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“For what? You used your safe word exactly as you should have. Although I hate that my misjudgment made you need it.”
“But I ruined the game.”
“Not at all. You just added two more minutes to the punishment column, so in my mind you just made it better.” His wolfish grin makes me smile.
“So we can keep playing?”
“Do you want to?”
I nod. “Yes, please.”
He tweaks my nipple. “That’s ‘Yes, please, sir.’”
“Yes. Please, sir.” Why does calling him “sir” make my stomach flop?
“Good girl. But I want you to know here,” he places his hand between my breasts, “that I will not do anything to physically hurt you, at least not in a way that doesn’t bring you pleasure. Okay?”
I’d trust Noah Payne with my life. Trusting him with my body is a no-brainer. “Okay.”
He gives me a reproving look.
“Yes, sir,” I add quickly.
With a kiss, he slips the blindfold back over my eyes, and this time when he draws the chopstick over my skin, I can relax into the sharp scrape as it twists into pleasure.
Moments later, I hear the clatter of the chopstick being tossed onto the nightstand, and something rough grazes my nipples. I inhale sharply at the sensation. Constricted by the string tied around them, my nipples feel engorged and more sensitive than ever, and the rough abrasion is disconcerting. I try to squirm away, but I’m obviously not going anywhere.
Noah’s chuckle is dark. “Do you like that, baby?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“What is it?”
The bristles scrape across again, and I whimper. “Some kind of brush. But not a soft one.”
“A toothbrush,” he confirms. “I’ll give you that one.” When it feels like my poor nipples have been chafed enough, he brushes downward, guiding the bristles over my stomach and pelvis and to my sex, grazing my clit. I desperately try to close my legs, but they’re too firmly tied. I want to close them, but the restraints are holding me open, helpless to whatever he wants to do.
“Do you like that?” he asks, his voice seductive.
I shake my head wildly. “Too sensitive.”
He stops, and I wonder what’s coming next. The minutes tick by, and I start to fidget in silent anticipation.
“I like you like this.” His voice is a low guttural rasp. “Stripped and wet and anxiously waiting for whatever I’m going to do to you next.”
The next object he trails across my torso is more substantial than the feather or floss. It’s thick, heavy, and smooth. My mind struggles to identify whatever it is that is caressing my skin, but as each sensation piles on top of the other, my ability to think grows dimmer.
“Any guesses?”
He trails it right over my slit, and I shake my head as I try to lift my hips to him. He chuckles.
“It’s an object with many, many uses, especially when it comes to kink. It can bind. It can be both a collar and a leash…” He encircles my throat with it, just tight enough and long enough that I’m reminded of the contrast between my vulnerability and his power, and then with a swish, he whisks it away. “An instrument of punishment, pain, or pleasure. Or all of the above.”
Light licks kiss the sides of my breasts and across my abdomen, and hot sparks of pleasure blaze across my skin.
“Um, uh, rope?” My brain has left the building. All that’s left is a deep, dark, hazy need.
He flicks the end against my inner thigh, and I wince and try to close my legs, even though it didn’t hurt that much. More of a light sting that quickly morphs into a delicious little burn that translates to a comparable sear of heat through my belly.
