Текст книги "The Gilded Chain"

Автор книги: Lauren Smith

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 9

With a sexy grin that made Callie’s body hum with delight, Wes returned to her and handed her the plates. “You fill these and I’ll pour some orange juice.”

She did as he said, and once she had two platefuls, she followed him through the doorway.

“This way. We can eat on the couch in the sitting room.”

Eat on the couch? He definitely didn’t strike her as that relaxed of a man. It amazed her how much he had changed in the last few days. Paris Wes was more calm, more playful and easygoing. She wondered how many women had seen this side of him. How many others had slept with his body wrapped around hers as they kissed? The idea made her nauseous, but she forced it out of her mind. She had to focus on the here and now, not on what he’d done before or what he might do after they’d gone their separate ways.

The living room was another elegant space with an L-shaped brown leather couch and a massive sixty-five-inch flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. It was Wes’s equivalent of what Fenn would have called a “man cave.” Wes set the two glasses of orange juice on the table and turned the TV on. Callie realized she was still covered in flour and she froze midway crouched over the couch. Wes grinned as though reading her mind.

“I should change before I ruin your sofa.” She set her plate down on the table, but Wes sat down on the couch and tugged her onto his lap.

“It’s fine. It’s just flour.” He feathered a kiss on her lips, still smiling as though something amused him greatly. “Françoise will clean it up.”

Callie curled her arms around his neck and gave him a light kiss, one full of affection and happiness. “Poor Françoise. I’ll have to apologize to her.”

Wes laughed and the hearty sound made her heart skip a few beats in delight. She loved his laugh. The sound was rare but rich and wonderful. It made her laugh, too.

“She won’t mind, I promise. She’ll be happy that I’ve used the kitchen for a change.”

Callie’s brows rose. “You don’t cook a lot?”

He shrugged. “No. I tend to eat out and meet clients at restaurants.”

“And what about your girlfriends?”

A frown marred his brows. “I don’t have girlfriends. I have momentary relationships and those women never come here.” He handed her a plate and a fork. “You are the first.” This admission was quiet and full of introspection.

Did he mean the first girlfriend or the first girl to come to his apartment? How could she ask him in a way that would reveal what he meant?

“Why don’t you have girlfriends?” It was the closest thing she could get to finding out answers. She lifted his plate from the table, handing it to him. He propped it on the couch next to them and took a few bites before replying, his tone a little cool.

“In my world, I pursue only limited relationships. I meet partners at BDSM clubs, temporary submissives, and we part ways at the end of the night. I’ve had more than one time where I have used the same submissive, but only inside the club.”

Callie swallowed and set her half-eaten omelet down.

“Then why am I here, Wes? If this isn’t your usual style, why change it for me? Do you think I need all this to be seduced? Is that it?” She was suddenly angry. Did he feel he had to play the romantic just to get her in bed? Was he really not so sweet and caring? Was the man she was starting to fall for just an act? That awful nausea was back with a vengeance and she swallowed an acidic taste in her mouth and slammed her plate down on the table, struggling to get off Wes’s lap.

He set his own plate aside and gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“You aren’t like other women. Yes, I want you and I’ll admit I’d do anything required to get you in my bed. But I won’t rush it. I won’t rush you.”

She didn’t understand. He’d made a bet to do just that. Thirty days to get her into his bed. Was this his way of backing out or changing his mind? Logically his words shouldn’t have hurt her, but she felt wounded all the same. Sure, she didn’t want to give into him and have meaningless sex and let him win their wager, but she did still want him to want her. Maybe her lack of experience was still bothering him.

“It’s because I’m a virgin. You think I need candles and romance. But you’re not a romantic. Anything you try to give me would be a lie. So just do it. Sleep with me. Scratch your itch and send me home.” The words she spat out were dripped with venom born of her wounds and he blinked, apparently startled.

“You think this is nothing but a quick fuck for me?” he growled, fury sparking in his gaze.

“Isn’t it? Wasn’t that the whole point of the bet we made?” she shot back, just as upset. Her chest was squeezing her heart so hard she was having trouble breathing.

“That’s it,” he snarled.

He shoved her onto her back on the couch and then flipped her over to her stomach. Only too late she realized she was flying across his lap, her bottom in the air. His hand came down hard on her ass. This was punishment. She was being punished!

