to submit to him. He wants me to willingly hand over my freedoms, one by one.
He's waiting for me to tell him it's okay.
Is it okay?
“Have I ever hurt you?” Tristan murmurs.
“No.”
“And I would never.”
He slides the silk cloth down my eyes, over my nose. It feels as cool and slippery as water.
“Don't you believe me?”
“Uh-huh…”
He leans in to cinch the knot, and his firm, warm chest brushes against my arm.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Darkness has fallen over my eyes. I shiver, and Tristan's hands are on my shoulders, rubbing up and down my arms.
“I'm not sure.” My voice shakes a little. “What are you going to do to me?”
“You have to trust me.” He's still rubbing my arms, but now I feel his warm breath on my lips. It smells like mint. “Do you trust me to make you feel good?”
“Yes,” I say. I think so.
“You don't look very sure.”
“Are you going to clamp me?”
“Do you want me to clamp you?”
So he owns a set. Maybe multiple sets. I shake my head violently, trembling at the savage imagery from the DVD.
“Then no. I won't.” He stops rubbing my arms but doesn't take his hands away immediately, and I'm grateful for that. The connection lets me know he's nearby.
“I'll be right back.”
And then his footsteps recede as he leaves me to my own blindfolded devices. There's a fleeting sense of panic, followed by curiosity. Sitting here, vision obscured, it's as if all my other senses have become amplified. I can hear the ticking of his watch, which he must have left on the nightstand, and the distant roar of an airplane overhead. Or maybe that's just the sound of my heart in my ears.
Tristan bustles around in the kitchen, and I wonder if he's making a lot of noise on purpose so I know where he is. I'm relieved when he reenters the room—relieved and anxious, because he's carrying something that rattles alarmingly.
“What's that?” I ask, looking around.
There's a tug at the collar of my shirt. I go still, and feel the warmth of his hands at my shoulders again. He's standing beside the bed, I think. “Kelly,” he says, “I'm going to take off your shirt.”
This seems very sudden. If he were any other man, I'd say no. But Tristan is not any other man.
“Okay,” I say shakily. “You may take off my shirt.”
“I wasn't asking permission.” He unfastens my collar, stroking the skin beneath as he pulls it back from my neck. I suck in my breath as he kisses the hollow below my ear.
“Ordinarily, I wouldn't bother with a narration. Sensation is stronger when it occurs in a vacuum. But this is your first time with a blindfold, and you're frightened.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
My shirt is completely unbuttoned. Tristan pulls it off my shoulders and down my arms. Then he reaches behind me and unhooks my bra. He isn't being rough at all, and I'm surprised by how reverently he is undressing me. This is the same man who said he wanted to fuck me hard.
“Lie down.” He smooths his fingers over my shoulders, pushing my hair out of the way. “I'm not going to take anything else off. But you aren't allowed to move.”
His sheets feel crisp against my spine and give a soft, starchy rasp as I lean back against them. The bed creaks alarmingly as he slides on beside me, and I start to sit up. He gently pushes me back. “Relax.”
I swallow, and then nod.
Tristan straddles my waist, startling me into bucking. He squeezes me with his thighs, and firmly pushes me back against the bed. I can feel his erection nudging my belly through his jeans. That makes me happy. In spite of my awkwardness, and my fear, I know now that he finds me sexually attractive. But then he shifts his weight and the hard, insistent press of him disappears.
“Keep your hands here.” He pulls my arms over my head and rotates them so that I'm gripping his headboard. He curls my fingers around the wood, checking to make sure that my grip is firm. “Don't move your hands.”
“I won't.”
Something soft and feathery circles my navel, and I jerk to attention, but the sensation stops almost as soon as I perceive it.
I let out my breath, then suck it all up again when the tickling sensation appears again, this time concentrating around my nipples, before skirting down my sides, and finally, my lips. I let out a choking laugh, squirming a little as I turn my head away.
“I told you not to move.”
