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Meanwhile, I could barely get a breath in, my face was being pounded so deep into the sofa.
He shouted, his voice rough and low, as he came, grinding into me at that perfect angle.
I was close to coming again too, so close that I started cursing him as he pulled out.
“Shh, sweetheart.  I got you.  Let’s go to bed.  I’m not even close to being done.”
He got off me and helped me up from the couch.
I pulled my pants up awkwardly, feeling disoriented.  “I stood up too fast,” I told him.  You couldn’t go from facedown, ass up, to upright and not have to pause to get your bearings.
He pulled me close, propping me against him, his arm thrown around me.  He nuzzled into my hair, into the sensitive spot just behind my ear.  “Come to bed with me,” he said very, very quietly.
I didn’t respond, didn’t think I needed to, since he’d already begun to tug me with him to the stairs.
I paused in the door of his bedroom, needing a moment to take it all in.
The huge painting on the wall, of me, was of course the first thing I focused on.  I still couldn’t believe he’d done that.  Who the hell bought a ninety thousand dollar painting of their ex and put it in their bedroom?
It was so twisted.  And dammit, some part of me thought it was the sweetest thing he’d ever done.
After a time, my attention shifted to the rest of the spacious room.
I sized up his bed.  I wasn’t pleased with what I saw.  It was intimidating.  It was huge and red and built more like a miniature house than a bed.
I shot him a look.  “That your torture chamber?”
“It’s a modified reproduction of a Chinese wedding bed.”
“That didn’t exactly answer my question.”
He began to undress me, starting with my slacks.  When his hands went to my panties, I moved away.
“Let’s get in bed,” he urged softly.
I shook my head, still staring at that bed, getting more agitated by the second.  “Why do you have a bed like that, Tristan?”
“Come on.”  He grabbed my hand, trying to tug me toward it.
I shook him off.  “Is there anything you want to tell me?”  I licked my suddenly bone dry lips.  “Any surprises you have for me?”
He sighed deep, ran a hand through his hair, and just stood there, looking very uncertain for a man with a bed that looked like it belonged in a BDSM playground.
I set my jaw and moved to it.  When he tried to follow me, I held up a warning hand.  “Stay there.”  My voice was cold.
It was beautiful in a way, painted red and carved intricately.  Determinedly, I climbed inside.  The mattress was soft.  It didn’t even hurt my knee as I crawled across it.
When I spotted the row of drawers at the head of it, my suspicions were confirmed.  I didn’t even have to open them, though I did.
Handcuffs.  Ropes.  And a shitload of other things that I couldn’t have named, but knew the purpose of.
I moved back to the opening of the bed, swinging my legs out, and just perching there for a long time, my mind racing.
My eyes snagged again on the picture of me.  He must’ve had it for months.  How could that possibly go over well, a sexy painting of your ex looking down on all of your sordid kinky bed activities.
I pointed at the painting.  “What the f**k is with this kinky shit?  I think that’s actually worse than the restraints.  You like my painting to watch you when you f**k other women?”
“Such a pretty girl, such a dirty mouth.”  He sounded resigned, but still fond.
I glared at him.  “Don’t get cute with me.  Explain this messed up shit to me.  Now.”
“I haven’t had anyone in this bed in ages, okay?  There’s nothing for the you in that painting to watch.”  He paused.  “Well, except for copious amounts of jacking off.  But other than that, Painting Danika should have nothing to complain about.  And frankly, in my mind, Painting Danika loves to watch me jacking off.”
Eyes wide, I just kept shaking my head at him.
He shrugged, trying and failing to look sheepish, then looking down while he outright smiled.  “Too far?”
I ignored him, still fixated on those restraints and the comment about no one in the bed for ages.
The comment was easy to reconcile, when I recalled that he had that hotel suite at his disposal.
And the restraints, well, it’d be a lie to say I hadn’t had a clue he was kinky.  I just hadn’t thought it was this essential to him.
The bed reminded me of a lifestyle.
It reminded me of Frankie.
“It was Frankie and James, wasn’t it?  Did those kinky f**ks bring you over to the dark side?”
He started laughing.  Hearing my own words, I started laughing, and neither of us could seem to stop for the longest time.
“It was you, actually.”
That confused the hell out of me.  “How do you figure?”
“It started with you.  The submission, the restraints.  I don’t have a fetish, but I definitely found a preference.  With you.  When I started dating again, my, um, sexual triggers were just desensitized.  Not being able to get high didn’t help, not back then.  I just needed a little extra something, to make things exciting, because it was hard for me to get excited about anything at all, for a very long time.”