Page 43 of A Gold Medal in Love

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

BLAKE

When I getImani back to our room (she once again refused to let me carry her, hobbling all the way), I sit her down gently on her bed and crouch in front of her at eye level.

We stare into each other’s eyes for far longer than we ever have. I search her eyes, seeking an entry behind those bulky walls she’s put in my path, but she’s colder than ever. I know that I might never break through to her. I might spend whatever time we have outside the battlements she’s crafted, banging on her fortress, barely managing to fall into the moat that surrounds her psyche.

I stand up, reach an arm behind my back, and tear off my shirt. If I can’t emotionally get through to Imani, well, I’ll get through to her physically. As I toe off my kicks, I keep eye contact with her while I throw the tee to some forgotten corner of the room, standing in front of her in sweatpants and a black sports bra stitched in rainbow thread.

Imani breaks eye contact, though, tracing my uncovered torso with her eyes.

I flex my abs under her perusal, barely just stopping before I raise my arms and do the same with my biceps. I’m not ashamed that I want to display myself for her. She pays mefor my preening with every longing glance she throws my way. However, she’s looked long enough. It’s my turn now.

A snap of my fingers jolts her out of her daydreaming, and she immediately assumes my preferred position of Nadu, her face tilted toward the floor.

I tip her head up to look at me, grasping her by the chin.

Imani gulps loudly and visibly for me as I run my fingers through her permed locks, digging into her scalp to massage her and alleviate some of the tension she’s been holding since the interaction with the doctor.

“I don’t like it when you lie to me, Cupcake,” I tell her matter-of-factly.

Imani’s face screws up into anger, and she opens her mouth to refute my accusations, raising a hand to knock my fingers off her head, when I snap again. Her hands drape back onto her knees as she looks down and away from me, but she emits a frustrated sound.

“That’s all I’m going to say about it… for now. You can think about your actions while you’re tied up and at my mercy.” I stop petting her and move my hand to caress her cheek. “Hm. A little overheated, there, Cupcake? Let’s see if we can set your cheeks aflame for a different reason. Get on my bed—head toward the wall, legs toward me.”

Imani does as I say, but grumbles the whole time. That’s fine. I’m about to torture the shit out of her for her misbehavior.

“Close your eyes,” I instruct her softly, running a finger down the bridge of her nose. Then I go to my closet, read: toy bag, and gather my supplies as I trust her to follow my orders.

When I come back to her, she’s quietly waiting on me, eyes closed. I proceed to cuff her wrists, connecting them with a spreader bar, then I do the same to her ankles after I’ve pushed up her legwarmers.

She’s being such a good girl for me, keeping her eyes closed and whimpering softly as she squirms in anticipation. I confess to my own, since we had yet another renegotiation and both CNC and face-slapping left the limits category, and are now tantalizingly in-bounds.

Deliberating on whether or not to ruin her practice leotard, I decide I shall, so I rip the scoop neck of it open, baring her gorgeous, dainty tits to my thirsty eyes.

“Hey! I’m not made of money,Sir,” Imani objects.

Still feasting my eyes on her gorgeous body, I distractedly reply to her understandable anger. “Hush, Cupcake. This is what I have a black card for.”

With Imani all laid for me, I pause to sigh and look her over: her brown skin gleams from the accumulated sweat of the afternoon, her chest is heaving in excitement, and I can practically taste the desire that is riding her body.

I reach an arm back and smack her right breast.

“Fuck!” Imani screams, opening her eyes. “Blake, ow!”

I raise an eyebrow and repeat the action on the left.

“Shitshitshit, I do know better. I just. Yellow! Yellow, Sir!” Imani blabbers.

Immediately softening, I reach forward to gently massage the affected area. My desire is pushed to the back of my mind as I soothe her angry skin. “Shh, Cupcake. You’re all right. What do you need?”

Imani’s eyes rake over my face in panic. “Can you kiss me, please? I’m just—I need—I. Wait. Hit me again?”

“Breathe, you’re safe, and I’m going to give you what you need. Let’s start with a kiss,” I console her, reaching forward to take her neck in my hand as I cover her body with mine, effectively trapping her beneath the spreader bar and stretching her legs toward her face.

My hand may be on her throat in a display of ownership, but the kiss I treat her lips to is soft and adoring. I brush my mouth over hers several times, just a sweet whisper of touch, before I finally settle into a proper kiss. Taking my time with her, I invite her to drink from me as I do from her, letting her feel my care and respect with every lick of my tongue.