Worth The Wait Page 8

  "All right." He touched her chin, drawing her eyes back up to his. "I need to be sure we're on the same page. This isn't a performance. And even if a Dom and sub are doing a session in front of an audience, it's not a magic show. It's real, or it doesn't work."

  "I get it. Sometimes even when actors are just rehearsing, they get caught up in the characters. But when the scene is over, it's over."

  "Yes. But the best performance happens when you become the character. When this kind of session is done right, the two people involved are open to one another during it. When it ends, something has changed in each of them. It's a gift they can carry, that binds them, even if they're not in a relationship. If a scene is done right, you're completely naked."

  "I said I was okay with that. I've been in theater forever. Costume changes sometimes happen barely out of range of the wings."

  "I said naked. Not undressed. They're different." His voice was calm, rhythmic like waves, but what was beneath it was deep enough to pull her under in tropical, wet waters.

  Though her knees were quivering, she used the grip of his hands to counter that. "I told you I want to do this. It feels like you're trying to scare me out of it."

  "No. I just want you to understand what it is and isn't. I can't let you stay detached, Julie." He increased his hold on her. "You have way too much going on beneath the surface for me to deny myself the pleasure of diving in."

  Her pulse jumped at the sudden shift in his expression, a glimpse of something hungry. "But you can say stop at any time," he continued. "And if you feel uncomfortable or afraid, you tell me. Okay?"

  Yep, she had all the control. Control of a bag of wild cats, all of whom were wanting to tear loose, make her act in inexplicable ways.

  Des let go of one hand and picked up his shirt. He kept a firm clasp on her other hand, leading her through the slit in the curtain to the stage beyond it.

  He'd prepared for her arrival. A table held neatly coiled figure eights of black rope and a glittering pile of silver carabiner clips. Next to them were a half dozen pale ivory candles and a lighter. A backpack was on the floor, leaning against the table leg.

  Several ropes were hanging from the support beams above the stage, with hooks attached to the ends of the lines. Maybe she should have brought Madison. What did she really know about Desmond? What was he going to do with those hooks?

  He stopped, perhaps feeling her hesitation. "Anything you want to talk about, we can," he said. "If you change your mind about having someone here, we can do it another night when you can give Madison some advance warning. We can go get a pizza or something."

  She swallowed. "No. I think I made the right decision. What I need... I need your help feeling right about it."

  At his quizzical expression, she colored. "It's going to sound stupid, but when we were looking at the orchids, you had this way of tapping into what I am... I mean, what I felt. It made it okay. I think I would have let you do anything to me right then."

  His jaw muscles flexed, suggesting her bald admission had elicited a primal response, barely held back. She felt it in the strength of his grip on her hand, but he only said, "Okay."

  Pressing his shirt in her hands, he tilted his head down so they both looked at the cloth bunched in her grip. "At the end of our session tonight, I'm going to put my shirt on you."

  The worn cloth was soft, and she resisted the female urge to lift it to her nose to smell. Hard and strong he was. Broad chested, not so much. She glanced down at her D-cup breasts. "I don't think this is going to fit."

  "We'll button what we can. I think the effect will be interesting."

  He took the shirt from her, walked it over to the table and left it draped over the pack. Moving to the side stage, he drew back the curtains. As they retracted, he revealed the darkened theater, the empty chairs.

  He returned to her, a masculine figure moving through alternating shadows and shafts of light. Any words she'd planned to say dried up. He didn't tell her to be quiet; his expression and body language did.

  Turning her to face the front of the stage, he put his hands on her shoulders. "Close your eyes. Feel the theater breathing like you talked about. Imagine there are a few hundred people out there, all silent and waiting, watching. Each of them imagining themselves in either your shoes or mine, or both, bringing their own personal stories to life in a million different ways. We inspire their imaginations, but we're also oblivious to them, because that's the point."

  His lips brushed her ear, making her shiver. "There's being a story and telling one, and this is being a story. If the crowd stirs, even just a little, I'll silence them with a look, a raised hand. I won't permit anything to distract you or intrude on your experience. That's part of my job, part of what you can trust me to do."

