He rolls his eyes, an incongruous moment to add to the bizarre around me right now. ‘A child’s whip,’—adding quickly—‘but no, not like that.’ Trailing the suede across my knee, he whispers, ‘Feel how soft.’
And it is, but whips aren’t meant to tickle. They’re meant to punish. To hurt. I try not to imagine how it would feel used in force, almost able to see the muscles of his forearm flexing, my mind anticipating how an arm as strong as his could wield such a thing. And God help me, I’m turned on.
‘But punishment... I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Enfant. Like a child. I’d like to play.’
I swear my heart jumps, jarred by his words, his anomalous words hanging in the air, rude and uninvited, the word child as incongruous as the thing he holds in his hand.
He moves suddenly, bringing the tails across my thigh with a deft backwards flick of his wrist. My eyes shoot wide with shock and I inhale sharply, instinctively, to deal with the pain. There’s a resoundingthud, a delicious impact shooting straight to my clit, but no real sting.
‘What are you going to do?’ I whisper, almost in awe, running my fingers against my slightly pinked thigh. Is it trepidation, or wonder, that weighs heavy in my tone?
He smiles then, all teeth and wolf and I realise I’ve already acquiesced.
Dropping the thing against the table, it clatters and bounces against the wood as he pulls me into his arms. Hard kisses cover my mouth, his hands holding me possessively against him. His kiss deepens, our tongues sliding in synchrony, his hand spanning the back of my neck where he holds me, cradling me firmly as we kiss.
I’m hot, heated all over by this need, by his embrace. And I’m excited, just a touch of panic tainting the edge. Kai’s hands slip to my shoulders as he rests his frame against mine, the momentum of his body pushing me back against the wood.
‘Duet, not duel,’ he whispers hotly before he stands.
Lying flat against the surface, I watch the low light flickering across his face, picking out the fire and amber in his eyes, casting the rest into shade.
He looks fiendish. And capable of just about anything.
‘Arms at the top of the table,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m going to tie you now.’
My heart thuds once in my ears. I have no verbal response, only physical. My body trembles as though in shock, while between my legs comes a slick, throbbing need. I oblige almost immediately, raising and stretching my arms. I do so instinctively, almost outside of myself, the moment abstract, dangerous and erotic. And it feels different somehow, different than the chair or the scarves on my bed. Maybe it’s the intricate leather encasing my arms, like a collar or a bind.
Or maybe it’s the whip.
But the implication is clear; I’m giving myself to him, and it’s large, this leap of faith, larger than anything that has come before. I’m allowing him to bind me. I’m submitting. I feel strangely rational and hedonistically terrified.God, I should’ve drunk more wine.
He walks around the table, towards my head. ‘Move closer to this end,’ he instructs in a low tone.
I shimmy up the table as he takes my leather bound wrists in his hands. Flicking the leather at the inner wrist reveals a small, silver D-ring sewn into the side. I twist my head but can’t quite see as I hear the tiniest of clicks. Metal clips to metal before he lays my contrivance-bound wrists down.
‘How does that feel?’ The words are almost solicitously murmured from behind my head.
My hands lie in his against opposite corners of the table. I stifle the giggle building in my throat, a reaction to my sense of the bizarre. How does it feel being tied to a table?
‘Fine. Really, I feel fine.’ My tone is so bland we could be talking about the weather.
‘I think you can do better than that.’ Kai’s tonerequiresthat I do better than that.
‘It’s okay. Not uncomfortable,’ I counter, chastised.
He lifts my head, sliding a cushion underneath. ‘Discomfort is the last thing I have in mind for you.’ Sarcasm, maybe? That’s not like him. Nonetheless, the cushion is a welcome addition.
He kisses my forehead before walking to the opposite end of the table, taking my ankles in his hands, he pulls. The skin of my upper back drags against the wood and I gasp as it burns.
‘This, kitten, is a bit of a pervertable.’ He makes no mention of my intake of breath, his hand falling to my shoe covered foot.
I glare down the length of my body at him, offended that he hasn’t offered any kind of concern. ‘A pervert-table?’ My tone is resentful, but I’m not really sure I heard him right. I’m too busy being pissed off that he hasn’t asked if it hurt.
He laughs darkly. ‘That smart mouth will get you into trouble. I could find something to fill it, if you like?’ I shake my head quickly. ‘To pervert,’ he continues quietly, ‘to move away from what is right or proper. To put to incorrect use.’ He taps the table to emphasize the point, the cadence of his voice lowering. ‘To use for other than the nature for which it was intended.’ Lifting a foot, he draws his finger along the point of my heel. ‘Convention to fuck.’ He bends to the bench pushed under the table. ‘This, however, is not a pervertable.’
In his closed fist, he grasps a bar; fairly innocuous, maybe a foot or so in length. Not so innocuous are the two leather cuffs dangling from each end, silver coloured buckles gleaming in the light.
