And it’s not the illustrations alone—this current of energy started in the steam room, when Slayer’s mouth touched mine, and it deepened during the massage, the way his presence surrounded me like heat.
Now I’m fully aware of every inch of my skin.
He stops turning pages. For a moment, we’re just sitting, the book open between us. The room is lit in soft amber. The incense still rising into the air somewhere behind me.
I dare to glance at him. His jaw. His hands. The drape of his robe.
I’m torn. Half of me wants to see what’s on the next page. The other half wants to climb onto his lap and kiss him until something breaks.
I set the book gently aside.
We look at each other.
There’s no teasing now, no humor. But his eyes are locked on mine like he’s deciding which part of me he’s going to devour first.
“Would you like to try?” he asks in a low tone.
If I say no, he’ll accept it.
And then probably kick me out, saying he has work to do.
We’ll play out the weekend the way we’ve agreed—smiling nice for the camera and pretending we’re in love. Then next week, we’ll be back to our regular, independent lives.
If I say yes, perhaps I open the door to something new and exciting. Though the odds are my life will still eventually return to its normal, pre-Slayer experience.
He’s a legendary rock star, I tell myself. Of course he’ll continue hiswild ways once our album-launch weekend comes to an end. But then I’ll have this experience, this memory.
“All right,” I tell Slayer. “The answer is yes.”
He reaches out, gently, slowly. His fingertips brush along my jaw, then down my throat. I tremble, not with nerves, but with anticipation.
He leans in, pausing so close that I feel the warmth of his breath on my lower lip.
And then, finally, he kisses me.
Not polite. Not ravenous. Just slowly. Like he’s building something. Binding us with each brush of our mouths.
When he draws back, I can barely breathe. “I don’t want to scare you.”
“You’re not scaring me,” I whisper, throat tight.
He strokes my cheek with his fingers. “Be careful what parts of me you wake up, Bix.”
He turns back to the book and opens to the picture of a girl sitting naked on a chair. Her legs are splayed open, bound by ropes, and her glistening, clean-shaven pussy is open for all to see.
Though a blindfold covers her eyes, she looks like she’s enjoying the restraint.
“Does that turn you on?” Slayer asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want a hands-on introduction?”
“Sure.”
“Did you pack lingerie?”
The question is so odd, it takes me a moment to answer. “Yes,” I eventually mange. Antoine insisted on it during our shopping trip—a dozen sets of bras, panties, and even garter belts and stockings.
