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“You’d hate it,” he said. “You’d hate what I’m into.”
“I didn’t hate it last night.”
“I was careful with you last night.” He tilted my head back and brushed fingers across my temples and through my hair. “We have this rule at the club: never fuck with the vulnerable. We’re not allowed to hook up with women who are emotionally or physically complicated, women we might damage. We can’t even bring them into the space. It’s like an honor system.”
I tugged my chin from his fingers and looked away.
“I figured out why I like you,” he went on. “I figured out why I want you so much. It’s because you’re all on the surface. Your emotions are right there, plain as day, all the time. You don’t give a fuck about saying what you feel and being who you are. You have this open expression, this way of looking at me and at other people. And you dress however you want.”
“What’s wrong with the way I dress?”
His eyes glanced over the blue fur headband I wore. “I love the way you dress. I love the way that headband matches your eyes, but not your clothes.”
“These are my Sunday hangout clothes,” I said, pouting. “They’re not supposed to look hot and put together like your freaking designer suits.”
He held me against his chest, running his big hands up and down my back. “Just shut up for a minute, because I don’t know what to do with you. I don’t know what to do about what happened last night.”
“It’s okay with me,” I said, my voice muffled against his chest. “Your sadistic stuff. I work for Goodluck, which means I’m masochistic already.”
He didn’t laugh at my hilarious joke. “You don’t know anything about my sadistic stuff, Sparkles. We’ve had some intense sex, that’s all.”
“Well, what else do you like to do? What are you into?” I pushed away and looked up at him. “Let’s share. Bondage, spanking, floggers?”
“Hush. Look at me.”
I obeyed, trying to seem both sexy and submissive. “It turns me on when you order me around.”
“Does it? What if I don’t order? What if I just take, what if I just do?”
He took my arm and dragged me from the kitchen over to the couch. It happened so fast I didn’t resist. Next thing I knew I was draped over his lap, my arms trapped behind me as he yanked down my shorts and panties. I did resist then, flinching and fighting his grip, forgetting about the submissive thing as he bared my ass cheeks. He shoved my face into the cushion and made a shushing sound. “Let me be in charge for a moment. Give yourself over to a sadist. See how it feels.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked, turning my head.
“Whatever I want. Nothing fatal.” He smacked my ass, then squeezed it. A hot burn rose to the surface. It stung a lot for just a hand. I squirmed as he eased my cheeks apart, exposing all of me.All of me.I was almost relieved to be spanked again, a glancing blow that caught the sensitive underside of my ass.
I tried to be still, to submit, but my whole body tensed. I shuddered as he caressed me instead, his palm blazing a warm, firm path up my spine to my nape. He gripped the back of my hair, holding my head when I tried to hide my face.
“You asked what I’m into,” he said in a level, quiet voice. “I’m into tears and power trips. I’m into capriciously hurting you because it’s unfair, and because you’ll let me do it anyway. I’m into reducing you to a sex object, and sometimes sharing you with my friends. I’m into bruises and welts on a regular basis, marks you’ll wear like a uniform because I want you to. But I’m mostly into tears, Juliet, and tormenting you.”
I stared at the diffuse pattern of my couch’s upholstery, doing my best to stave off panic. He was right. My BDSM experience hadn’t prepared me for the deeply intense and ominous speech he’d just delivered.Hurting. Sharing. Bruising.
Tormenting.
“Say something,” he murmured when the silence strung out.
I shifted my head the scant inch his grip would allow. “I just…have some questions.”
“Ask them.”
I was still bent over his lap, a weak, surrendered, edge play novice trying to process what he wanted, and why, and how it might make me feel if I kept playing along.
“Is there any caring?” I asked. “I mean, do you want to hurt your partners out of disdain? Spite?”
“No.”
“You don’t hate the women you hurt? You’re not angry?”
He flipped me over and pushed me back against the armrest, his hand on my neck. My arms flailed out. I was getting anxious from being manipulated like a rag doll. His gaze roved over my face, then locked on my eyes.