She screeched and kicked, but he used one arm across the back of her knees to keep her legs down.

“Are you listening to me?” he demanded.

Smack!

It hurt, but it was more the sting of embarrassment that she hated than the edge of pain.

“Callie,” he snarled.

She clenched her fists, beating the leather of the couch. “Yes, damn it!” She lashed out.

“Do you really think I see you as a quick fuck?” he demanded. “Because you aren’t. If I have to redden your ass to drive that point home, I will. What’s between us isn’t as shallow as some bet we made. It’s always been more than that and don’t ever say otherwise again.” His warning was followed by two more slaps to her burning ass.

Tears of anger and shame leaked down her face. She hurt, but the hurt was deep inside and not as much on her skin. The pent-up anxiety, the confusion, the agony of losing Fenn seemed to pool like a deep well within her, dark waters running deep. But his blows had ruptured the stones of that well and now the emotions were pouring out and she couldn’t stop them. He turned her over and helped her sit up on his lap, then curled himself around her. One of his hands buried itself in her hair and he guided her head to rest in the crook of his neck.

“There’s more to this, Callie. More to you.” He stroked her hair, and she rested against his chest, her body shaking with the force of the emotions that drained out of her. All the tension leaked out of her and she finally stopped crying. She was empty. There was nothing left inside her, just a hollowness.

“I’m sorry. You aren’t used to my world, to me. I’m not used to yours. It’s going to take time. For now, I’m going to hold you, care for you, give you everything you need.”

Through the fog of her emptiness she remembered the romances she’d read with BDSM and those dominants who’d held their submissives after they’d been punished. Aftercare. He was giving her aftercare. As a submissive, she could ask whatever she wanted now, do whatever she wanted in this brief moment where she was in control again. All she wanted was to be cuddled and to curl into him like a newborn kitten. She’d be a strong, independent woman again in a little while. For now, she wanted to absorb his confidence and strength into herself, let it fill the emptiness inside her and make her strong enough to face the world again.

After a few deep breaths, where she inhaled his scent like her own personal drug, she knew she had to speak.

“What are we doing?” She buried her face against his chest, clinging to him, loving that he let her grasp him like he was the last thing on earth that she could hold on to. “We’re nothing alike. We’re a disaster waiting to happen.”

For a moment they clung to each other, suspended in time, just like that. Close, almost connected on a deeper level. His heartbeat was steady beneath her hand where it rested against his chest.

Thu-thump. Thu-thump. The beat was like her own, their pulses almost in sync.

“I’ve never met anyone like you, Callie. Never for a moment think you aren’t unique. I want you here with me. Not just in my bed.” He tugged gently on a loose strand of her hair, the act seeming to sooth him.

“Really? I thought this was all about the bet to sleep with me.” She was too afraid to believe she meant something to him. All she’d ever wanted from Fenn was to be loved, to mean something. But she hadn’t and it had nearly killed her. Yet…the idea of meaning something to Wes, it felt infinitely more powerful, more dangerous. She shivered at the thought. If this was Wes not in love, what would he be like when he did fall? It would be frightening as hell.

“You need an escape,” he explained. “I need contentment. You make me content. I hope that I help you escape. When I made the bet, I wanted to give you a reason to get over Fenn, and yes, I want desperately to take you to my bed, but I knew you needed time. So I gave you a fighting chance, a purpose to strengthen your resistance. If you won, you’d get a way to live your dreams at art school. Either way, I win, darling. And no matter what, you will still end up in my bed. It’s just a matter of when, not if.”

She winced at his belief that she would just jump into his bed, but he’d been right about her need to fight. The bet had made her feel strong, powerful, and the desire to win so she could have a shot at art school with a good recommendation had given her a determination. Now, though, the bet didn’t seem to matter, not when it came to sleeping with him because over the last several days she realized how much she wanted to be with him.

“How do we do this?” she asked. “Do you want me to be a submissive? Is that what you want to happen?” The idea frightened her. She didn’t want anyone controlling her life.

Wes breathed deeply and met her gaze. “Look at me. I want to see your eyes.” She stared back.

“If I told you to kneel at my feet in nothing but a collar and await my orders each day…” He spoke softly and the image he painted made her stomach clench in the worst way.

