Tomorrow has become today.
Tristan said he was coming by at four-thirty, which means I have six hours of limbo to endure. I fill the gaps with meaningless tasks. I work on Black Masque. I feed Garfield. I obsess over what may or may not be a zit. I brew coffee and then become too nauseous to drink it.
Every minute is an hour. Every hour, a lifetime.
At 3, I get dressed. I ended up deciding on a simple blue dress with an empire waist. I am told it makes my boobs look big and my waist look small. It's also very comfortable and looks good with my flats.
I keep my makeup very simple—mostly, because I'm terrified of messing up anything too complicated and not having time to redo it. Liquid eyeliner. A bit of blush. Rose-gold eyeshadow that brings out the reddish motes in my hazel eyes. Baby-pink lipgloss. Simple. Easy.
I don't bother eating anything; I'm too nervous. My stomach is twitching with what feels like the entire Monarch butterfly migration. Every time I open my mouth, I half-expect to see one of the orange-winged critters fly out.
Tristan and I are going to have sex.
I have thought about this moment, desperately wished for this moment, for fourteen fucking years.
So why am I terrified out of my mind?
My phone buzzes. As I pick it up, the clock on my phone ticks to 4:30, exactly.
I'm here.
He's here.
He's here.
Is my body ready?
Garfield tries to run past me as I lock up. I push him back with my foot and shut the door. I can hear him scratching against it even as I turn the key.
Slowly, I make myself face the street. My heart gives a nervous leap in my chest. Tristan's black Honda Civic is parked at the curb.
I walk to the car, grip the handle of the passenger door. My fingers feel like blocky bits of wood.
Here it goes.
I pull the door open—and gasp in surprise. There's a bouquet of tigerlilies and pink roses on the seat.
Pink and orange, just like the categories he set for me in our contract. I wonder if that was intentional.
I pick up the flowers and hold them out of the way as I carefully slide into my seat. “What's this for?”
“I'm going to woo you,” he informs me.
“I can't believe you just said 'woo.'”
“Of course I said woo. This is cause for celebration. That's why we're going out to dinner. And a movie—”
“Oh no.”
“And then back to my place for coffee.” He eyeballs me in a way that would have the MPAA clamoring for an R-rating. NC-17, if a montage of his thoughts also happened to be included. “By which I mean sex.”
NC-17 might be too tame for Tristan, though.
“I figured.” I shake my head. “You don't have to do all that. I'm happy just getting food from a drive-thru and watching something at your place.”
He jabs a finger at my necklace as he pulls away from the curb. “What does that necklace mean, Kelly?”
I look down at the silver handcuffs. “I'm yours?”
“That's right. Mine to punish—and mine to spoil.”
Spoiling conjures up images of large amounts of money being spent. Money I'm pretty sure he doesn't have. “What, exactly, did you have in mind for dinner?”
“Hana Hana.”
I'm relieved. At least he didn't do something totally crazy, like make reservations at Saison or Gary Danko.
Tristan holds my hand as we walk from the parking garage. This time, he doesn't let go when we enter the restaurant. The Lee Min Ho lookalike is there, and he seats us in the booth in the back without asking.
Tristan must have called ahead.
It's a Saturday evening, and the place is pretty crowded. “True” by Spandau Ballet is playing, and I can't think of a time that I've ever been so overwhelmed by the romance of my own life. This kicks prom's ass.
“Are you happy?” Tristan asks me softly.
“So far.” I smile at him. “I love this song.”
“True” ends, and another song plays. I think it's “Total Eclipse of the Heart” but I'm not really paying attention. There's another couple sitting nearby, both of them maybe a few years older than Tristan and me, and the girl keeps craning her head to look in our direction.
I poke Tristan. “That woman is staring at us.”
Tristan glances over, does a double-take. “Shit.”
“Do you know her?” I glance over again, reassessing. She's very attractive. An ex-girlfriend of his? I can't imagine this woman letting anyone tie her up.
