I glance at the clock, and heave a soft sigh of relief when I see how late it is. 11:30 A.M. Tristan must have gone to work hours ago.
He isn't disgusted by me, he's working.
This is a relief. Such a huge relief that I am annoyed with myself for not giving him the benefit of the doubt and automatically assuming the worst.
Still, waking up without Tristan kind of cheapens the act and makes it feel like a one-night stand, even though I know how ridiculous and irrational that is. Tristan can't very well miss work to stay home and spoon with me. And even if this were a one-night stand, I would be well within my rights to have one.
I roll out of bed and pull on my flannel shirt and skirt. The fabric feels rougher now than it did before. My skin feels raw, hypersensitive, like I'm a butterfly that has shed its cocoon to reveal the membranous tissues that lie beneath the hard, outer shell.
That's what it seems like Tristan is doing. Peeling me back, layer by layer, exposing the secrets beneath.
I wander into the living room/kitchen area. My stomach is growling. Sex is exhausting work—I've started eating twice my usual amount. I keep waiting for my pants not to fit, but it seems as if the extra pounds have yet to keep up with me.
A note is taped to the door.
There's a surprise for you on the table, and another inside the fridge. I want to see you on Wednesday night.
That's three days from now.
I check the table first. There is a small cardboard box sitting there innocuously; I missed it during my initial cursory inspection of the room.
I open it and gasp softly. A silver necklace is inside on the soft bed of fluff within the box. It has woven silver chain and a clasp that is shaped like two interlocking handcuffs. When you wear this, says the note inside, it means you're mine.
That's…a little alarming. Of course, I trust him, but sometimes I wonder if he assumes I know more about BDSM than I actually do. Does being “his” carry some sort of weight that I might not like?
I slip the necklace around my throat and fasten the clasp. I walk to the mirror Tristan has hanging in the hall and check out my new accessory. Whatever it means, it's beautiful.
My next stop is the fridge and when I see what Tristan has put in there, my heart melts into a puddle of goo. There's a box of sushi on the top shelf and a cup of my favorite flavor of bubble tea. He even remembered the coffee jelly, bless him.
I eat the food at the table and then dispose of all the trash when I'm done, very careful to erase my footprints. I'm not one of those possessive sorts who has to announce their presence in another's life by dragging in all their baggage, physical and mental. In my limited experience, men seem to prefer it when a woman does not encroach upon his living space.
I should probably leave soon. It was nice of him not to wake me up and kick me out, but I don't want to overstay my welcome. I grab my purse and my hand descends towards the doorknob, stops.
He has one of those locks that only locks from the outside—and I don't have a key.
I do know where he keeps the spares. I open the junk drawer in his kitchen, shifting through broken pens, loose change, a sea of paperclips, about ten lighters, until I get to the layer of keys at the bottom.
The front door key to his apartment isn't there.
Now what am I supposed to do?
I pace back and forth in his living room.
I want to go home and sleep in my own bed, shower in my own shower, but it is starting to look as if I have no choice but to stay. There's no way I can just leave his apartment unlocked. If it gets robbed because I decided to leave, regardless, it'll be my fault. No, I'm stuck here until he returns from work.
I pull out a notebook from my purse and jot down a few notes for my current WIP, inspired by Tristan's and my sexual antics the other night. That kills an hour, maybe. Probably less.
Sighing, I drop pen and notebook back into my purse and peruse his bookshelf. There aren't a lot of men who read. Tristan has an okay selection: mostly classic science-fiction/fantasy, coding books, and pop nonfiction like Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers.
Tristan looks surprised to see me sitting in his armchair with a copy of his Game of Thrones. He sets down his laptop case and as he unknots his tie he says, “You didn't have to stay, you know.”
Translation: What the hell are you still doing here, you psycho-stalker?
“I couldn't find your spare key for the front door, and I didn't want to leave your apartment unlocked, so I…stayed.”
“Oh, right. The spare. I should have remembered. It's at my parents'.”
