Page 25

The tip of his nose touches near my ear. He bows his head until we are temple to temple.

“I’m going to blindfold you. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Silk covers my eyes, and the room goes dark.

The sensual material blocks light and caresses my skin.

I inhale a light, clean scent. Strands of hair pull as he knots the fold.

I push back against the mild discomfort.

My nostrils flare as I breathe in, reassuring myself that the fold does not constrict my airways.

“Put your hands together.” I automatically do as told, and silk encircles my wrists, then he raises my joined arms.

“I’m going to leave your arms tied high. How’s that?”

I tug and discover he’s somehow tied my arms to an object, most likely the hook hanging from the ceiling.

“You can pull down. It’s secure.” His fingers light along my back, and my core clenches. “That okay?”

“Fine.” My arms might go numb, but at the moment, being displayed, control removed, is decidedly erotic. “Do I need a safe word?”

“Not today. Besides, we already determined you and I are alike, remember?”

My mind goes blank. I want to feel his touch. My nipples ache. My eager core throbs expectantly. I am so ready.

“Neither of us gets turned on by pain. Any screaming in this room will be screams of pleasure.”

The cool air whips around my nipples, my arms tingle as the blood flow diminishes, and I spread my legs to allow the coolness to circulate near my heated, pulsing core.

With my eyes covered, a hyperawareness of physical sensations surges, all the while reminders of the implications of sex and the fear of relapse surface.

I didn’t allow myself to have sex for a year after rehab. I treated it like a nuanced drug.

No amount of money is worth a relapse.

I feel his presence behind me. He’s not touching me, but there’s an energy coursing between us.

The energy vibrates and lights my skin. I can’t see him, but if I could, I would bet his hand hovers over me, inches from my shoulder blade, shifting down the curve of my spine, along my hip.

Close enough for sensory impact, but without physical touch.

Cool air replaces warmth, and I hear movement. A click of a cabinet.

“Do you like sensory play?”

“I, ah, wouldn’t know.” I’m hardly innocent, but my sexual encounters are more of the wham-bam variety. Oral is about as much foreplay as I ever expect. Reid, my only committed partner since rehab, preferred sex fast and rough.

Something soft brushes down my spine and swipes across the top of my ass. My muscles clench at the sensual touch.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes.”

The softness sweeps across the side of my right breast, with tendrils cascading down the breast, over the nipples, across my chest, continuing on to caress my left breast. A vibrating energy awakens my left side, alerting me to his physical proximity.

“You have a beautiful body. But you know that, don’t you?”

Sometimes I know, and sometimes I don’t. There are moments when I love my body for all it can do and all it has survived. And there are others when I get lost in comparisons and envious wishing. But these are realities he doesn’t want to hear. This man bought me for sex.

My shoulder muscles heat, and I push my ass out, pulling down on my arms, stretching.

The muscular burn transcends from my arms to my shoulders and down my lower back.

My thighs take part in the deep stretch, and soft, ticklish threads coax the divide between the globes of my ass and back up my spine.

Hot warmth and wetness encapsulate my right nipple, and I gasp. His tongue circles. There’s a pinch and suction. My core aches, and I squeeze my inner muscles, coaxing my need in the only way I can while tied.

He leaves my right nipple, and cold air freezes the tender tissue as his mouth claims my other one. The contrarian sensations of cool and warm send chills down my spine as my thigh muscles flex. A soft touch, as light as a feather, skirts my knee, up my thigh, and through my labia. I whimper.

And then warmth replaces the feather.

Holy shit.

It’s his tongue.

My knees go weak, and I let my weight hang against the bindings. The silk tightens against my wrists, and my fingers tingle.

“Spread your legs.”

I comply immediately, without hesitation.

“Ava.” The way he says my name is simultaneously commanding and sultry. “I like the way you taste. Would you like for me to continue?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t chuckle, but I imagine he smiles. I imagine he likes this. God, I hope he likes this, because I fucking love this.

