“Yes,” I whispered, cheeks burning. “It was real.”
His brows drew close, and he didn’t immediately respond. He looked conflicted, pained even—but I couldn’t understand why. Did he wish I’d said it was all fake?
We heard a loud slap followed by a screaming moan and the wordsyes, Daddyin a high-pitched, porn-like voice.
I reacted like an evolved, sex-positive adult: I burst into giggles. Wes’s eyes locked on my lips, and he smiled softly.
He sighed like he’d just lost some unspoken battle. “Do you want to do some rope?”
Wes led me to a room in the cellar of the church, where he scanned the space like I’d seen him do many times before.
“Are you looking for someone?” I asked.
He immediately stopped his scan with a small shake of his head. He didn’t answer me, just guided me to an empty spot in a room of people tying each other up. We sat together as I continued to observe the space. The light from the chandelier above was bright enough for people to see their work clearly, after their eyes adjusted, but still dim enough to preserve the mood.
To my left, a woman dangled from the ceiling. Rope had been secured around a circular loop fastened to a hard point, as well as in various knots around her limbs and torso. But no one was around her. She was in her underwear with big headphones over her ears, curves accentuated by the cinch of the bondage as she twirled in a slow circle.
“Did she do that herself?” I asked Wes, eyes wide.
He glanced up at the woman. “Looks like it. It’s called self-suspension. Incredible skill to behold.”
“And that’s, like, a hobby for people?”
Wes nodded. “Yeah, pretty much. Shibari is as much an artform as it is erotic, maybe even more so for many.”
I felt comfortable in this room, as there was very little overtly sexual or intense play happening. The energy was still sensual, but not so heavy. Someone I assumed was an instructor gave pointers to a man tying another man on the floor to our left, discussing nerve damage risk and proper placement away from joints.
“You know what you’re doing?” I asked Wes. “I need my wrists for writing. They’re kind of crucial.”
Wes unwound the rope provided on our black mat with a smirk. “Your wrists are safe with me.” He glanced up at me through those dark lashes, and my heart fluttered. “May I read your books?”
I steadied myself with a breath. “After the alarming text messages I received from you this week, I’m wondering if the real question is,canyou read my books?”
Wes chuckled, his grin devilish as he stopped what he was doing with the rope to focus on me. “I can tell that really stressed you out. My sincerest apologies.”
“Thank you. It was deeply troubling, and I appreciate you holding space for that.”
Wes shook his head, still grinning. I wanted to hear him laugh again.
“They’re romance novels,” I said, as if warning him. I was on display, paranoid about what Wes might uncover about my psyche the deeper he pried.
“I’m aware.”
“Well… okay, sure. You can read them if you want to,” I said, comforted by the knowledge it was unlikely to happen.
“I do.”
My eyes darted from Wes to the rope. I sensed attention from the room periodically drifting to us, probably because of my sermon. Or maybe because Wes and I were new.
“We can do a simple bind on your arms or legs. Or a chest harness. Or we can just sit here and talk,” Wes said.
I shook my head. “We have to dosomething.It’s expected of us.”
“Who cares about their expectations? If you don’t want to?—”
“I do,” I said, even as I winced. I was tired of my own excuses, my own denial and fear. Maybe the act of speaking to a room ofstrangers had shifted something inside me, or maybe I was still a little hypnotized, but I’d grown sick of my own bullshit. Bored of it, even.
I wanted to keep chasing this feeling of beingalive.
