“Have you ever tried rope?”
My breath catches. It’s as if he pulled the words out of my head.
“No.”
“Maybe next time.” That velvet-smooth voice washes over me like a physical touch.
But did he really just say, ‘Next time?’
“I wonder. . .” He’s doing something behind me, and as curious as I am to observe, it just heightens the power exchange. I can’t watch him. I’m at his mercy, bound to a cross. “If this is what you really want.”
The fuck?I bite down the rude response. “What do you mean?”
“It’s obvious you want to give up control. But with this scene description, you’ve laid out every detail. You’re still in control.”
I’m too angry to form a response quickly.
“Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to let go? Let someone else take over?”
“Let me guess.” My voice is razor-sharp with sarcasm. “Out of all the tops I’ve been with, you’re the one I should trust. The one who will make all my dreams come true. Excuse my skepticism, but I don’t need some wannabe dom telling me what I want.”
“Fair enough.” He sounds like he’s smiling. A wannabe dom would be spitting defenses, but he’s not insulted. He’s amused.
And he’s right behind me. His body is so much larger than mine, and it hits me how truly powerless I am in this scene. “I’m just postulating that what you really want is to let go. Not tonight, but sometime. Take a leap into the unknown. It might be more satisfying.”
Something stirs the hair pinned to the back of my head, and I tense.
“No touch,” I remind him.
“No touch,” he murmurs in that beautiful voice. My head dips back as he tugs on my blindfold. Gentle but firm, making sure the cloth stays put. “I’m just checking.” He has to be mere inches away. I get a hit of his subtle cologne. Not cloying, not overwhelming. Something expensive—and familiar. “Can you flex your fingers for me?”
I do. He’s checking my circulation. Like a good top.
“Good girl.”
The praise hits me right in my core, warmth spreading through my center. I don’t want to like it, but I do.
He paces away, heading toward the wall of implements to the right of the cross. There, on display, is everything a top might need: skeins of red and black rope in different lengths and weights, floggers in varying sizes, and paddles made of silicon or polished wood.
He makes his selection and returns to me. There’s a pause as long as seven of my heartbeats. Is he studying my back, cataloging the expanses of bare skin where he’ll make his mark?
He snaps the flogger to the right of me. The sound cracks, and I snap to attention like I’ve been hit. He knows what he’s doing.This is going to hurt.
“All right, little bird.” He has the smooth tones of a devil at a crossroads, offering me a deal. “Let’s begin.”
2
Inara
The first strikes come softly, so light I barely feel it through the thin fabric of my nightie. The next blow is harder, as is the next, and on and on until heat rises on my shoulder blades and sides. He’s painting the leather tails in an X shape against my back. Every stroke lands with the precision of a master—thudding down with the perfect amount of impact. I let my head fall forward.
“All good?”
“All good.”
I’m panting hard, but not because of the impact.
He called me ‘little bird.’ No jokes about ‘swallowing’ or anything. He assumed my pseudonym referred to the bird.
