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He lifts his hand. There’s a beat of silence and the breakfast bell rings out.
“The barn will be full in a moment,” he says.
Disappointed, I turn to go, but his arm shoots out and he grabs my wrist. I open my mouth, but before I can speak, he’s pulled me against his chest. His hand slides up my cheek and buries in my hair. He takes his hat off and bends, his mouth brushing mine.
My whole body tingles. I love kissing him, he’s so good at it.
And I can tell he knows it.
When he pulls back, I’m a panting mess. He presses his mouth to my forehead for a second and I’m so weak I can barely stand.
“Your cuffs are done,” he says. “I laid them by the bed.”
I stay still, not wanting to leave. He extracts me from his arms and turns me towards the house, giving me a little spank to get me going. I give him a look—which I’m careful to keep respectful—and he smiles. It’s tempered, but it’s real.
Back in the bedroom, I find the cuffs on the bedside table. Reverently, I lift them and run my fingertips over the embossed, dark brown leather. Over the center is a line of bluebells and above and below it run two rows of intricate braiding. At each end, where they come together, is half of the Sovereign Mountain emblem. I push the edges together to make it whole.
I know what it means.
His.
He’s so selfish and jealous—I feel it even though he never cracks and shows it with his face or words. He doesn’t have to, my presence here is proof enough.
I change into my slip and sit back on the bed to fasten the cuffs around my wrists. I’ve never had anything custom made for me before. The amount of care and attention to detail amazes me.
But what do they mean?
Are they just for sex? Just because he likes fucking women in restraints?
I thought things were going to be different after reading and signing the contract. I thought our relationship would be purely transactional. That he’d get what he wanted out of me in the bedroom and I’d be kept safe. That he wouldn’t step between me and danger or press kisses to my forehead in the barn doorway.
But here he is, putting cuffs made of bluebells around my wrists.
And he’s barely fucked me.
Apparently he’s not very good at sticking to the rules of his contract. I’m not either because I don’t understand when we’re playing and when we’re not. Sometimes he says something that jars me and I have to remind myself that he’s playing a part.
Or is he?
Whose words does he speak when he fucks me and tells me I belong to him? His or my Dom’s?
That night after dinner, he strips my clothes off and cuffs me to the headboard. My heart pounds as he takes a thin switch from the dresser and braces one knee on the edge of the bed.
“Let’s test what you can take,” he says.
He’s still dressed and I’m fully naked. My ankles cross and my toes curl, anticipating pain. I hear the hiss before I see it and pain sears over my nipples. Fuck, that wakes me up. My eyelids fly open and I cry out, my spine arcing.
“Good girl,” he says.
He doesn’t stop because I don’t safeword him. At first, the pain of the switch across my breasts makes me want to scream. But he gives me a strip of leather to bite down on and I keep it in, diving headfirst into being out of control. The pain numbs and leaves behind the sweetest burn I’ve ever felt.
It travels down my belly to my clit.
My brain disengages. All I can feel is the slow build in my clit, the slippery arousal between my thighs.
And the ceaseless sting of the blows across my breasts.
He stops and sets aside the switch. I’m so close, teetering on the edge of orgasm. My lashes flutter and he hears me whimper.
