Her nipples ached, not because of the clamps or pain, but because she wanted him to touch her there.
Damien stood, shook off her grasp, and took two more bundles of rope from the foot of the bed and looped them through the ring. He measured the length of what he’d pulled out, then reached for her. He grasped the front of her hip harness and pulled, ordering her to rise without a word spoken.
Poppy rose up on her knees again and he ran the rope through the harness until it was taut, then he pulled the rope through some more, hauling her up off the mattress a few inches.
She gasped and clutched the rope, a little thrill zinging through her.
The tendons on the side of his neck stood out and the muscles in his arms bulged as he easily held her weight with one hand and tied the rope off. She’d known he was strong, had felt it, but seeing it like this was another matter.
He took another bundle of rope and looped it over the metal ring and attached it to her chest harness.
“Lie down.” He grinned at her and she smiled back, thrilled and excited. “I won’t let you fall.”
He supported her weight as she leaned back. Her body twisted, and she spun until her knees bumped against his stomach. His grin spread and he pushed his hip between her knees. He tugged on the rope and she swung toward him, gasping when her bare pussy hit his belt.
When she was half-reclined, he stopped her and tied the rope off. He used the remaining rope to tie to the bands around her knees, so they too were suspended, a little higher than the rest of her, but not uncomfortably. The whole thing felt like a custom-built hammock.
“How’s that feel?” he asked.
Now, finally, he ran his hands over her skin, paying special attention to the places where the rope was supporting most of her weight. She swayed with each movement, cool air wrapping around her smoldering body.
“Amazing.” She grasped the ropes and leaned back.
Damien chuckled and withdrew his touch. The springs creaked slightly as he moved, but she wasn’t concerned.
She was flying.
He grasped her knee and pushed.
Poppy yelped as she spun around and around, the room racing by and her stomach flip-flopping at the unusual and not exactly pleasant sensation. She pulled her limbs in and spun faster, like a top.
“Not funny,” she said, despite laughing as she spoke.
She stopped suddenly, swaying on the ropes. The room continued to spin and tilt precariously on its side.
Damien loomed over her. His shirt was gone and he had a little leather strap with metal studs in his hand.
“It’s hysterical.” He grinned and slapped the strap across her thigh, not hard, but she jumped.
“Is not.” His grin was contagious, and if she were honest with herself, even the spinning in circles was thrilling.
“Hmm. It is what I say it is.” He brought the strap up against her ass on one cheek then the other.
“Ow.” The studs were shockingly cold.
“You don’t like that?” Damien rubbed the metal bits over her bottom and thighs.
She squirmed in her rope prison, but she was completely at his mercy, just as she had been once before. He bent and gently bit her inner thigh on one side, then the other. She gasped and her toes curled. Her channel clenched and she barely held back a groan.
Slap.
Poppy swallowed a yelp as heat blossomed across her bottom.
That was a hand.
“Good girl. Keep quiet. Don’t want the neighbors to hear,” he purred.
“Oh, fuck you,” she said, without any heat.
“In a minute.”
He pushed the ropes attached to her knees apart, opening her to him. She stopped breathing, her heart pounding in her chest. It didn’t matter how many times she was laid bare, this moment of vulnerability got to her. Was she attractive? Did he find her arousing? Did she smell funny? Would it be as good as it was the first time?
Chapter Seventeen
Damien knelt between her spread legs, releasing the ropes, coasting his touch up her thighs to the juncture.
Oh God, she chanted in her head.
Damien passed his fingers through her folds.
“You’re wet,” he said.
She whimpered, unable to form words.
He spread her labia and she closed her eyes, too vulnerable at that moment to watch. She gripped the ropes and let her head drop back again, waiting for a more intimate touch.
His lips wrapped around her clit and her spine bowed up, the air rushed from her lungs, and for a single moment the world seemed to pause.
That was not what she’d expected.
Damien’s tongue flicked the bundle of nerves back and forth while he kneaded her ass in his palms.
Her breath stuttered in her chest and her pussy clenched on nothing, and yet she arched farther into the ropes. She opened her mouth on a silent shout as her body convulsed, the delicate muscles in her channel spasmed, and the delicious release of climax washed over her. Just a little one, enough to leave her gasping for breath, her head spinning.
She pried her eyes open, to find Damien watching her as he pressed a kiss to her thigh.
“Again,” he said.
“What?” she panted.
He didn’t repeat himself.
Damien gently brushed his fingers over her clit, pulling the hood back.
“Oh God,” she whispered. If this was his idea of payback, she’d make sure he always owed her.
His mouth settled on her clit, hot and raw against the little bundle of nerves. Her body, sensitized and strung tight, quaked despite the small respite. He rubbed his tongue over it, and this time she couldn’t tear her gaze away. He stared at her while he teased her opening with his fingers. He saw down to the depths of her soul while his mouth made love to her, demanding the rise and fall of her breath, the pounding of her heart.
“I can’t,” she sobbed.
His gaze said, Yes you can.
