Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94076 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
My mystery dom must be one of them.
Like last time, I hear a clink like ice in a glass. Once again, he’s breaking the rules of the club. More proof he’s a celebrity guest and has special benefits.
I gather up these crumbs of information and savor them, greedy for more.
I’m still facing the cross, close enough that I could take a step forward and lean my forehead against the cool leather. The dom approaches me, stopping a few paces away.
“No handcuffs tonight?”
“No.” I put my arms behind my back so my wrists cross over my spine. “You said you would tie me up.” The words are burned into my brain.
“So I did.” He’s closer to me now, and I get a sense of the breadth of him. Just like I’ve imagined. He’s so big he could swallow me up in his massive frame. He’s not just tall but broad in the shoulders and chest—exactly how I’ve sketched him over and over again.
And I’ve just revealed that I’ve obsessed over what he told me in the first scene. If we scene again, I’ll use rope to tie you. And now that I think of it, he sounded sure that there would be a next time.
How did he know? Have I revealed too much? My throat tightens.
“Breathe, little bird.”
There it is. His endearment for me. My exhale makes me lean against the cross as if my held breath were the only thing holding me up.
“That’s it. You’re okay. Keep breathing for me.”
Now, it’s a command. And that makes it easier.
He waits, breathing with me, standing so close I could swoon into him, and he’d catch me. “You didn’t have much more in your request for the scene this time. Just that you remain blindfolded and that there be impact play.”
I nod. I’d left it open-ended for a reason.
Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to let go?
Who am I kidding? He read me from the first, taking stock of the little information I gave and using it to dig into my psyche. Not unlike my work. He’s as deep in my head as I get into the heads of criminals when I’m hunting them. Profiling me as I profile them.
“You didn’t specifically mention no touch this time,” he says.
He’s going to touch me. I tremble against the cross. Little sparks of lighting fly over my skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“It’s okay, Inara.” His use of my name brings me back. He can tell I’m panicking. “I’m not going to. At least, not skin to skin.”
He’s backed away, giving me space to freak out.
“I must admit, I took the liberty of thinking things through even before I saw your second scene request. I have a possible solution. If I may?”
Something brushes my fingers. Strong and buttery smooth—leather?
“Gloves,” he says, and it’s so beautiful, so simple, this solution he’s come up with, that I smile. I rub the soft leather between my fingers, imagining it covering his hand.
“If I wear them, may I touch you?”
“Yes.” Desire thickens my voice. “Yes.”
“Good.” He pulls the gloves away. “Raise your arms and place them against the cross.”
He’s across the room now, at the wall of toys. There’s a thunk as he sets down his drink and more sounds of him shuffling through implements.
I bring my arms up against the cross and press my wrists to the leather.
He comes to stand behind me. Something brushes the back of my hand.
“Rope,” he says. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
The rope loops over my right wrist, once, twice, then again, and again—too many times for me to count. When he’s done, I’m bound wrist to elbow. I relax my shoulders, and my whole right arm stays secured to the cross.
“This is my favorite type of tie,” he tells me. “Strong. Secure. Safe. Wriggle your fingers for me?”
I do. The rope is tight, not so tight it will cut off circulation, but tight enough that I can’t possibly move my arm away.
“Good girl.”
He ties my left arm, moving more slowly. His breath stirs my hair. I flex my forearms, enjoying the grip. If I’m lucky, they’ll leave a ladder of faint marks.
He steps away and has me wiggle my fingers again.
I take the opportunity to rock backward, testing the limits of the bind. He’s right; it’s perfectly secure. Maybe it’s overkill to loop the rope from wrist to elbow, but it feels lovely. And there’s no mistaking the message: you can’t get away.
“What’s your safe word?”
“Elyria.”
“Elyria.” His inflection turns the word into a song. Instead of wrenching my gut, it soothes me. Or maybe I’m already drifting into subspace, relaxed by the security of the ropes.
“You look beautiful like this, little bird. Tied so tight you can’t fly away. Not unless I allow it. Do you like it?”
“Yes, Sir.” I let the ‘sir’ slip before I can catch it, but he doesn’t make a big deal about it. Maybe he agrees that it fits the moment.