“I’m serious, Syd.” His thumb traces my bottom lip. “Do you trust me?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with more than just this moment. Do I trust Brooks Kingston? The boy who chopped off my ponytail? The bonehead who crashed my sleepover in high school, drunk with my brother? The hockey star who sleeps with different women in every city?
But that’s not the Brooks Kingston I know now. This man knows how to make my coffee better than I do. He respects and supports me in every way—my career, my flaws, my wishes. He’s the man who held me through a panic attack and shared his sanctuary with me.
“Yes,” I whisper, surprising myself with how true it is. “I trust you.”
Relief, desire, determination takes over his expression. “I want to try something. But I need you to tell me if anything doesn’t feel right. We need a word—something you wouldn’t normally say.”
“A safe word?” I arch an eyebrow, trying to mask how his intensity is affecting me. “Kinky Kingston.”
He doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t smile. “I’m serious. I want you to feel safe. Always.”
The earnestness in his voice melts somethinginside me. “Pineapple,” I say after a moment’s thought. “My safe word is pineapple.”
“Pineapple,” he echoes. “If you say it, everything stops. No questions asked.”
“What exactly are you planning to—” But he silences me with a kiss, deep and thorough, stealing the question from my lips. Then his mouth moves down my body, and coherent thought becomes impossible. All I know is the heat of his touch, the skill of his hands, and the growing certainty that whatever this is between us—fake, real, or something in between—it’s far too powerful to deny.
I arch into his weight, a delicious pressure that pins me to the mattress. His mouth finds that spot on my neck that makes my toes curl—and I gasp, threading my fingers through his hair to hold him there. The bedroom suddenly feels too warm, and I wonder if he can feel my heart hammering against his chest.
“Sydney,” he murmurs against my skin. His fingers trace lazy patterns along my side, dipping under the waistband of my pants before retreating, teasing.
“If you’re trying to drive me wild,” I say through a heavy breath, “it’s working.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating against my collarbone. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
In one smooth motion, he hovers over me, his weight supported on both his arms, a new development. When he pulls back, he’s reaching for something on the nightstand—his tie, I realize, the dark blue one that I said I liked. But it was a lie because I love it and how much it smells like him.
“Is this okay?” He lets the silky fabric slip through his fingers.
My heart rate kicks up another notch. “Define ‘this.’”
“I want to blindfold you.” His voice drops to a register that makes my stomach flip. “Take away one sense to heighten the others.”
I swallow hard, unexpected heat flooding through me. “I—yes. That’s... yes.”
His smile is slow, predatory in a way that should scare me but only makes me want him more. “Good. Take off the rest of your clothes.”
There’s a command in his voice I’ve never heard before, and my body responds to it instantly. I shimmy out of my remaining clothes, suddenly shy despite the fact that he’s seen me naked before. This feels different—more deliberate, more exposed.
Brooks’ eyes darken as he takes me in, stretched out on the bed. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” His simple statement is more potent than any elaborate compliment. “Lie back.”
I comply, watching as he removes his own clothes with efficient movements, his body a testament to years of athletic discipline. When he’s as naked as I am, he kneels on the bed beside me, the tie still in his hand.
“Last chance to back out,” he says, but we both know I won’t.
“Just do it already.”
He smirks, recognizing the bravado for what it is, but obliges, slipping the tie over my eyes. The world goes dark as he secures it at the back of my head, not too tight but snug enough that I can’t see anything. And, yes, the smell is intoxicating.
“Okay?” His voice comes from somewhere above me.
“Okay.” My pulse races.
The loss of sight is immediately disorienting. I can feel the mattress shift as Brooks moves, but I can’t track him. My other senses rush to compensate—I can hear his breathing, elevated; smell the lingering scent of his soap mixed with something muskier, more primal; feel the slight breeze as he moves around me.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and I realize my muscles have coiled. “I’ve got you.”