He nodded. “No. I can see that’s not something that would interest you.” He paused a beat, then continued. “If, after a day of doing whatever you wish, I capture you and tie you to my bed and torture you with pleasure at my command and mine alone…”

This time she couldn’t help it. Her body heated with awareness, and she wriggled in his hold. He didn’t release her or look away but continued.

“If I took a light flogger to your skin, warming it but never burning or stinging it, if I blindfolded you and kept you helpless and stimulated you to orgasm after orgasm, how would you feel?”

She started trembling all over again, every cell of her body aware of him and his words and desiring what he said to happen.

A slow smile touched his lips.

“Callie, your eyes are dilated and your cheeks are flushed. You are not a full-time submissive, but parts of you need domination and to be controlled, but only in the bedroom.”

When she parted her lips ready to protest, he silenced her with a fingertip. “It doesn’t mean you’re weak or that you have no power. It means the opposite. You are strong in your ability to trust me as a dominant to give you the pleasure you need. Someone like me can give it to you. We’ll start slow. Relationships between dominants and submissives must be built slowly and carefully if both parties wish to reach fulfillment. Do you understand?”

She nodded. It was a lot to take in, but she’d read BDSM romance novels and knew a little of what to expect. It was intimidating. Really intimidating.

“The most important part of doing this is setting limits. If I do anything that worries you or makes you feel too uncomfortable you say the word ‘yellow.’ That means we slow down and we talk about it. If you’re still not ready, then we stop. And if I’m ever doing something that truly frightens you, you say the word ‘red.’ That is an immediate stop. We don’t even have to talk about why it’s a limit for you.” He brushed a kiss over her lips and she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Red and yellow. She could handle that. She would have to trust that he would respect her decision if she had to use those words. It dawned on her then just how much trust she would have to give him in order for this to work.

“Today we’ll spend some time exploring Paris. Anything you want to see, we’ll see.” He kept stroking her, pressing soothing kisses on her skin that sent frissons of pleasure through her. In his arms she felt safe and secure, almost content herself.

“Did you have enough to eat?” He reached for her plate and her stomach grumbled in response.

“Thanks.” She took the plate and finished the last of her omelet and biscuits. Only after she was done did he eat the rest of his food and then he turned the TV to a news station. She shifted in his lap and her bottom singed with pain, but to her shock that zing of pain made her clit throb. Did pain turn her on?

Wes massaged her neck and leaned in to whisper in her ear.

“Pain and pleasure are often a fine line. That’s why it’s important to have safe words.”

A very fine line indeed.

After she set her plate down, she got off his lap. “I’ll go shower.” Her legs shook a little and her bottom burned from his spanking, but she wasn’t going to show any more weakness, not when she’d shown so much already. The sound of his soft chuckling didn’t help her self-esteem one bit as she left the room.

*  *  *

Wes watched Callie flee. She was always running and more often than not she was running from him. He’d pushed too far too fast again, but her words had drawn out a dominant’s anger in him. She thought she was a quick fuck and nothing more? It was an insult to both of them. He’d never worked so hard in his life to take his time with a woman because it was the right thing to do and she deserved it. It was as close to romantic as he got.

He leaned forward and covered his face with his hands and rubbed his eyes. For the first time in his life, he was feeling some measure of peace. Because of her. But there was so much more to it than that. He felt excited again, watching her fall in love with Paris as he had done all those years ago. The look on her face as she’d touched the sphinx, the way she’d handled Dimitri’s subtle flirts at Fouquet’s. She was coming into her own. A fierce, powerful artist who would take the world by storm if the right person guided her. And he was going to be that person.

A little chuckle escaped him as he bent to collect the plates. She had cooked for him. A little rustic meal of omelets and biscuits. In Paris, the land of fine cuisine. And it had rocked him to the core. To wake to the smell of something mouthwatering and to come downstairs and find her covered in flour and adorably fuckable. He had lost his mind. No woman he’d ever been with had cooked for him. It was always a chef or a restaurant.

The women he’d dated in the past had expected that of him, and likely didn’t know how to boil water themselves. But Callie had been cooking for years. She had to in order to feed two grown men working on the ranch. She was a fighter, his little cowgirl. And he planned to reward her for her sweetness. That simple act had meant so much more to him than he’d ever let on. And it turned him on, too. Bad. He’d come in his jeans just from dry-humping her sweet luscious ass. That had been a first for him.

