Dark Notes

With slippery drives of his finger, he plunges again and again. A molten, coma-inducing pleasure courses through my body. My nipples tighten, and my pulse goes crazy. I dig my toes into the carpet as the slurping sounds of his rhythm saturate the room.

Heat rushes to my face. I know this is desire, and he’s found that mysterious trigger to release my natural lubrication, to show me how to want this. But I’m leaking all over his hand. Is it normal to be this messy?

He crouches, burying his finger inside me as his other hand drags the belt along my thigh. The leather shakes against me, like his exhales. And his voice. “So fucking wet.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why—”

“Don’t,” he growls, dipping his finger in and out, massaging and rubbing with so much control. “This is what it feels like to be taken care of, to receive pleasure from someone who wants to give it desperately.” His lips graze my inner thigh. “I know how to touch my girl.”

He knows how to be both languorous and male and how to coax my surrender with only the strength of his words. I’ve never been with someone so powerful and confident, who can also remain calm enough to touch me like this.

His fingers leave my body, and his heat slips away. I turn my neck and catch a glimpse of deep navy eyes as he straightens and swipes his wet hand over his mouth.

That’s the second time he’s tasted me. It’s obscene yet fascinating at the same time.

He steps to the side. “Don’t move your hands.”

I twist my fingers in the bedding above my head just as the air whistles behind me. A fiery thwack lands across my ass, and I can’t stop my hand from jerking back to rub the pain.

But his mouth is already there, sealed over the stabbing heat, sucking and licking. He grabs my wrist, pinning it to the mattress as his lips transform the hurt into something else completely. The sweep of his tongue chases away the sting, leaving a drugging kind of tingle across my skin.

Maybe it’s because he spent so much time touching me first, suspending me in a state of over-stimulation, but I don’t cower as he stands to swing again. My body is already buzzing like an addict. I want more.

Except he doesn’t strike. He moves away from the bed with determined strides and disappears within the closet. What the hell?

A second later, he emerges with a black duffel bag and unzips it on the bed beside my head. Leather cuffs drop on the mattress, followed by nylon straps.

My heart bangs so loudly it could drown out an orchestra. “Wh—what is that for?”

He unwinds the straps, squatting as he attaches them to the bed frame. “If you had moved your hand a second sooner, the belt would’ve sliced your fingers. Maybe even broken them. We’re going to do this without endangering your piano career.”

Says the man who punches walls.

I lift up on elbows and point at his damaged knuckles. “When is your next symphony performance?”

“Two weeks.” He stretches his swollen hand then pats the edge of the bed. “Arms here.”

“You’re going to tie me down?”

“I’m going to protect you.” He opens the first leather cuff. “This or your safe word. Make a decision.”

I imagine myself in those restraints, trapped and unable to escape as he belts my ass, kisses it better, and makes me the center of his universe. He’s not forcing me. He’s empowering me with a choice, an offer to take me somewhere exciting when no one else has ever bothered to care.

I rest my cheek against the mattress and extend my arms above my head.

“Your trust is intoxicating.” His hands are suddenly on my face, angling my head as his mouth crashes against mine.

I melt beneath the demand of his lips. This kiss is harder than its predecessors, hungrier and more lethal, his tongue looping with mine and his strong jaw scratching my skin in a delicious burn.

He breaks the kiss and returns to the cuffs, connecting them to the straps and locking them around my wrists. His fingers move expertly over the buckles and latches.

How many times has he done this? With how many women?

With my history, I’m in no position to be jealous, but it doesn’t stop the clawing ache in my gut.

The touch of his hands pulls me from my thoughts. He’s here with me, trailing goosebumps across my arms as he secures them in the restraints.

That done, he moves to stand behind me, hands on my hips and tugging my ass against his thighs. The straps strain with the movement, the manacles holding my arms above my head.

But I don’t feel trapped or held down. I feel anchored. To him.

The folded belt swings in my periphery right before a new sting inflames the underside of my ass. He teases the welt with feathery touches, and his lips join in, kissing and soothing the lingering pain. Then he swings again.