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Natural light floods the space from a tall window and a skylight. A circle of furniture marks the center of the space. Comfortable, with throw pillows and soft blankets. Side tables tucked up next to them. Two alcoves hold built-in bars, one for coffee, one for alcohol.
“A gallery,” Daphne says softly. “Oh my god, Emerson.”
It’s filled with her pieces. Only hers. There are other pieces in the house, of course, but I had the art that used to be here moved to another room.
I only wanted her work in my favorite gallery. The side walls have become displays for the oceans of her soul. Salt spray and sweet darkness emanate from them, dragging their fingers down my cheek, but the bigger source of heat and wonder is at my side.
“It’s missing something,” I muse.
Daphne has already discovered what it is. Her wide, dark eyes stare at the tall wall at the opposite end of the room, where there is one large frame hung on the wall.
The frame is massive. Person-sized. And it can bear weight. I tested it early this morning before I left to surf, just to be absolutely sure.
A person could stand in it. They would be within my reach if they did.
Her breathing quickens. The color in her cheeks flames red, but she doesn’t speak. Just like a good little painter. A good little painting.
“This way.” We move, and it’s not me leading Daphne anymore. It’s me carrying a piece of art across the gallery. Her breath hitches with every step.
At the frame her eyes flick over it. The only difference between this and the ones that hold paintings are the hooks mounted into it. Daphne parts her lips, but instead of saying my name she just looks up at me. Fear and trust shine in her eyes, layered in with something else. Something dark and hopeful and filthy.
She wants this.
I want it so much that every muscle is tensed and engaged. My body is at war with itself. But this happens slowly. With care. The animal in me is not going to take over now.
I put my fingertips on her shoulders and turn her back to the wall. Daphne shivers, her chin dipping down, and I lift her onto the frame. She bites her lip as she tries to find her balance with her feet, but I steady her.
“I take care with valuable pieces,” I tell her, my hands on her waist, her eyes on mine. She gives me a little, breathless nod.
Fuck me.
I let none of my want for her show on my face. There are other things to attend to, like lifting her wrists above her head and tying the loop of the rope around a hook. When she’s balanced there, I step back.
Survey her.
And walk away.
Daphne gasps, but she doesn’t ask me where I’m going. I’m only out a minute to gather more rope.
She watches the rope as I come back. I can feel her staring down at me when I kneel in front of the frame and circle one of her ankles with my hand. There’s a convenient hook to bind her ankle to the lower corner. I repeat the process for her other ankle, spreading her thighs in the process.
I leave her again.
“No.” She struggles against the rope a little.
The last length of rope goes around her waist. It’s not strictly necessary. A showpiece, really. But I do give it some tension with the side hooks.
She’s spread out for me now, panting, and there’s nothing she can do about it.
I have never been interested in the kink clubs in the city. What they offer has never been worth leaving my house. But looking at her now, with her big, dark eyes pinned on mine…
Perhaps I would have visited if I knew Daphne Morelli would be there.
I watch her back.
This is much better than any club.
Daphne keeps her eyes on my face like I ordered her to do it. Part of her wanted this all along.