There hadn’t been a moment in his life since he’d left high school when he hadn’t had total control over his body’s responses around a woman. Living in the BDSM lifestyle had taught him how to use that control to bring a submissive to pleasure. If a dominant reached his fulfillment before his submissive because he had no control it hurt the sub. Subs deserved to have a dominant who had control.

Until this morning he’d never lost control with a sub before. But Callie was a firecracker in his hands. Kissing her was like celebrating the Fourth of July. Burning beautiful heat and passion. She set him ablaze with her responses to him. And there was so much she could still learn. Once she opened herself up to him fully, there would be no stopping either of them from embracing the greatest heights of pleasure.

Walking back to the messy kitchen made him smile and shake his head. He rinsed the plates and then scribbled a note for Françoise, apologizing for the mess. Then he headed upstairs to shower himself. He had a big day planned for Callie and he didn’t want to waste any more time.

Chapter 10

The neighborhood of Montmartre was a place of colors and living dreams. Topped by the Byzantine-style white domes of the Sacré-Coeur, the Sacred Heart Basilica, the cathedral felt like a holy place both of the spirit and the heart. Artists were everywhere, their easels set up along the streets, their bohemian little stands full of life as they courted the tourists who flocked to the center of Paris’s art district.

Callie stood next to Wes, taking in the main square, the Place du Tertre.

“Did you know that this square was a famous haunt of the artist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec?” Wes waved at the eclectic mix of tourists and artists. It was easy to picture an artist haunting this place for inspiration.

“It’s amazing.” She wanted to study all of the sketches and the portraits around her.

“It’s a bit busy with the bourgeois bohemian.”

“What’s that?”

Wes laughed. “Think of it as the French word for hipsters.”

“Really?” She laughed, too.

“Yes. But this is your first time in Paris and you have to experience it. Especially from an artist’s perspective.” He curled his arm around her waist and guided her to the nearest row of artists.

Callie breathed in the air, which smelled of chalk dust. Wes had stayed close to her ever since they had left the apartment. He had actually relaxed in jeans and a light sweater, as though finally at ease enough to leave behind the suits. His dark masculine scent was heady and addictive.

They halted at the front row of artists and Wes spun her to face him, a possessive gleam in his eyes.

“You are getting your portrait done,” he announced. “It’s a rite of passage.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and they walked down the row of artists.

Wes paused behind each artist, examining their styles and examples of past works intently. He was in his element, like last night when he’d bent over the Sargent and examined its details for Dimitri. He was focused on the art, and she was focused on him. That itching in her right hand, the need to sketch, to channel that creative pulse which was humming like rich wine in her veins. She wanted to draw Wes, to put his likeness on paper, to own a part of him, how she saw him, in whatever small way she could. The temporary madness born of mutual passion would pass someday and they’d go their separate ways, but she knew now that he would be her first lover and she never wanted to forget him.

Artist after artist, Wes wasn’t satisfied until he peered over the shoulder of the last man sketching at the end of the row. He was a man in his midforties, a pair of slender glasses resting on the bridge of his thin nose. His brown eyes studied Wes right back with the clarity reserved only to artists and the lovers of art.

“Monsieur, je voudrais un portrait de la jeune dame.”

The man nodded. “Bien sûr. Ça coûte soixante-dix euros.”

“Seventy euros?” Callie gasped. “Wes, that’s way too expensive for a street portrait.” She tugged at his sleeve, but Wes nudged her toward the small wooden stool.

“He’s the best. I want only the best.”

Callie sighed, seeing that an argument wouldn’t get her anywhere. Wes played with her hair, settling it in a particular way over her shoulders that seemed to please him. He and the artist shared a knowing look and then the man lifted his hand in a universal gesture she understood and she responded by lifting her chin an inch and tilting her head to one side.

Over the next half hour the man worked at a steady pace with Wes directly behind him, observing the artist’s progress. The serious expression on Wes’s face made her feel a little silly and she couldn’t stop it when she started to giggle.

“What?” Wes glanced around, as if expecting to discover the obvious source of amusement.

“I’m sorry,” she said half giggling, half laughing. “You look so serious. Smile or something, otherwise I’ll keep laughing.”

