“I’m not even moving yet.”
“Please do,” I pant.
“What do you need to say?”
“Please, Master. Please fuck me.”
And he does. He fucks me twice in that position. When I’m sure my heart will burst—that I will die here, from another crashing orgasm—he repositions me. I’m on my stomach with my arms over my head. My nose and mouth press into the mattress. By the time he unbinds my wrists, the sun is setting.
OH, SHIT.
I’m in the windowed room’s en suite shower, and that’s seriously all my brain can muster.
Shit.
I’ve washed every inch of my body with the thick bar of French lavender soap I found in its bow-tied, burlap wrapping, but I can’t seem to turn the water off. I watch it slosh around my toes like mini rapids. Watch it all slide down the drain—until the steam starts fading. The water runs lukewarm, then cold.
I’m a card-carrying member of the Scorching Shower Lovers Club, so I turn the lever and grab my towel from the small tile bench built into the back of the shower.
I dry myself, then wrap my hair. I step over to a granite countertop and grab another fluffy towel for my body.
When I’m dry enough to touch my phone, I check for word from Kellan, but there’s no text or missed call. After he untied me, I remember him cleaning me off with a warm, damp cloth and rubbing some oil on my shoulders. I guess I must have drifted off to sleep, because when I awoke, my cell phone was beside me on the pillow, and on the screen was a text he’d sent: I’m 1 in your phone now. Call if you need. Gone to sort out some shit. Back later tonight. Food in the oven. Make yourself at home.
That was around 6:30. It’s 8:50 now. I consider texting him—but why? To be sure he’s okay? Really?
Instead I unpack my toiletries, brush my teeth, smooth some olive oil lotion all over my body, and put on my favorite ragged gray sweatpants with a hot pink Greek Sing t-shirt. I drift around the windowed room, first averting my eyes from the bed, then staring at it from the safety of the balcony.
Shit.
That’s still all I have.
Shit, that was amazing. Shit, that was crazy. Shit, that was intense. Shit, that Kellan Walsh. Just... fucking shit.
What am I doing?
That wasn’t sex, I think as I descend the stairs. It was... ritual. Some kind of pleasure-pain ritual that blurred all my lines and took me somewhere new. Somewhere I can’t walk without a bite of pain between my legs.
As I step into the swanky living room, I imagine my old Sunday School teacher, Mrs. Elvira, with her short, gray hair and baby doll-round hazel eyes.
“Sex should be for husband and a wife.”
I know I don’t agree with that, but I’ve always thought before now that it should at least be mutually satisfying.
But I am satisfied, I argue as I sit on his white couch. I’m so satisfied, I’m almost floating. Because Kellan Walsh tied me up and did everything short of smacking me in the face with his dick.
Do I like to be degraded?
I liked being bound.
I’m weird.
Is it weird?
It’s a little weird.
I bite my lip and look down at the pale suede couch. A few inches away from me, there’s a small black ink stain. I rub it with my fingertip. I’m satisfied, okay? Alarmingly so. But is that incidental? Did he care if I was? He told me that, though, didn’t he? That he wanted to please me, but he was going to keep going until he got tired.
Is he some kind of sex addict?