“Why do your parents have a key to your Frisco apartment? Don't they live all the way in Stockton?”
“Sometimes they want to drop things off, but I'm not here to let them in. Food, medicine, things like that.” He shrugs his shoulders. “And you never know. Parents are good to have when you're in a pinch.”
He looks at me again, and his face softens.
“Poor girl. You didn't even get to change out of your dirty clothes.”
“It wasn't too bad. I found the bubble tea and the sushi in the fridge. That was nice. And I wrote for a bit. Oh, and I used your shower.” I peek at him. “I hope you don't mind.”
“No, I don't mind.” He slides his finger under the handcuff charm, holding it up to catch the light. When he brushes bare skin, I light up like a candle. “You're wearing my gift. It looks good on you.”
I laugh nervously. “So what does it mean, being yours? The note wasn't clear.”
“It means that when you wear that necklace, what's between your legs and what's inside your head all belong to me.” He lets his hand fall away. “And only me.” His smile becomes sultry, mischievous. “When you wear it, it means you're ready to play.”
“Oh. I didn't realize—” I start to unclasp it.
“Leave it on.”
I lower my hand to my side.
Tristan smiles at the wariness of my expression. “You get one free pass, Kelly. Next time, though, I'm going to bend you over and fuck you sideways.”
He catches my hand in his.
“Which reminds me. There are some things I want you to read. I have a list of kinks and positions I'm interested in.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. I want you to research them, then color-code the ones you're interested in.”
He disappears into the bedroom, leaving me wondering. What is he getting? His own manifesto? The BDSM equivalent of the Kama Sutra?
I'm relieved when he hands me a thin stack of papers and not a four-hundred-page tome, although I'm confused by the high-lighters.
“There's a key on the first page,” he explains. “Pink means you're very interested. Orange means you're open to discussion or trying it out. Green means non-negotiable.”
I glance over the papers. “You've done all this stuff?”
“At one time or another, yes.”
“How much sex have you had?”
His smile fades a little. “Not all of these things are about sex, Kelly. It's a nice bonus if the chemistry is right, but not necessary; it is possible to do a D/s scene without any sex at all. We're not prostitutes.”
“I didn't mean to offend you. I'm sorry.”
Tristan waves the papers at me. “Knowledge is power.”
I fold the papers into my purse, resolving to read them when I get home. I don't want me to watch him look over them. His eyes sharpen a little. “Shy?”
“I'll look it over when I get home,” I promise.
“Be sure that you do.” He pats my cheek. “So what did you end up doing all day while house-sitting?”
“Read Game of Thrones. Wrote a bit. Took a nap.”
“Wish I'd been there when you did. I could get used to waking up beside a naked Kelly every morning.”
My heart leaps. Is that his way of saying that he wants to be in a committed relationship with me? Or am I reading too much into his words?
“Hmm.” He folds his arms. �
�Well, you're here and I have some time. You want to do something for a bit before I take you home?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don't know.” He cups my face in his hands. “I could get the TV out of the closet, pour two glasses of wine, and we could play a game.”
I have to laugh. It breaks the tension and helps me not to obsess over his comment about waking up beside me every morning. “I'd love to play a game. Which one?”
“How about Super Smash Brothers?”
“Feeling like getting your ass kicked, huh?” I rub my hands together. “Because I'm totally going to whip your ass, Tristan. Whip it all over the screen.”
And then I turn red, as I realize how easily he might interpret my words as something else.
“Are you?” he says mildly. His sinful mouth curls into a half-smile when he sees how I squirm in discomfort. “Let's make it interesting then. The loser has to go down on the winner.”
“Like oral sex?”
“Mm-hmm.” He pours two glasses of the wine and hands me both. “Doesn't that sound fun?”
I watch him set up the TV, shaking my head. “How can you already want more sex?”
“I'm insatiable.” He plugs in the Gamecube's power cable and AV outputs. “And you have such a firm mouth. I love the way it feels around my cock.” I stiffen. Suddenly, it's an effort to breathe. The title screen comes on and he clicks past it impatiently. He selects Marth and has to prompt me with a, “Kelly?”