Wes’s solemn expression softened and a glint of wicked humor filled his gaze.

“Oh, I know plenty of ways to stop your laughing. Want to hear?” The scorching burn of his gaze showed her just how serious he was. Her breath caught in her throat and heat flooded her face.

“C’est fini, monsieur.” The artist sat back, resting his hands on his charcoal-stained pants.

“Bon, c’est magnifique.” Wes’s gaze was rapt as he studied the sketch.

“Can I see?” She leaped up from the stool and hurried around the tall easel so she could see what the man had done.

Her heart stopped. It was only when Wes caught hold of her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and nuzzling her temple as they stared at the sketch together, that her heart finally jolted back into a steady beat.

The piece was done on gray paper. The man had used white charcoal to accent her cheeks and the flash in her eyes. He’d used the paper’s darker color to let the shadows form rosy blushing cheeks and deepen the fall of her hair interspersed with light. It was done entirely in shadows of charcoal, yet rendered with such precision that she felt as though she was staring in a mirror. Yet what held her fascinated was the expression on her face he had somehow managed to capture. Slightly parted lips, slumberous eyes, a woman in the midst of lovemaking—that was how she appeared.

“He captured it,” Wes murmured in her ear. “The most sensual expression I’ve ever seen. What were you thinking about, I wonder?” He asked the question almost rhetorically.

“Ice cream. I was thinking about ice cream.”

He laughed. The vibration of his body behind hers was wonderful.

“You’ve spent way too much time around my sister. What were you really thinking about?”

The natural command in his tone was not loud but had just as much of an influence over her. She had to answer. There was no denying him what he wanted.

“You.” The single word was breathless and he went rigid behind her, his warm breath making her shiver.

“You know how to torture a man, Callie.” The warning was clear. From the way he pressed hard against her and pushed his fingers into her, she knew he was on the verge of losing control.

The artist, with his back to them, sprayed a finishing spray on the charcoal to protect it from smears. Then he placed a sheet of wax paper over it and rolled it up and slid it into a white cardboard tube.

Wes finally released her and pulled out a thick wad of money in a silver money clip and slipped seventy euros into the artist’s hand.

“Merci, monsieur. Vous avez une belle femme. Vous êtes un homme chanceux.”

“Je sais. C’est la chance en effet.” Wes shook the artist’s hand.

“What did he say?” Callie asked as they continued their walk along the street.

“He said you were beautiful.”

Callie raised one eyebrow. “I understood that part. What did he say after that?”

Wes wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “He said I was a lucky man.” His lips curved into a body-melting smile. “And I agreed with him.”

Her heart fluttered a little with nervousness but she realized it was a happy fluttering. She’d never really felt that way before. With Fenn she was either happy or nervous. Never a mixture of both. This was new…and a little startling, but she liked how it felt. There was a warm buzz in her heart when she looked at Wes and let him cradle her against his side.

Yes…this was…nice. She liked nice.

“What’s next? The Louvre or the Eiffel Tower?” he asked.

She was about to respond when she caught sight of a small corner shop with a dozen birdcages hanging just inside the shop window. An olive-skinned man with a colorful shirt was tending to the cages. The birds in the cages were colorful and chirping excitedly. Something about the sight enthralled Callie. The man seemed to notice her fascination and waved a hand for Callie to come closer for a better look.

“Callie, he’s one of many Paris gypsies,” Wes said, but he followed her as she crossed the street to get a closer look at the little shop full of birds. She walked through the open door and came over to the birdcages.

“Oh, Wes, they’re beautiful. Look.” She shot him an excited smile before gazing at the nearest cage, which had a pair of lovebirds. Their warm tropical-colored feathers and little curved beaks made them irresistible. Hopping from wooden bar to wooden bar in their cages, they fluttered and chirped, moving as a pair, always seemingly aware of each other. Like two sides of a perfect coin. Her heart squeezed in her chest as she watched them. Their sweet notes, the little coos and chirps, and the trills of their songs were enchanting.

“You like my birds?” The man’s voice was heavily accented but he spoke English well.

Callie couldn’t resist nodding eagerly and slipping one finger between the bars. One of the lovebirds gave a delicate exploring peck at her finger. The sensation tickled and she laughed.

“They’re wonderful,” Callie said. “Simply wonderful.”