She gripped the ropes and moved her hips, urging his fingers faster. Heat rose on her cheeks, spread to her chest, warming her body. Multiple orgasms weren’t something she’d done more than a few times, but he’d played her body with expertise before.
Heat pooled in the pit of her stomach, blossoming into lust. She tossed her head back and groaned, reaching for the ropes and stretching, arching into it. Damien stroked her through it, prolonging the sweet torture of release without his cock.
“That’s it,” he whispered, stroking her thighs, and up to her stomach.
She sagged, the second release taking all of her energy.
Damien brushed his fingers over a nipple and a sensation like an electric charge zapped through her. She gasped and jumped, snapping her eyes wide open.
He chuckled and leaned against her, some of his weight falling on her and the ropes, but not too much to bear.
“Time to remove these.”
He stroked the other breast and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The clamps came off with a little tug; he did both at the same time. She groaned as blood rushed into the peaks. Maybe the clamps were stronger than she thought.
Damien didn’t give her any respite. He rubbed his palms over the abused flesh. She whimpered, trying to move away, but he had her captured, completely at his mercy. Or lack thereof. Pain turned to pleasure and she arched into his hold.
Whatever he wanted of her, she was willing to offer.
Damien pulled away from her and she whimpered at the loss of his body, the weight that pressed the ropes into her skin, and his heat.
“Shh, sweetness, I’m here. I’ll always take care of you,” he whispered, stroking her body, drawing trails down her chest and stomach, up her legs. “I’m going to fuck you now, unless you want down.”
“No,” she wailed.
“No, what?”
“Don’t take me down, not yet. Please, sir.”
He cupped her face, swiping his thumb across her cheek. “You’re flying hard, aren’t you?
”
Poppy knew he didn’t mean the ropes. She nodded.
“You have to open those eyes. Watch me fuck you. Know who it is inside you.”
She pried her eyes open again, unsure when she’d closed them, and peered up at him. Her muscles were starting to ache, and she would have rope burn, but those physical reminders would be her most precious possession. Because he’d given them to her. He’d given her this.
Damien rocked back on his heels and she realized for the first time that he was completely naked. His big, black cock jutted toward her. Again she wondered how he’d fit last time, and if he would now. She hoped so. She ached to feel him again.
He ripped open a condom and rolled it on. His gaze slid to her and she froze. Not that she was allowed much movement, but she stilled. Her body swayed on the ropes, not having gotten the memo.
The blunt head of his cock pressed against her opening. He grasped the ropes suspending her hips and pulled. His length slid into her channel and she gasped at the intrusion. Slick from orgasm, her muscles stretched around him. She groaned as he pulled the ropes again, impaling her further on his length.
This was completely new. Not only was her mind soaring, her body was floating on air.
Damien grasped the harness around her hips and thrust deep, seating himself fully in her channel. Her eyes fluttered wide and she gasped, feeling every inch of him. Her toes curled and she dug her nails into the rope.
They froze for a moment, each breathing heavily, gazes locked.
He moved first, grasping the chest harness with one hand and hauling her upright, into a sitting position, and taking her mouth in a savage kiss. He thrust up into her and she squealed against him.
“Hold on to the ring.” His voice was low and rough.
She did as he told her, grasping the ring, which changed the position entirely. Now she faced him, but still she was suspended.
Damien held on to her hips and thrust. Her breath stuttered out and her head rolled back on her shoulders.
So good.
He touched all of her, every nerve ending and secret place. The drag of flesh on flesh urged her ever higher.
He withdrew and thrust hard, but didn’t stop. With the harness restraining her, he had complete control. Again and again he thrust deep, pushing her further up.
She came on a shout, moaning out her release as he continued to pound into her, and the room resounded with their lovemaking, raw and primal.
Damien came in a series of frenzied thrusts, freezing at the last second to bite down on her shoulder, muting his shout of release. She hissed, but didn’t begrudge him another mark on her body. He’d branded her his, and even if this was a passing relationship, a little piece of her would always belong to him, and that was a terrifying thought.
“Poppy. Poppy, wake up.”
Poppy pried one eye open and stared up at Damien. The morning light came through the window, casting a faint glow on his face.
It hadn’t been a dream. She smiled into the pillow and stretched.
“Poppy? Poppy are you still asleep?” a woman’s voice called.
That was not Damien.
The front door creaked and the floorboards squeaked. Mario and Yoshi rose in unison, their eyes on the bedroom door, ready to bolt.
Mother.
Poppy sat up, shoving the comforter down, and scrambled out of bed. All she wore was Damien’s T-shirt.
“Poppy?” Her mother leaned around the corner, her smile freezing as she caught sight of Poppy, then Damien. Her eyes widened and Poppy could see it all registering.
Rose, Poppy’s sister, stood behind their mother, gaping. Unlike Poppy, Rose had married a boy they’d grown up with, and was still very much plugged in to the commune’s way of life.
“Mom. Rose.” Poppy tugged the hem of the shirt lower, but no amount of wishing would make it longer. “What are you doing here?”