  It had been years since she'd performed on a stage, so it was peculiar to feel a bit of stage fright as he created an imaginary audience watching them.

  "Everyone is quiet. Now it's just us."

  His captivating voice, too deep for his frame, too compelling for an individual who looked like a roadie and who might be too young for her, held her in place. Through the touch of his hand, the stroke of his voice, he evolved into the Dominant she'd felt on their first meeting and in that unforgettable moment at the orchid garden.

  She told herself it was just performance. He possessed that incredible charisma that incited crushes from so many actresses for their leading man, even when he was a total dick outside the role he played onstage. She didn't have that risk of being crushed by reality. They'd set the boundaries. She could be swept up in her own character, enjoy it without losing perspective.

  But he'd said he couldn't let her hold herself apart. This wasn't a performance with a review write-up tomorrow. This was intended to be an experience.

  He swept his hands down her arms and back up to her shoulders, his fingers caressing her throat. She swayed and he closed the gap between them.

  "When I do a scene, my submissive is the center. She's everything."

  He removed the barrette from her hair so it spilled over his hands. He combed through the thick locks, tugging harder with each pass, scraping it all together as if he was going to create a ponytail. Only instead he loosened his grip, spread her hair back on her shoulders, then did it all over again, digging into her nape, her scalp, mixing force with the tug. Her eyes had closed again and she was swaying with his motions, a spiral of reaction inside and out.

  "I'm going to undress you, Julie," he whispered. "I want you to feel my hands on you, get you used to me touching you, taking control. All right?"

  As she'd said, there was little modesty in theater. She didn't see her body as a glowing treasure that had to be hidden until some presto moment where she'd reveal it to an awestruck lover. It was just a body. They were all sizes and shapes, and fit society's definition of beauty at different levels, but in the end, a body was a body. Everyone had one.

  On the other hand, her body had never been unwrapped as if it was a treasure. A far different experience from matter-of-factly stripping off outer garb while cast and crew members passed by like orbiting planets.

  "When I tell you I'm undressing you, I'm demanding a paradigm shift in your head. Answer me, love."

  She moistened her lips. "Yes. Okay."

  His fingers curved around her waist, slid around and plucked open the tunic's sash. "Lift your arms."

  When she did, he pulled the tunic off of her. He did it slowly, so the silken fabric caressed her skin as he drew it away from her. He didn't remove her bra or skirt yet. He wrapped his fingers over her waist again, fanned them out so they were caressing her ribs, his smallest finger below her waist band and tracing her hip bone. He rubbed her lower back with his thumbs, loosening the muscles there. His chin remained against her pulse, just below her ear, so his breath stroked sensitive nerve endings. She unconsciously tilted her body up toward that stimulation. Her breasts wanted his strong hands cupping and caressing them, and her nipples ached at
the thought of him capturing them in his fingertips to pinch and play.

  The shift rubbed her backside against him, and he made an approving noise. "I love a naturally sensual sub," he said. "No calculation from the mind, just following your own desires. Move anyway you wish, love. It's like the orchids when the wind or sun touches them. They lift and bend and, even caught on their stems, they can't help straining toward what they want."

  He unzipped her skirt, so it slipped to the floor. When he drew back, she suspected he was examining her underwear. She'd chosen black lace for both bra and panties, and the panties were the boy short style. His palm slid over one cheek, rubbing the lace against her flesh, then he slid a finger beneath, drawing the fabric up further to expose the curve.

  "Gorgeous ass," he murmured. "When we're done tonight, my rope will be marking it. I'll leave that language printed all over you."

  Unclasping the bra, he slid it off her arms. He didn't cup her breasts as she hoped and expected. He took off her underwear so she was naked, and moved to face her.

  She wasn't expecting that, him mostly dressed and examining her from head to toe. He'd let her hair drop back on her shoulders, so some of the strands had fallen forward onto her right breast, others spread over or behind her shoulders.