Tristan moves my head back into position and fixes my arms. Then he rotates the object against my skin, and I feel the needle sharp point of the feather—I'm pretty sure it's a feather.
He retraces the path he took before with the scratchy end and while it doesn't hurt, exactly, it is irritating. As I breathe deeply, Tristan says, “No talking, either. Not unless I ask you a direct question. Then you may answer, but nothing else. Is that clear, Kelly?”
The feather circles my aureola lazily, ringing around the tingling epicenter before coming down heavily on the sensitive tip. I wonder if he's trying to draw blood.
“Yes.”
“Good girl.” He's back to using the soft side of the feather. “You have magnificent breasts. Your nipples are already so hard. I bet you want my mouth on them.”
I can't believe this is happening.
But then I feel his warmth against my naked skin as he leans in. “Do you want me to suckle your nipples in my mouth, Kelly?”
“Yes,” I say faintly.
“Ask me then.”
But I can't, oh God, I can't.
“Say it, Kelly,” he coaxes me. “Say it, or I won't do it.”
“I want…I want my n-nipples in your mouth,” I repeat, and just saying those words gives me such a thrill. I'm talking dirty. I've never talked dirty before.
“Please,” he prompts.
I can do this. “Suckle my nipples, please.”
Tristan sets the feather aside. Then I hear that rattle again. He pulls my shirt aside and his mouth covers my breast, and I jerk, because his lips are freezing and yet, somehow, his mouth is hot.
With his free hand, he teases my other breast, rolling the nipple through his fingers as he sucks. I'm breathing harder now. When he digs his nails lightly into my nipple, I cry out—because it hurts, but I'm so aroused it also feels good. Tristan pauses, and I can feel him watching me, waiting, reassessing the situation. He releases my breast with a pop and blows cool air over the damp skin. Then, slowly, he moves to my other breast and repeats the same tortuous process. His lips are cold again—the rattle must be a cup of ice—and his mouth is still hot. Hot water? Tea? Soup?
I gasp as he bites me, hard.
He moves away. “Too hard?” He isn't using the voice he was a moment ago. He sounds courteous, gentle. But there's an edge of anticipation to it.
“No.” The word leaves my throat with resistance. I don't want to talk. Talking feels almost perverse, like we're violating a secret, sacrosanct ritual.
“Hmm. What if I did it harder?” He demonstrates, and my body jerks as the pain spears into my breast like a ripple through a pond. “Would you tell me to stop?”
Gasping, I shake my head. No, don't stop!
“That's not an answer,” he taunts, pinching my nipple lightly in his fingers. “Would you tell me to stop?” He punctuates each word with a squeeze.
“No.”
“No. And that's because you like it rough.” His voice is soft again, alluring, and I want him. He kisses the side of my neck and I arch my throat, leaning into him. I don't care if there's pain. I'll take it, because I want him. He laughs huskily, and squeezes my jaw. “We could fuck like this.”
He lets his hips settle against mine again, and he is so hard. I suck in a breath when his denim-clad erection rocks against my clit. “Oh.”
He rolls my nipple
between his fingers as he rocks against me, stimulating me, bringing me closer to…something. Maybe orgasm. But it's not enough. I'm not even close. Just close enough to see it. To want.
“Tristan,” I say shakily.
“We could fuck like this,” he repeats, and when he speaks his voice is almost a growl, “and I might even let you come.”
I bite down on my lip to keep from saying something stupid that might kill the mood. Just listening to him talk is enough. I can't believe that the man above me is my Tristan. And then it occurs to me that if he's been hiding this side from me all along, maybe he never was mine.
Cold lips press against my breast, a soothing, apologetic kiss. Then he moves down my waist, scooching down my legs for better access. Something hot runs up my side, and I'm braced for it when I feel the heat of his skin on my other side—but this time, he uses ice. My mind flutters from sensation to sensation as his nose brushes down the downy trail of hair that goes from my navel to my pubic hair. He can't see that, of course, but at the same time, I wonder if maybe I should have shaved my happy trail. Usually I do, but last time I forgot.