“What is he doing here?” Her mother stepped over the threshold, today’s tie-dyed dress long enough to brush the hardwood floor. She gaped at Damien, who had the blankets pulled up to his chest, but there was no disguising what had happened.
At least they’d packed up the kink equipment last night, to prevent cat hair from getting on everything.
“Why do you have a black man here?” Her voice rose as she spoke, her finger jutting toward Damien. For several seconds no one spoke.
Poppy held her hands up. How was it that her mother could make her feel five years old all over again? “Mom.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself. I raised you better than this,” her mother said, her voice wavering.
A little piece of Poppy withered inside. She’d never agreed with her mother’s way of life, but she could see any hope of acceptance dying in her mother’s gaze. Poppy had always followed the rules. Guilt had been a major motivator for moving out, because she didn’t want to live under the heavy-handed rules that governed The House. She wanted to be free.
Poppy drew in a calming breath. Her voice still wavered when she spoke. “Mother, please, let’s take this into the living room?”
“Mom, let’s just go.” Rose backed out of the door, tugging on their mother’s arm until she followed.
Poppy slammed the bedroom door closed and put her back against it. She shoved her hands through her hair, still disheveled from last night.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
Profanity. Another rule she’d broken since moving out, but in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t so bad.
She needed to put on clothes that didn’t smell like Damien, something that wasn’t obviously menswear. What she needed was something demure, that covered everything. Especially the rope burns.
Damien came around the bed, wearing nothing but his boxers, and gathered her against his chest. This was not the way she wanted to introduce her mother to Damien. Not that she’d thought they were remotely close to that step, but anything was better than being caught in bed with a man by your mother. She wanted to crawl under the bed and burrow to China. She would need that much distance to not feel her mother’s disappointment. Right now it cut her more deeply than any blade ever could.
“What do you need me to do?” Damien asked, breaking her train of thought. This whole situation had to seem so absurd to him. Most people their age weren’t hung up on their parents knowing they had sex. It was a natural part of life. Unless you lived in The House, and then all babies were immaculately conceived.
She shook her head. “I need—I need clothes. Shit. She saw me wearing your shirt.”
“Sweetness, I hate to point this out, but we were in bed together. I’m pretty sure your mother added one and one together.”
She shoved him away. “Not funny. She thinks I’m still a virgin. Or she thought I was.”
Damien’s brows rose and he held his hands up. “Okay, okay.”
“I’m sorry, this sounds really wrong. I’m not ashamed of you. I’m just … embarrassed, and I need clothes.”
Damien grasped her hair, his grip firm enough to bend her head back with little force. “Take a deep breath.”
She did as told, splaying her hands against his pecs.
“Good. Now, clothes. In the closet?”
“Yes. Can you just grab me something?” He let go of her hair and she dashed to the dresser sitting between the windows. She pulled out clean underwear and a bra, exchanging the T-shirt for the essentials.
Her hair was a tangled, wild mess, but after the kind of sex they’d had, she was surprised it wasn’t worse. She attacked it with a comb, getting it to a somewhat manageable state, and wound it up into a simple bun.
“What the hell?” Damien’s voice came from the closet.
The closet that was a complete wreck.
The closet that also held her costumes.
“Honey, did Disney shit in your closet?”
Poppy whirled and dashed into the closet, skipping over both cats and the pile of clothes. Damien was examining several of her princess costu
mes. She had just about all the variations, from sexy to conservative. If it was in a movie and female, she had it, from Snow White to Princess Buttercup, and everything in between.
“They are important literary pieces,” she said, holding tight to whatever dignity she still had. She pushed past him and pulled a shapeless, purple dress she wore to work on her lazy days off a hanger. It would do.
“I don’t know what’s literary about this.” He pulled a green, shimmery corset and matching tutu out. “What is this supposed to be?”
“The Princess and the Frog. There’s a frog hat somewhere.” She pulled the boring dress on over her head and blew out a breath. The heat in her cheeks had her eyes watering. She grabbed a flowing, pink sweater to cover her arms and the burns.
This was it.
“Okay, okay. Can I do something? Should I stay here? Come out there?” He still held the green tutu outfit. If her mother weren’t in the next room, it would be comical.
“Just, uh, stay here for a minute. Maybe put some clothes on. I don’t know.” She whirled and fled the closet and bedroom.
Poppy closed the door and held still for a moment. The apartment was eerily quiet. She edged into the living room.
Her mother stood at the window, looking out on the street, while her sister sat on the sofa.
Rose glanced at her, lines creasing her face. Poppy would get no understanding there. Though Rose had been the one to step over the line more often than Poppy when they were growing up, this moment would overshadow their childhood for the rest of her life.
“When did you get married?” Rose asked, barbs in her voice.
“I’m not married,” Poppy replied. She gripped the back of the armchair, clinging to it for support.
Her mother turned toward her, frown lines prominent. “I did not raise a whore.”
“I am not a whore, mother. I don’t have sex for money.” Poppy had rehearsed this argument before, after the first time she’d had sex, because she was positive her mother would somehow know what she’d done. Now the words came back to her, even as anger lent her strength.
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