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6
WHITNEY
“Two vodka tonics,” Ilya says to the waitress who approaches us.
From the thigh-high leather boots to the high waisted booty shorts and leather bra, topped with a high and tight ponytail, I’m going to guess she’s dressed as a dominatrix. At least, that’s how I would picture one. She turns and strides away like a model down the catwalk, her hips swinging provocatively, and I watch her with fascination. Ironically, I can see a lot of my own style in her wardrobe–the dark eye makeup, the leather–but I’ve never worn my pants that far up my ass before. It’s no wonder Ilya would want to come to a place like this. If I were into girls, she’d be pure eye candy.
But when I turn to face Ilya, he’s watching me closely, amusement playing at the corners of his lips once more. I’m starting to get the impression that half of my appeal to him is watching my reaction as I take in his world for the first time.
“You would wear her clothes better,” he observes in a deep murmur that takes my breath away. “Perhaps I will have to get you an outfit like that someday.”
Heat blossoms in my cheeks even as a tingling excitement comes to life between my legs. Something about the way his eyes consume me sets my skin on fire.
Silence lingers between us for a moment before our server brings two clear, bubbly drinks garnished with a lime and sets them before us. Ilya waits until she’s gone before he speaks again, and I take a generous gulp of my vodka tonic as he cuts to the chase.
“As your Dom, I will create roles for each of us. Some I will use multiple times, others only once. It will be your job to play your role without question. Anything I tell you to do, you must. If you don’t. I will punish you.”
I swallow hard, my eyes growing larger. “Punish?”
A devilish smile spreads across Ilya’s face. “Sexually.”
“Will it… hurt?” I hate how weak my voice sounds, but I can’t seem to catch my breath.
“Only as much as you can handle.”
A cold fear trickles down my spine, raising goosebumps at his words.
“During our first few months, you will use the code words green, yellow, or red when I do something that causes you pain.”
“Like traffic lights.”
“Exactly. That will help me better understand your pain tolerance along with what you find pleasurable.” Ilya’s eyes flicker with excitement.
I don’t see how pain could possibly offer me pleasure, but I don’t say as much. Now doesn’t seem like the appropriate time to argue.
“If I do anything that you need me to stop, say ‘safe.’”
I snort. “Like in tag?”
Ilya raises his eyebrow in warning, and I press my lips together.
“As in your safe word. If you come up with one you would prefer, that’s fine, but you have to tell me what it is ahead of time. ‘Stop’ and ‘don’t’ won’t work, as I assure you, you’ll be begging me to stop at some point only to find you didn’t mean it.”
I can’t help myself as a giggle erupts from my chest like a volcano. And as soon as the sound escapes my lips, I know it was a mistake. Ilya’s face darkens, and for the first time, I can see just how intimidating it would be to get on his bad side. Clapping my hand over my mouth, I rein in my hysteria.
“Sorry. I’m just nervous,” I mutter once I have myself under control once more.
Ilya’s face softens ever so slightly. “These are precautions to ensure your safety and pleasure, Whitney. You need to know them now so I don’t push things too far when you’re in a vulnerable state and I might interpret your words or actions as part of the scene.”
I nod as the gravity of his explanation settles on me, and my stomach tightens. The sound of my name on his lips is almost a caress, one I sense he rarely offers his women.
“Finally, if you can’t speak but you need me to stop, snap your fingers three times.”
Oh, holy fuck. What might he do to me that would make it so I can’t speak?
“Giving your body over to me means that you grant me access to whatever part of you I want. Your mouth,” he murmurs, reaching across the table to run the pad of his thumb across my lips. “Your pussy.” His eyes trail down my body to the space between my legs that’s hidden beneath the table. “Your ass.” His eyes flick back up to mine, and I swallow hard. “We can take it slow at first,” he adds as he seems to read the panic written all over my face.
“How slow?” I breathe, my heart stuttering painfully.