Tristan pulls my face towards him. “Stop staring.”
“She started it.”
I peek over again and see her say something to the guy she's with and then start walking over to our table. “Fuck,” says Tristan. “Now she's coming over.”
“Who is? Who is she?” I hiss, just as Mystery Woman says, “Tristan Lesauvage? Is that you?”
She has a Puerto Rican accent that gives her words a clipped bite, like a high-heeled shoe striking against a marble floor. Also, up close, she is absolutely stunning.
Tristan glances up slowly. “Hello, Corrine.”
He knows her name! Did he have sex with her?
“Where have you been? We haven't seen you around. People were asking after you.”
Tristan puts his hand over mine. On the table. In full view of Mystery Woman Corrine. “I've been busy.”
Corrine glances at me, and rather than going into a jealous lover-style rage, her smile widens. It makes her look even more attractive, because she has those teeth that look so white they shine blue, but something about her smile makes me think of a lioness about to swallow up unsuspecting prey. “Who is this?”
“Why don't you ask her yourself?” he suggests.
That shakes her smile for a moment, but then she grabs my other hand and squeezes it between her own. It's like a bizarre sort of handshake—except she doesn't let go. “Hi,” she says. “I'm Corrine. And you are?”
“Kelly.”
I try to extricate myself from her grip, but her manicured hands are surprisingly strong. Jeez.
I glance at Tristan, who does not look happy. Well, that makes two of us. I have the feeling the situation is on the verge of escalating into a game of Kelly tug-o-war.
“How did you meet Tristan?”
“Grade school.” And yourself? I think but do not say. “May I have my hand back, please?”
She releases me, but only after looking like she has to think about it first. “Oh, that is so precious I could just die,” she says. “I can't wait to tell everyone.”
“Please,” Tristan says, just as politely. “Don't.”
Corrine looks put out. “Don't be selfish.”
Tristan glances pointedly at her table. “I don't tell you to share.” I follow his gaze to Corrine's date, who is starting to fidget. He looks miserable.
Corrine follows our gaze, and laughs. “Oh, don't worry about him. We're trying something new.” She wiggles her ass at him, and he looks away, flushing. “He pretends he doesn't like it, but he does.”
“New pet?” Tristan says dryly.
“Still in training. Hung as hell, though.”
“Oh my God.” I look away from the man.
Corrine laughs. “Is she really that innocent, or is that just some schoolgirl act the two of you have cooked up? She's really good at it. It's a little…statutory.”
Tristan is starting to look annoyed. “No.”
Corrine pats my head, like you would a dog. “Sorry, sweetie.”
I glance at Tristan. He shrugs his shoulders and sips his beer. No help from that quarter. “Accidents happen,” I say, scooting closer to him.
“I don't have accidents,” Corrine says. “And I'm pretty sure I'm killing him right now.”
She flashes a predatory grin over her shoulder.
“Speaking of, you should bring yours by sometime. I like the chemistry between you—and her perky little rack.” She winks at me,
to my embarrassment. “Strap her to a cross in a tight little top, and I bet you'll draw quite a crowd. I'd watch that! Especially if you—”
“This was a reservation for two,” says Tristan.
“Well, then. Enjoy your evening, Tristan, you selfish bastard.” She nods at me. “Sweets.” She walks away with a flounce in her step, and when she returns to her table, I see her grab the man's crotch as she sits down with an easy sense of proprietorship, stroking him once, briskly.
“Who was that?” I try not to stare as she goes in for a very X-rated kiss with lots of tongue. I've never seen a woman so unabashedly in command of her sexuality. It's frightening—and yet, also kind of a thrill.
Like her confidence is infectious.
Like I could learn to be sexier, too.
Tristan sighs. “Someone from St. Andrew's,” he says grudgingly. “One of the Dommes.”
My mind boggles. Someone from a BDSM club—here. In broad daylight! Although I don't know why I find that thought so shocking. They're people, not vampires.