  "Put your hands behind your back."

  When she did, it straightened her posture and she realized she'd been hunching. His eyes glowed and he cupped one breast, giving it a light stroke. She was trembling.

  "Cold, love?"

  She shook her head, and he nodded in satisfaction, as if he'd anticipated that answer. "Do you have any old injuries that could affect your joints, your back?"

  She shook her head. "Nothing more than the usual aches and pains of middle age."

  "Yeah, they catch up with you. I'm going to be gentle with you tonight, but I like to ask. From here forward, you move only as I tell you to move. If you need something you tell me. Yes?"

  "Yes."

  He left her to go back to the table. In the corner of her eye, she saw him light three pillar candles on the table and pick up a couple coils of rope, a handful of clips. He must have activated a music player, because the opening strains to "Ever After" by Marianas Trench filled the air.

  "Like a candlelit dinner without the candlelight."

  "Mmm. Hush now. Don't move also means don't speak. Just experience this, love."

  She noticed one of the coils of rope was smaller in width than the others. It felt like he used that one first, binding her wrists together but not stopping there. He created an intricate looping between fingers, knuckles and wrist. When he was done, her hands were drawn into balled fists she couldn't open.

  "It's different, when you can't use or move your fingers. Every part I immobilize can open another level of consciousness for you, if you let it. You'll be bound but you'll also start to fly."

  Moving in front of her, he shook out the thicker rope and looped it over her neck. He didn't rush, but he didn't hesitate, tying the first knots as fluidly as if he was a spider spinning its web. Hence the Spiderman nickname, she assumed.

  She was glad he didn't tell her to close her eyes, because she could watch the movement of his hands and arms, the shifts of his body, the concentrated expression. His gaze flicked up to hers periodically, a touch of flame that made her lips part, her body quiver harder and her brain cut loose to drift in a lust-filled haze. She'd expected something dramatic to propel her into this state. She hadn't realized all it required was him taking control, and her feeling the first brush of the rope. With every binding and loop, she was sinking deeper into an edgy, needy bliss.

  If it hadn't had that effect, or if he'd allowed her to talk, she might have asked him more about what he was doing. She liked learning the 'hows' from her artists, but she understood the point of his earlier instruction. He wanted her immersed in it, not learning like a student sitting behind a desk.

  With every knot he tied, every diamond shape he created between the knots, putting her body from throat to pussy in a net, heat spread through her. His nimble fingers caressed and manipulated her body so it melded with his work.

  The high notes in "Ever After" heightened her reactions. On one drawn out note, she felt a spasm between her legs as if the range had plucked at her clit like a guitar string. Before creating the diamond shapes, Des had drawn the double strands of rope between her legs, split them around her labia and pulled that line up between her buttocks. As he created the net, the compression increased, so her bound sex throbbed. She dropped her head back as the lead singer screamed to fight for something. To face the music... Her knees quivered, but Des had her.

  He was touching her incidentally, the sides of his hands, his fingertips, his knuckles, brushing her breasts, her nipples, her pussy. The casual stimulation was maddening, all the more because a glance down showed a steel bar of response against his jeans. Those flickers of eye contact between them were more weighted. When she licked her lips, his gaze followed the motion. He slid his fingertips over her hip as he bent and kissed her shoulder.

  "You are fucking unforgettable, love. Time to make use of the hooks." He unbound her wrists, but left the hands in their closed state. Moving around her to retrieve one of the lines from the ceiling, he hooked it to the knot between her breasts, then hooked another down at her waist, and a third above her pubis. He left all three suspension lines slack. "Put your arm around my neck for this next part."

  She did and he lifted her right leg, bending the knee and securing it so she was standing on one leg. Grasping her arm, he lifted it over her head, attaching it to a loop at the upper part of the rope that he'd secured between her breasts. He restrained the other hand to her upper thigh.

