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“What do you like to do?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
“I like riding too,” he says slowly. “I like making money. I like fucking you. Palm out.”
I obey and he measures a cut out strip of leather around my wrist. He nods and I pull back.
“What do you want your safeword to be?” he asks abruptly.
Off guard, I stare at him, but I can’t think of a single word I’d feel comfortable shouting out during sex. I know a little bit about safewords, and I know they have to be something unusual. But I don’t want to pick something ridiculous.
“Um…any suggestions?” I ask.
“We can’t use red because you’re my redbird,” he says. “How about crimson?”
I nod. That feels different enough, but not embarrassing. “That’s good to me.”
“Have you been physically punished before?” he asks. “Do you have any places you don’t want me to touch like that?”
I shake my head, blushing. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Why were you scared of Clint? Did he hit you?”
The way he changes subjects gives me whiplash. I blink, shaking my head hard.
“No, he didn’t. He said I was lucky that he never put his hands on me and I think that was his way of threatening me. Reminding me he could hurt me if he wanted to.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why did he scare you?”
I take a quick breath and set the empty coffee cup aside. “I was worn down. I hated when he’d get angry because he’d shout and get in my space. Sometimes he’d grab my hair. He never hit me, but he made my life hell when I crossed him. I was just tired, and I did wonder sometimes if he would snap.”
He’s silent, the way he always is when I reveal something less than savory about my late husband. I realize that outside ofme, Clint and Gerard were barely civil. Friends, never. Business partners maybe, but there’s clearly no love lost between them.
“I’m glad he didn’t,” he says. “Hold your palm up.”
Timidly, I obey. He moves closer and I have to force myself not to clench my fist. His hand comes up and his rough fingertips trace over the lines by my thumb. His touch is light and it sends a shiver down my spine.
“You have calluses,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to work.”
“Why?” I frown.
He cocks his head. “You’re too pretty to be anything but a plaything.”
It’s not the most misogynist thing I’ve heard from a man out here in the male-dominated hills of Montana, but it still lifts my brows. Then I remember that it’s training month, and I can’t tell if this is him…or if this is my Dom.
I’m struggling with that part of the contract. When does it start and when does it end? Is this him or is this him in his role?
I swallow and my dry lips part. Truthfully, I don’t know how to play these games.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Sir.”
He growls, deep in his chest. His hand curls around the back of my neck and he pulls me in. His mouth contacts mine and my entire body lights up. Lava floods my veins and gathers deep in my pussy. Everything tingles, down to the soles of my feet.
He tastes so good that I follow his mouth when he pulls back. Hungry for more.
“That’s my girl,” he says. “You’re learning.”
My chest glows at the praise. So I guessed right. We are playing.
He sets the tools aside and pulls me close to the edge of the table. “Lean back on your elbows and spread your thighs.”