He doesn't seem put off. He laves his tongue over my skin, biting and nipping and sucking. When he comes to the line of dark hairs, he takes a few in his teeth and pulls. I cry out again, and my hands are so slippery with sweat that I almost lose my grip on his bed.
Tristan stops at the waistband of my jeans. “I bet you're soaking.” His chin is resting on my pubic mound, and I dig my nails into my palms when he inhales deeply against my skin and stays like that, breathing softly against the sensitive patch of skin that is just below my bellybutton. “I can almost taste you. How sweet you'd be.”
My hips buck involuntarily as he cradles them in his hands. I cannot breathe. I'm terrified of what will happen next. I've never been more aroused in my life.
“But,” and he pulls his face back from my jeans, leaving a rush of cool air to fill in the vacuum, “that's for another time. Only the first taste is free.”
I feel dazed.
He's…he's not going to continue? But I want…
What do I want?
One of his hands finds mine, and he squeezes it lightly, taking it from the headboard and placing it over my breast.
I want this.
I want more.
I want him.
“Your heart is beating pretty fast.”
“Well, that's your fault, isn't it?” I'm embarrassed at how breathless I sound.
“Are you mouthing off to me?”
“No.” I smile weakly. “Just teasing you.”
“I told you what happens to women who tease me.” He drags my wrists from the headboard and pins them on either side of my head. I tug at them a little, but I can't move my arms at all. “They get punished.”
Behind the blindfold, my eyes widen. “Punished?”
Tristan laughs, low in his throat. “Oh Kelly, I could just devour you.”
The nerves between my legs tingle, and I can feel liquid trickle out between my legs. I want him to, I realize. I want him to devour me, until none of my reservations are left.
In his normal voice, he says, “I'll admit, it feels strange…doing this. With you. I never thought I'd be acting out a scene with the girl who wore tutus to school.”
“That was in kindergarten, and it happened one time.”
“Seriously, though. What do you think about this?”
He toys with my breast, and I remember suddenly that I still have my shirt off. I'd totally forgotten.
“You haven't said much.”
“Can I take off my blindfold?”
“Yes. I'll do it.” The scrap of silk falls into my lap. Tristan is sitting in front of me, one leg bent in front of him, the other planted on the floor. “You didn't answer my question.”
I pull on my bra. It gives me a chance to look away from him. Put some space between us. My nipples are still damp with his saliva, and feel raw and a little sore. They chafe within the confines of my bra.
“That was really…hot.” I think I see him grin. “I didn't know people did stuff like that, felt stuff like that, outside of romance novels. It's kind of weird, to be honest. There is one thing, though. I'm…well, I've never had sex before. Actual sex, anyway. I mean, I've done other stuff.”
I wait for him to ask what other stuff, but he doesn't. He frowns at me with speculation. “That's fine,” he says. “There are plenty of virgins in the BDSM scene.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he says, and he gives me a wicked grin. “They don't stay virgins for very long usually, but they exist. They're there. And their presence is…appreciated.” His smile gentles. “If you were to start a Dom/sub relationship with me, we could start out with vanilla sex, just until your body gets used to me. The first few times can be painful enough on their own.”
“And would there be—” I wet my lips as I do up the buttons of my shirt “—a contract?”
“How did you know about—” Tristan closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “That fucking book,” he says, answering his own question. “No. Our contract will be neither formal or legally binding,” he says, like he gets this question a lot. He probably does. Did. “We can go by ear, or we can lay down some groundwork and make changes later.”
“I don't want anything to go up my ass,” I tell him. “Apart from that, maybe we should just lay out the groundwork. And you can tell me what's typical.”
“Okay,” he says. “Fair enough. Nothing up the ass.” Then he wraps me in a quick, brotherly hug that feels odd after what we've just done. “But the rest of you is fair game.”
I follow him into the hall. My legs feel shaky. Tristan slips his shoes on and glances out the window. “It's pretty late. Want me to drive you home?”
