Chapter Fifty-Four
He smiles then, and my heart swells with possibility. And resolve.
‘You want that?’ he asks, solemnly as his hand reaches out to cup my cheek.
‘I do,’ I whisper in response.
‘I can’t tell you what that means to me.’ His relief washes over me, cooling my skin. ‘I’d like to try something—now. Is that okay?’ He’s so lovely. And he loves me. And I love him. ‘Go into the dining room and wait for me there.’
His words are quiet, but I’m not really listening. I’m too busy thinking about how he loves me. And I love him. And how we’re going to root like bunnies sometime real soon. And we’re going to go on holiday and probably never leave the hotel. And—
‘Don’t make me ask again.’
Oh. Was that... a hint of command in his tone? ‘Dining—what, go now?’ When we’ve had such a lovely dinner? When I’m feeling all loved up?
His head lifts slowly, his tone altering further. Lower, and with more force, he replies with an emphatic, ‘That’s correct.’
I’m familiar with that tone. It’s the one that makes the tiny bundle of nerve endings housed in my knickers light up and dance like a loon. The same one responsible for this sudden, rising arousal, washing away the retort sat on the end of my tongue. I don’t know how this happens, or even why but I know I need Kai in my life. In my heart. And, right now, in the pulsing area between my thighs.
I stand, pushing back my chair and silently head for the villa’s open doors, still not quite believing my feet are taking me there. Lost to the morass clouding my mind, the seductive forces of resistance and anticipation pound within as I step inside.
The room has grown dark along with the evening, but soft light flickers against every surface as dozens of white candles light the room. Unsteady legs get me to the head of the table, ignoring the utilitarian benching running its length. I pull out the chair and perch against its edge, leaning back as I attempt to control my nerves. I’m tense.And turned on. I try to concentrate on the light cast by the candles, watching the small shadows dance against the walls. Music plays quietly in the background, Gotye, I think; soft words about messy hearts and consuming connections, as I wait. And wait.
I can hear him in other rooms; sounds of movement, doing what I can’t guess. Sensations continue to layer and build inside; anticipation, apprehension and desire spin their heady best. Then it occurs to me that this might be the point, this waiting game, some kind of sadistic attention on his part. A prelude to an evening with Kai. One part apprehension, one part desire.
I twist in the chair, bringing my legs from under the table. As I cross them at the knee, my thighs pressed together tightly.Is the action inadvertent or instinctual? A reaction to circumstances or a prelude?
One shoe balances from the toes of my foot as I bounce it distractedly, like some kind of base metronome, when intuitively, I look up. My voyeur stands at the doorway, tie and jacket abandoned, a hand loosening the buttons at his collar. Pulling the shirt over his head, he surrenders it to the floor, standing on the threshold of this moment. The light from the hallway beyond accentuates the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist as he begins to move.
‘My God, you’re beautiful.’ He murmurs this almost to himself as he reaches me, winding a wayward lock of my hair around his finger. I find I’m speechless, though not from his praise. It’s more like I daren’t open my mouth. I can’t trust what it might request, what it might beg for, as ferocious as I feel right now.
‘I’ve never felt like this.’ His gaze doesn’t move from the hair wound tightly around his finger. ‘It’s addictive, this need to see you before me, to know that the images I have in my head, the things I’ve planned, are about to be realised. You can’t know how that makes me feel.’ Releasing the now curled lock, he pauses to admire the indentations across his finger. ‘This symbiosis, this give... and take.’ Rubbing it now against the flesh of my lips, he feeds it into my mouth. I moan softly as the digit pushes inside, drawing it in further as I fellate—suck hard—craving him, staring into his cognac-coloured gaze. His retreating finger drags wetly against my lip before he pulls gently on my hand until I stand.
Breath caresses my face, his hands loosening the belt from my waist, opening the clasps at my shoulders. The fabric scarce has time to fall before he grasps my waist, lifting me onto the table, and seating me at the edge.
In the chair now, his hands rest against my thighs. Long, elegant fingers, caramel against the milk of my skin. He begins to stroke along the length, his movements almost rhythmic, teasing the very edge of the silk of my underwear. Time passes—seconds, minutes—his breath deep and even as he strokes my legs. His attentions are almost hypnotic, my breathing falling into a rhythm with his. I wonder what he’s thinking of, where his mind has wandered off to. This deep existential place I have no knowledge of.
As his head rises with languor, voracious eyes eliminate my thoughts.
‘I love spending time with you.’ The corner of his mouth lifts with the hint of a smile. ‘The small moments. Your hand in mine, your wit and the way you pull that God awful face when you’ve done something ridiculous. But this I need.’ He inhales deeply, hands tightening on my skin. ‘These times, when I’m between your thighs. The slow and the easy, the hard and the rough.’ Grasping my hands, he lays them against my legs, his fingers resting against the leather of the cuffs. ‘Contorting your body and twisting your mind.’ Then his head rises, his gaze hitting mine hard and head on. ‘I like complicated, sweetheart, and complicated makes you come.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I think you do, know you do. I need you to believe, and to trust me.’
‘I do.’
Inhaling deeply, he pauses as though testing, or weighing, my response. Then, reaching behind him, he pulls something from the back pocket of his pants. Maybe the hardwiring of my brain has malfunctioned because what I see is some kind of small whip.A flogger?But my synapses can’t be firing correctly—an error in the transportation of signals? A molecular machinery breakdown?
He lifts the thing between us and my heart sinks.
‘A... whip?’ I whisper the word as it bounces off the walls of my mind.
‘Fouet d’enfant,’ he replies softly.
Balancing the weight across his open palm, it seems almost like an offering. Its gleaming silver handle lies across his palm, jet black tendrils falling benignly from the end, the soft leather echoing that against my arms. There’s no denying its elegance, even if it is absolutely intimidating. I reach out and touch the suede-like strands, and still shudder.
‘Wait,’ I whisper, holding up my hand. ‘A whatd’enfant?’ I manage to mangle the pronunciation, shaking my head. ‘A child’s what?’