Tristan studies me. “What are you thinking?”
“Vampires.”
“Vampires?” He laughs shortly. “Do I even want to know, Kelly?” He strokes my fingers to soften his words.
“What's wrong with Corrine's date?”
Tristan takes off his glasses and squints. “Looks like she's got him in a cock cage.”
“What's that?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. A tight cage for a man's cock. When he gets aroused, his flesh is squeezed by the cage. The Dom or Domme keeps the key.” I flinch, and he says, “Exactly.”
“What did she want with you?”
“Same thing she wants from everyone,” he says. “To stick her nose in their business.”
“She seems…nice.”
“She isn't. She's terrifying—and that's why her poor, whipped puppies can't get enough of her.”
I watch her press her hand to the man's cheek and he rubs his face against it, a faint smile on his face.
Tristan is shaking his head. “I've never gone in for pet play. But she's very good at it. I'll give her that.”
Corrine catches us looking at her again and waves cheerily as she scratches the male sub behind the ear.
“She does a lot of twenty-four-seven, Master-slave stuff,” Tristan adds casually, apropos of nothing. I turn to stare at him as he picks up his bowl of miso soup.
“Does that mean they live with her?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Where does a puppy sleep when Master's away?”
“She keeps them in a kennel?”
“Cages,” he corrects me. “With blankets, and chew toys, and little bowls of food.”
“Oh my God. Jesus.”
“Like I said, I don't go in for pet play.”
The sushi arrives then, and that puts an end to the topic. I would like to pursue it more—cages!—but Tristan seems uncomfortable. “She asked me out once,” he says.
“But…you're a Dom.”
“She thought I was a switch.”
“Why?”
He grins. “She said my glasses make me look like a butch jock's locker room bitch.”
I choke on my roll. Tristan pats my back as I down half my water in one gulp to ease its passage down my throat. “Yes,” he says. “That was my reaction, too.”
Dinner goes a little more smoothly after that. Corrine and her date leave early—“probably to play,” Tristan says—and he relaxes noticeably when she leaves.
After dinner, we go to see the latest sci-fi movie, and laugh at the lame special effects and lamer dialogue.
I'm in high spirits—
Until we walk back to the car.
Because I know what's coming next.
The drive back to his apartment is a little awkward. He tries to draw me out, to keep me talking, but since I know what he's trying to do, and why, it doesn't work. I hold the flowers and try to make words come out of my throat, but they won't obey, and the sweet, perfumey smell of the flowers is making me feel light-headed.
“You look like you're going to faint,” he says, when he opens my door for me. We are at his apartment now, and probably less than half an hour from having sex.
“I feel dizzy.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.” Tristan takes the flowers from me, helps me to my feet. He's so strong. “Hold on to my shoulder, if you need to.”
I am standing. I can do this.
“Watch out for the steps.”
He unlocks the door, and I dig my fingers into his shirt. He glances at me worriedly, but doesn't say anything, perhaps afraid that anything he does say will only serve to make me even more nervous.
“I'll put these in a vase,” he says of the flowers. “Why don't you sit down and relax? Get comfortable.”
I smile a tiny smile. “Do you actually have a vase?”
“I have a blender. That'll serve our purpose for now. You didn't expect me to make you a smoothie or anything the morning after, did you?” he says, as he removes the cup from the blender and fills it with water.
But I am paralyzed by the words morning after.
“Excuse me for a sec.” I slip into his bathroom. When I flick on the light, my pale and frightened face stares out at me from the mirror like a ghost. But why am I so frightened? It's only Tristan. I've known him for years. And over the last few weeks, I've gotten to know him even more intimately than I ever thought possible.
I pull the little something out of my purse and stare at it. It's a beige silk and lace nightgown. The lace spirals up towards the sheer bodice in a teasing peekaboo pattern of thin filmy lace. When I move, the fabric seems to ripple like liquid. It's the kind of clothing my mother would describe as “not intended to be worn for long.”