“Then they are yours.” The man reached up to unhook the cage.

“Oh no! I couldn’t, but thank you,” Callie said and sighed. There was no way she could bring the birds home to Colorado.

Wes was watching her, a curious expression on his face. He held out a handful of euros and placed them in the man’s palm.

“Thank you, Monsieur. We will take the birds.” He helped her remove the cage from its hook on the stand and he handed it to Callie, who took it, mouth gaping open. The man had just bought her a pair of lovebirds in Paris. He must have written the book on seduction.

“Wes—”

“You want them. I want you to have them,” he answered simply.

The gypsy man’s dark eyes glinted with mischief and an ancient knowing.

“Mates for life.” The gypsy patted her hand with a secretive smile. Callie grinned and carried the birdcage outside. When she glanced behind her she saw Wes was still inside.

He lingered in the shop a moment longer, studying the jewelry and other odds and ends the gypsy was selling. A basket of bangle bracelets caught his eye. They were gold on the inside but the outside was dark blue with golden chain links painted into the blue. A little grin curved his lips. He slipped the gypsy a few euros to buy the bracelets, and then exited the shop. He caught up with Callie, who was only a few feet away, still focused on the lovebirds.

“Here.” He slipped one bangle on each of her wrists. “There, those look beautiful against your skin.” He stroked her flesh where it met the metal of the bangles.

Callie lifted one hand up to study the gilded bracelet on her right wrist, admiring the painted chain links. Something inside her shivered at the thought of Wes and chains together in the same sentence. They were just bracelets, yet the way he’d put them on her, the possessive gleam in his eyes. Heat blossomed in the pit of her belly and farther down. Was this a prelude to something else, a darker hint of what Wes wished to do to her? There was so much about him and his desires that were still a mystery to her.

“Let me call Michel. He’ll take the birds back to the apartment and then take us to the Eiffel Tower.”

Callie picked up the cage and followed him as he began to walk out of Montmartre to an easier spot for the car to pick them up.

“I can’t believe you just bought me birds,” she said. She had never made an impulsive buy in her life, except maybe one black bra that she never wore because it didn’t belong on the ranch and she was always working.

Wes laughed. “If you had seen your face when you looked at those birds you would have bought them, too.”

She tugged his sleeve, forcing him to stop. “Wes, you can’t keep buying me everything I want.”

“Why not?” He stroked the cardboard tube that held her portrait and focused a pensive stare on her.

“What?” His question completely confused her.

“Why can’t I buy you everything you want?” His question came out as a challenge and for a second Callie just stared at him. She hadn’t thought that far ahead about the point she was trying to make in this outlandish discussion.

“Because…because I don’t deserve it. I like to pay my own way and if I can’t afford it then I don’t buy it.”

Wes’s lips slid into a sinful smile. “Darling, you deserve a lot more than you know. And I can do whatever I want with my money. If I want to buy a private island just for you, then I will.”

Callie crossed her arms over her chest and glowered. “I wouldn’t go to that island.”

For some reason he burst out laughing. “Oh, you’d go. I’d carry you there over my shoulder if necessary.”

“You’d have to catch me first,” Callie muttered.

Her words lit a feral spark in his eyes that made her worried and aroused at the same time.

“Someday you and I will play a capture game. Do you know what that is?”

Callie’s throat was suddenly dry and she shook her head.

Wes cupped her chin, then slid his fingers along the column of her throat, not even attempting to hide the blazing hunger in his eyes.

“A capture game is where I let you loose in a controlled space. You have to run from me, but when I catch you…I can do anything to you, except cross your hard limits.”

Hard limits. She knew what that was. Anything she absolutely would not do. At least that was how hard limits were discussed in the novels she’d read. Maybe she should have Wes explain for clarity’s sake.

“What are hard limits?” She inwardly cringed at how soft and husky her voice was. She was still mad at him for buying everything for her. They’d have to return to that subject soon.

“Hard limits are what a submissive absolutely refuses to do. These are serious things that are well beyond ‘the red zone’ we discussed. You will need to think about what your limits are. Things that aren’t just uncomfortable, but unthinkable. Things that terrify you to the point of panic where you can’t think. I never want you scared. Nervous anticipation is different and can be very rewarding later when you finally come apart in my arms.” He continued to stroke her throat.