And then the rough growth of his chin and jaw rub hard against my sensitive flesh, a mild distress softened by the forceful laps of his warm tongue and the mix of suction.

When he plunges inside me, it takes me by surprise, and I jerk forward, my almost numb arms springing to life.

It’s his finger or maybe an object, I’m really not sure, but whatever it is soothes the ache that’s been building since the moment I shed my clothes.

My orgasm strikes hot and fast, and behind the blindfold flashes of bright orange and yellow dot the black.

Warmth caresses my inner thigh, passing to the front of my leg as I come down from the rapid escalation.

He lifts my arms, and I stretch. He unravels the bindings, lowers my arms, and briskly rubs my wrists and along my arms. A million pins and needles light my arms as blood returns and the sensations override the glory of what just happened.

He places my hands against the wall.

“Press here.”

The velvet fabric warms my chilled palms. I flutter my fingers, encouraging blood flow and exploring the divine texture. Pressure on my spine instructs me to bend, and I do so until I’m bent over from my hips, ass out. The fabric of his pants leg brushes against my ankle.

“Spread your legs.”

A zipper unzips. A mental visual of him grabbing his cock and stroking himself hits me hard, and my throat tightens.

I swallow and anticipation mounts. A protruding object slides along my ass crack.

The intruder is warm and smooth. I squeeze my muscles, tightening around what I know must be his erection.

He grunts. The warm, almost-silky object moves lower, between my thighs.

My clit contracts. My breathing is hollow and rapid.

With one powerful thrust, he enters me, and I push back against the intrusion. He stills, balls deep, and grips my hips. His fingers dig into me. My knees tremble. A hushed exhale tickles my ears.

And then he pummels me, in and out, over and over.

Fabric buffs my ass as I push with all my strength against the wall, thrusting against him, and it hits me.

He’s still clothed. It’s like he’s the man from a porno with his dick sticking out of his zipper.

He hasn’t even bothered to let his pants fall.

His left hand abandons my hip. Cold air replaces his hot skin. A whirring mechanical noise mixes in with his heavy breathing and my panting and guttural moans.

A cool, hard, vibrating object presses against my clit, and I cry out in surprise.

His hips slow, and he pulses within me. I whimper as a slow, winding orgasm meanders through me.

I push out against him, seeking more touch, wanting a more intense vibration on my clit.

He collapses over me, and a soft warmth presses against the nape of my neck.

His clothes create a welcome tactile experience. The vibrations end.

Cold air replaces the fabricated warmth. His dick slips out from between my legs. The zipper zips. I feel his presence, a pressure on my lower legs, and I’m in the air. I let out a small squeal in surprise. My head lolls as the back of my neck rests against what I believe must be his arm.

With care, he sets me down on silk. Soft, thick padding. It’s the bed. His fingers tousle with the blindfold, and it’s gone. I blink. The room remains dark, lit only by flickering faux fire and candles.

He’s at the cabinet, arranging things, his back to me, fully dressed except for his shoes.

“I used a condom.” He announces it in a way that makes me feel like I should respond. Like maybe it’s a test. I’m sprawled out, limp and naked. “Are you on birth control?”

“The pill.”

“Good. I’ll have someone stop by the house to test you. I’ll get tested too. I don’t like condoms.”

Various responses to his assumptions come to mind. There’s a part of me that wants to fight. Another part just wants to close her eyes and go to sleep.

“Smart to get a druggie tested,” is what I say. And then I cringe. I’ve gone years teaching myself to be better. To have healthier internal thought processes. An hour into this arrangement, and I’m slipping.

His head bows. The cabinet clicks closed. He pads to the door and slips on his shoes. His hand rests on the doorknob.

“You can sleep in here tonight or in your room. When you leave, the door will automatically lock, and you can’t re-enter.”

The knob turns, the door opens, and he exits.