“Yes, please.”
As we're in the car, buckling up (which reminds me of the man in the porno's imposing leather pants), I say, “Tristan?”
“Yeah?”
“I trust you.”
At that, he smiles, and presses a kiss on my cheek. “That's all I ask.”
Chapter Five
I wake up the next morning with a throbbing sensation between my legs. I dreamed about him last night.
Not the innocent sort of dream, but a hot montage of illicit acts that make me blush to recall them in the daylight. It's sexy enough that once I dig out my vibrator's dusty case and take care of myself, I write down what I can recollect as an erotic short on my word processor. I save it under “XXX.doc.” I guess you can say I'm feeling inspired.
After showering, I pull on a pair of Levi's and one of my favorite graphic tees. This one has a picture of Shakira's face superimposed over a Pac-Man shape and is captioned “Waka Waka.”
I'm going out to lunch with the girls—Lydia, Kayla, and Amy. Nothing too fancy. We meet up at Kayla's, since she lives closest to our downtown. After a lengthy deliberation about diets and allergies, we end up deciding on Thai.
“I know a great place,” Kayla says, nixing Bangkok Nights because she claims that their glassware smells like wet dog. “It's called All Thai'd Up.”
I almost choke on my spit as a whole flood of naughty imagery floods my brain from yesterday's session with Tristan. The three of them look at me oddly.
“That sounds good,” I say faintly. “Let's go there.”
There's a Thai flag hanging outside along with a U.S. flag. When we open the door, I see a pagoda style archway and a whole bunch of gold-painted Buddhas flanking the door. I'm suspicious about how “Thai” this food is actually going to be, because the owners are clearly white, but the food is surprisingly good. Kayla and I get the Pad Thai. Amy orders basil chicken. Lydia has pumpkin curry.
“I need another job,” Kayla says, twirling her noodles around her fork. “Those stupid kids drive me crazy. And their parents are even worse—ungrateful little shits.”
Then she looks around, quickly, as if worried that the kids and their parents might be seated
at a table behind us.
“It's a better idea to look before you speak,” says Amy.
“No, it's look before you leap.”
“Same concept.” Amy rolls her eyes and takes a delicate bite of her chicken. If I ordered that, I'd have green stuff in my teeth all day, but somehow hers stay a pristine white.
Lydia whips up her curry without eating it. “Kayla, if you're looking for a new job, that sushi place downtown is hiring. They're looking for another waiter.”
“I'd be the worst waiter in the history of the world.”
“Yeah,” Amy agrees. “You're not very subservient.”
Kayla flicks a beansprout at her. I flush, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. All Thai'd Up. Subservient. It feels a bit as if everyone has bondage on the brain today.
“Speaking of waiters, where the hell is ours? I need another Thai coffee.” Amy shakes her glass angrily, looking like a temperamental child with a rattle. “I am so Yelping this place when I get home.”
“Oh God, please don't,” I say. “This is the only Thai place I've found that makes decent Pad Thai.”
Amy sets down her glass, looking miffed. “Well, all right,” she says, “but I'm not tipping. You guys can, if you want, but I'm not going to.”
Kayla just rolls her eyes at Amy's theatrics.
Lydia turns to me with a smile. “So, Kelly. How did your little chat with Tristan go?”
“Oh! Yes!” Amy claps her hands. “Tell us.”
Just remembering the feel of his mouth on my body makes my breasts burn and my nipples tighten. I wiggle in my seat, and Kayla says, with obvious glee, “Look, she's blushing! Ooh, did he kiss you, Kelly?”
That, and so much more.
“He gave me lots to think about.”
As soon as I say the words, I realize how they can be interpreted. Amy's smile grows wicked. “Did he, now?”
I feel my face go red. “Not like that.”
Oh, really?
“He's just not the person I was imagining. He has secrets. Dark ones.”
Kayla's smile disappears. “What kind of secrets? He's not into anything illegal, is he?”
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