“Pretty boy,” I comment. My voice wavers only a little. I select Kirby. “I think he's overcompensating for something with that giant sword, don't you?”
“Good move going with Kirby,” he says. “All that sucking and blowing will be nice practice for when you have to give me my prize.”
“You seem to be under the mistaken assumption that you're going to win this match. You're not.”
“Over my flaccid cock, you are,” he says.
I go for one of the crates that's just fallen onscreen and break it open to see what kind of virtual goodies I can use to demolish Tristan. Sweet. There's one of those hammers that guarantees an instant K.O.
“Oh, you are so dead.” I pick up the hammer.
Without warning, Tristan grabs my hand, and makes my character fall over the side of the cliff.
“You ass! You made me lose the hammer!”
“I'm willing to cheat, by the way. To get what I want.” His smile could inspire panties to drop at twenty feet. “Did I forget to mention that?”
“Yes.”
Tristan waits until my character respawns. Then he grabs me from behind. Trying to pry the controller from me. I flail out for it unsuccessfully. He's stronger and his arms are a lot longer than mine. “Noooo!”
“This is for your own good, Kelly,” his voice says into my ear. He shifts both my wrists to one hand and plunges Kirby to his death—again. I'm starting to feel bad for the little guy.
“Give it to me!”
“Give it to you?” His hand slips inside my shirt and he starts rubbing my nipple. “Like this?”
“You are such a cheater,” I gasp.
“I never had a blowjob at stake before,” he says calmly. “And I really want to have your lips around my cock again.” He bucks his hips, nudging me with his erection. “Really,” he repeats, a note of mischief in it. “I don't think you're as averse to the idea as you pretend.” He tweaks my nipple.
I free myself with a swing and tackle him. He's knocked supine against the bed and drops the controller. It's one of those remote ones, so all I have to do is turn off the power to deactivate it. I laugh triumphantly.
Tristan grabs me by the hips. “Give me the controller.”
I drop it behind the bed and beam at him. “Oops.”
His eyes narrow. “I'm going to get you for that.”
“I'll just use this one instead.” I grab his controller and Marth does his special attack right off the cliff. “Oops.”
Tristan springs. I leap off the bed, and huddle in the corner of the room, pulling down my skirt as I go. Marth dies again just as Tristan slams his hands on either side of me. Oh, my. His face is frightening.
He leans in close, until his lips aren't quite touching mine. “You,” he says, “are a very bad girl.”
“Am I?”
“Exceedingly.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
I feel him slip the game controller from my hand. He stalks towards the TV and switches off the game.
“Tristan?” I say nervously.
“Sir,” he corrects me, letting me know we're playing another game. But what kind? “Bed. On your side.”
“But…” I wet my lips. “Who won?”
“Let's call it a tie.” He lies across from me, but facing the other way. Propping himself up on one elbow, he begins to roll up my skirt. “Unzip me.”
A tie? But does that mean…? I think I know where he's going with this, and my heart picks up speed. “Y-yes, Sir.”
“Follow my lead.” He strokes my thigh, sliding his hand up my leg, and then fanning his fingers out as he gets higher, so that his middle finger just brushes my sex.
I pull down his pants, letting them slide down his hips. I follow the natural grooves in his hips to the hem of his boxers, and then, inspired, I take them in my mouth and pull them down.
Tristan sucks in his breath. Then he spreads me and with that same hand begins rubbing my clit with such quick, furious movements that for a moment I forget what I'm supposed to do.
“Pony girl,” he barks. “Pay attention!”
“I'm sorry, Sir.” I take his cock in hand and stroke him. He said to follow his lead, so I squeeze him in my fist and pump my hand up and down as fast as I can. The muscles in his thighs bunch and tense, and I hear his breathing quicken, so I must be doing it right. He gets hard very quickly.