I can do this. Everyone does this. And I want this.
The nightgown came with a matching robe, which I carefully pull on as I step into a pair of delicate gold heels purchased just for the occasion.
I don't just want this. I want him.
Quietly, I tiptoe out of the bathroom, the sound of my footsteps swallowed up by his carpet. I peer into Tristan's bedroom. His back is facing me, but I can still see what he's doing; he is making the bed—black sheets. I notice that he's changed out of his dress pants and shirt. Now he's bare-chested, naked except for a clingy pair of pajama pants that hang low on his hips.
He's muttering to himself, which is cute. I don't think I've ever seen him look so flustered. Considering how nervous I feel, it's nice to know I'm not alone.
He lights some of the candles on his desk, patchouli scented, and fans the air above them to disperse the spicy smoke. Then he rubs his neck and sighs.
I step into the bedroom and rap on the wall. When he turns around expectantly, I let the robe fall open.
Tristan's facial expression is priceless. He closes the distance between us in two bounds. His hands are clenched at his sides, not touching me yet, although he looks as though he would very much like to.
“What,” he says thickly, “are you wearing?”
“A nightgown.”
He puts his hands on my hips, holding me at a distance to look at me better, and I smile up at him. Even when I'm wearing heels, he's still several inches taller.
“Do you like it?”
“Is that a trick question?” His voice is hoarse. I feel the tip of his erection lightly graze my stomach.
I slide my arms out of the robe and let it fall to the floor in a heap of shimmery fabric. His eyes are riveted to the transparent bodice. I knew he'd like that part.
Leaning up on tiptoe, I whisper, “Want to touch it?”
“Sweet Lord,” he says. “Yes.”
His lips come down on mine, and I wrap my arms around his neck as he kisses me. His hands slide up and down my waist, kneading the flesh beneath. He starts walking towards the bed, taking me with him. My heels come off, but Tristan only kicks them aside impatiently. He scoops an arm underneat
h my bottom and hoists me up, dropping me onto the made bed.
He's on top of me in an instant, legs bent on either side of my hips. He starts kissing down my throat, across my collarbones, to my shoulders and then down the thin, thin straps of my nightgown. I sit up a little, and shiver as I feel his mouth through the lace, whispers of skin on skin. When he reaches my breasts, I suck in my breath.
Tristan hears me, and when he sees the look on my face, he carefully avoids the place he knows I want him to go. He nips, licks, and kisses tightening circles around my breasts, like knots cinching around a pair of bound wrists. I want him to close the circuit, and make a sound of impatience. He laughs huskily.
“You want my mouth on you?”
“Don't make me beg.”
“But I like hearing you beg.” He flicks out his tongue and I let out a shuddery little “oh.”
“Tristan, please.”
“Since you asked so nicely.” He parts his lips and takes me into his mouth, lace and all, and I thread my fingers through his hair, letting my eyes slip closed. His hair is very soft, and thick, like fur. It's nice not having my hands bound for a change. I can touch him back, hold him in place. He's very good at this. I love his mouth.
“I love your mouth,” I whisper.
He sucks harder. “Oh!” My fingers tighten around the little tufts of hair I've claimed. “You bit me.”
“You liked it.” His voice comes out muffled.
“Well, yes,” I sigh.
“Don't complain, then.” He bites my other nipple, too quickly for me to reassert my grip on his hair, and then, after shooting me a wicked grin, moves down my belly. As he slides down my legs, he moves his hands up, caressing my ankles, my calves, my thighs.
His fingers grip the silky hem of the nightgown and begin to roll it up with nimble, confident movements, so that by the time his mouth reaches my navel, my thighs, and everything that lies between them, are completely bare. I feel him exhale against my pubis.
“No underwear.”
“Looks like I forgot.”
He glances up at me. “I forgot, too.”
“Whatever will we do?”
Bound to Accept Page 11