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He set the sander on the nearest cabinet. “Power tools are one of my limits.” He held up the sheet of sandpaper to show her he still had it.

She looked at the sandpaper, at the sander, back at the sandpaper. “You better know how to use that.”

He nodded. He didn’t have a fucking clue.

66

Charlee sent Jay to his room with an emasculative point of her finger. Apparently, she didn’t appreciate him groaning over her shoulder as she dug through the kitchen drawers.

Tooth picks, chopsticks and saran wrap? He would’ve given her points for creativity, but she’d already maxed out her quota in the garage. He tried not to imagine what room she might’ve been rummaging through at the moment.

She behaved as if she held the power over what was about to happen. A perception he would soon rectify.

In his closet, he shed everything but the leather pants, leaving the top button. Rolling back his shoulders, he lengthened his neck and spine and cycled through several deep breaths. Bringing to mind everything he’d learned in his BDSM research on the Internet, he gave himself a pep talk.

He could do this. He would do anything for Charlee. He definitely could…Holy motherfuck. He couldn’t wuss out now. For the next however many hours, the right mindset would be the key to unlocking her.

Control. Roy abused her with it in a slave role she never agreed to. Consensual control in the bedroom was another matter. To administer the pain she desired, Jay needed to take her in hand. And no more cringing at percussion tools like a bitchboy.

He lifted the thickest leather belt from his rack, folded it, and whacked his thigh. His quadriceps jerked through the sting. Might not compare to the crack of an electrical cable, but he needed to start off with something a little more…conventional.

Striding through the bedroom, he opened the desk drawer and collected four metal finger picks for an old banjo he sometimes messed around with. He slid one on the tip of his index finger and scratched it down his arm. A smile pulled at his lips.

He grabbed the three black bags by the door and dumped the contents on the bed. The exclusive sex shop owner had been overly helpful that morning. Her flirting was as ineffective as her perfume, but she was a well-known masochist in L.A. and her advice lifted some of the veil from Charlee’s sexual mystique.

Not only did it lift it, her explanations made sense of it, normalized it. Charlee was no different than so many others. Pain simply unlocked the core of her desire.

Which brought him back to the importance of mindset. The focus was her pleasure. He could probably just beat the ever-loving shit out of her, and she’d find release through her twisted conditioning. He’d rather massage away the taint Roy left on her primal core by giving her pain through devotion and respect.

The fact that Jay would have this privilege was ludicrous after the shit he put her through that night. All the more reason he needed to assume the role and prove to her he could be the man who was valuable enough to dominate and worship her.

From the pile of purchases, he separated a butt plug, lube, nipple clamps and a Hitachi wand. The rest went back in the bags and into the closet.

The door to the bedroom clicked open behind him, and his heart thumped wildly. Go time.

He pivoted toward her, slowly and methodically, relaxing his shoulders, issuing his breath from his diaphragm, and holding his head high. “Go to the bathroom and clean your pussy. You have five minutes.”

Eyes wide as saucers, she lowered her arms and clutched her loot to her stomach. One of Rio’s drumsticks, a bucket of ice, an ice pick, a cheese grater, and some root thing that looked like she’d just dug up from the backyard filled her hands.

Holding his neck straight and relaxing his eyelids, he waited.

She didn’t waste words asking him if he was sure. Maybe she saw the certainty in his eyes.

She scampered toward the bed and dropped her findings next to the sandpaper, cable, and bamboo pole. A glimpse at the things he’d collected made her lips flicker up. Then she scurried to the bathroom.

He let out a breath. Washing her cunt wasn’t necessary. He liked knowing traces of his come were between her legs, even if his behavior would forever mar that memory. But he needed to set the tone and give her something to do while he prepared.

In short order, the household pervertables were lined up on the desk, and his rope was tied to the bedframe. He wrapped the sandpaper around the end of the belt strap and used the ice pick to punch holes in the scratchy paper where the belt holes lay beneath. With guitar string from his desk, he knitted the paper to the belt through the holes and secured it together.

The water tap shut off followed by soft footfalls. She appeared in the archway of the bathroom, and he settled into a tremble that tightened his body. He breathed through it and let it ripple away.

Gloriously naked, she stood with her head down and her hands at her sides. Flawless white skin, outrageous dips in her waist, the flare of her hips, and the auburn tuft between her legs.

Good night, she was formed perfectly. His knees wobbled. He locked them and used his most commanding voice. “Raise your head.”

She did, instantly, but it took longer for her eyes to follow. Her gaze inspected the floor in front of him, tarried over the space beside his hip. Finally, she met his eyes.

“Don’t ever lower your eyes. Hold your head high, Charlee. We clear?”