And then his head is between my legs, and he's kissing me, tracing white-hot lines of fire on all those tingling bundles of nerves. I inhale raggedly, and brush my lips over the head of his penis before taking him into my mouth. Not all the way, though. Only up to the tip. Then I pull out, carefully—carefully—letting him feel the graze of my teeth.
I lower my head, sinking all the way to the base of his cock, and let my tongue trail up the length of it, tasting him, exploring the differences in texture.
I feel him smile, and it might just be the sexiest thing ever, having a guy with his mouth pressed against my clitoris and feeling him smile. And then he opens his mouth and makes a tight seal and begins sucking me. The sensation is even more intense than when he used the vibrator, possibly because of the combination of sensations —the hot, wet heat of his mouth, the pressure, the fact that it's him, an attractive male, and not some tiny robotic device. He slides a finger into me, then two, and I moan around his cock.
He begins to pump his hips, and I have to hold onto his ass to keep his cock from sliding out. I can feel the muscles in his buttocks move as he thrusts, beneath his wonderfully supple skin, and I think I realize now why so many people get off on spankings. Not that I would spank him—I don't think he would appreciate it—but…I might.
Tristan increases the pace of his fingers, climbing up to a rapid, steady tempo, and then I feel the knuckle of his pinkie finger roll around my butt hole before he slides his two fingers back inside my vagina. I make a small sound of alarm, but all he says is, “I'm just playing with you. I'm not going to put anything inside of your ass.”
He pushes in and out of me again, and then rubs his thumb over my anus, then squeezes my butt, stroking it as he starts nibbling my clit, before switching back to his tongue. And the moment he starts tonguing, he spanks me, and it actually intensifies the sensations, and when I gasp, his cock actually slides deeper into my mouth, and with his fingers inside me and his penis in my throat, I feel very…full. I've never felt anything like it before.
He does it again, and I come with a low moan, bucking against his face. Tristan rolls over on h
is back, forcing me to move with him. I have to switch to my hand to finish getting him off. He folds his arms behind his head and leans back, lips parting, and oh my God, he looks and sounds so sexy as he comes, even as his come spatters my breasts and throat. And I am his. Which reminds me.
“You spanked me.”
“You liked it. It made you come.” He reaches down beside the bed and picks up a towel, which he uses to wipe most of the come away from my breasts. “That's one of the things on the list, by the way.”
“What?”
“Spanking. I didn't used to be a fan, but your ass just proves too tempting. Shower yourself off,” he says, tweaking my nipple. “I'll join you in a minute.”
We end up taking a very long one, kissing and touching. Actual washing becomes a mere afterthought until he starts soaping me all over, paying more attention to some parts than others, and I feel almost dizzy from my lust and the heat. I love the way his fingers feel in my hair as he massages my scalp. It feels the way I imagine a cat feels when stroked under the chin—spoiled and luxurious.
He pushes me against the cold marble wall, and fingers me from behind as hot water cascades over us both. The cold stone stands in stark contrast to his hot, wet body and the steamy water, and the overall sensation triggers an erotic shock that intensifies what he's doing with his fingers. My cry echoes loudly off the walls, and I'm terrified that his neighbors are going to hear and wonder what the fuck we're doing.
Fuck being the operative word in that sentence.
“Are you sure terrified is the right word?” he asks, when I express my concerns in a trembling voice that splinters further in the face of my encroaching orgasm. “Are you sure the thought doesn't excite you?”
Later that night, I lie in my quiet apartment and replay that entire day in my head. The sex was wonderful, but I keep going back to that look of dismay when he came home from work and found me sitting in his armchair.
Yes, granted, he wasn't expecting that—but what if that wasn't the only reason? What if he's not looking for a committed relationship?
Part of the reason I'm still a virgin is because I wanted to wait to have sex. Preferably until marriage, but failing that, at least six months. My prior boyfriends wanted sex far sooner than that, some on the very first date, and while they were willing to respect my wishes, and not have sex with me, that respect did not extend to fidelity. All my boyfriends cheated on me with other girls.
Bound to Accept Page 8