  "You're safe, Julie. You can't fall. I have you at four points. When I go to the wall, I'm going to draw the ropes taut, let them lift you off the ground. I need you to completely relax. Just let the ropes take you. Don't fight them."

  He reinforced the command with a caress of her hip as he moved away. She focused on doing as he'd commanded and, when the ropes slowly began to tighten, she let her body go limp. The rope holding her leg lifted her first, and she drew the other off the ground as she found herself tilted so she was at a forty-five degree angle to the stage, her hair spilling down toward it because her head was tipped back. That felt a little uncomfortable, because she couldn't figure out if she needed to strain to keep it lifted or let it drop back.

  He was back in a blink, his hand cradling her skull as he wrapped rope over her forehead and nape, knotting and weaving them with the lines at her back, shoulders and breasts so that when he tied off the ends to the suspension rope above her breasts, her head was supported, no unbearable strain on her neck.

  Yet there was enough discomfort left over to make her feel...excited. At the orchid garden, he'd told her he liked contrasting stimuli, but he'd proven that was a two-way street.

  "That a girl. You're a goddess, love. You feel it, you look it." He put both hands in her hair, fingers stroking again, combing deep, the sensation feathering over her scalp. Twisting her hair in a tight corkscrew, he bound the hair in a wrap of rope. He cupped her chin and loosened but didn't release the other ropes. Easing her head back, keeping tension in the binding on her hair, he knotted it in the back of the breast harness so she was looking at the ceiling lights, the two opposing tensions supporting her head and holding it in place, increasing her sense of helplessness. His hand slid from her jaw to stroke her windpipe.

  She was suspended in the air, her head back, one arm lifted above her and knee bent as if she were a fairy who had suddenly decided to turn over and face the sky, fly that way.

  Her pussy was wet and her limbs were shuddering, her stomach a mass of hopping frogs. She was spread open, vulnerable, and she realized she was no longer silent. Little sounds were caught in her throat, a pleading noise.

  "Still with me, love?"

  She nodded.

  "I need to hear your voice."

  "Yes.
" She was breathing hard. He stroked her torso, a soothing and stimulating gesture at once. She was suspended at waist height to him and he took advantage of it, curling his fingers around her breasts to knead them in their rope bindings. The pleasure of it had her writhing. Bending, he put his mouth over one, and indulged a long, slow suckle of her nipple. She gasped at the sensation, those pleading noises now unmistakably moans. His fingers slipped down between her open legs to probe, caress and find her slick.

  He'd said no sex. At this tilted angle, he would have had to be a lot taller for sex to happen, but his touch was a vivid reminder there were plenty of over the top sexual experiences that didn't involve fucking.

  Moving back to the table, he changed the music from Marianas Trench's now mournful "Porcelain" to "Henny and Gingerale" by Mayer Hawthorne. The twisting, provocative notes, the rocking tone of 'I can't get enough', slid through her like his fingers through her hair. If he kept her his prisoner like this forever, she thought he'd never use a brush, preferring to comb it with his own hands.

  She was spinning in romantic imaginings. He'd put her in a fantasy world.

  He returned and dropped to his heels, fingers templing on the floor to brace himself a few feet from her. In her peripheral vision, she could see him studying her. She could hear her heart pounding, feel her breath clogging in her throat. She was naked, and spread open. Her arms and hands bound, breasts framed in more rope, a snug but not too tight harness that displayed them. His stillness was a tranquil, arousing, living thing. Even if he'd told her it was okay to talk, she couldn't. She was in the center of his web, which made her think of what he'd said, that his sub was the center--was everything--during his sessions.

  He stayed motionless and watching her until the song ended, replaced with Mandy Moore's compelling "Have A Little Faith in Me." How was it that every tune he played had that strong under beat that kept need pumping through her like an answering chorus? She felt alive, wild, tied up, at his mercy, but so vibrant, like the sun. When he rose, bending over her to put his mouth on her throat, she wanted to meet him with eager demand, tangle her tongue with his, bite his bottom lip. He denied her that, her heated, erratic breath a whisper of sound between them.