Chapter Fifteen
“Would you be offended if I didn’t want to talk?”
It’s ten thirty-five on Friday, and we’re in Cris’s car on the way out of the airport.
“Are you asking to break our contract?”
“We’ll have the ride there?” Desperation makes my throat tight, and my plea comes out as a squeak.
“I’m teasing, Kit.” His hand lifts from the steering wheel. I think he might put his arm around me or run a hand through my hair. Instead, he fiddles with the volume dial without actually changing the volume. He was going to touch me. I wish he had. I’m aching for his hands on me. “We’ll do whatever you want.”
“I need to shut my brain off. I need you to be strict with me. More than usual. Please.”
Please have this in you, Cris, please. Not that he hasn’t shown himself capable, but it’s alternated with periods of sweetness—and sweetness leaves too much room for my mind to wander. No, sustained and harsh control will be required to wipe my mind of what’s churning there. These are the only times I miss Hunter. He could keep my head in the dark for days at a time, make me forget about anything for as long as he wanted me to, for as long as I needed him to. But those weren’t always the same. Not knowing the difference…that was the unfortunate thing about Hunter.
* * *
We race through the formalities, and ten minutes after we’ve arrived, I’m on my knees in the studio, waiting for Cris to join me.
When the door finally opens and he strides through, he doesn’t acknowledge me. He heads over to the chest of drawers and rummages about, plucking things from the drawers and stowing them under the table. “Bathroom.”
He hasn’t told me to stand, so I crawl across the hardwood floor until I reach the tile, then sit back on my heels. Cris isn’t big on crawling—or anything dehumanizing, really. I’ve always liked that about him, but to be a little less than human right now would be welcome. I don’t have to be smarter than everyone else. I don’t have to fix everything. I don’t have to be responsible even for myself because he’s going to do it for me.
As if he’s read my mind, he snaps out another command. “Shower.”
Still on my knees, I make my way to the other side of the door. The tile is harder on my joints than the wood, and I welcome the coarseness of the grout against my skin. This is going to hurt in a long, drawn-out way.
He washes me, more thorough than ever, and has me put my elbows and forehead to the floor as well, driving my mind into darkness with roaming, slick fingers, pressing, probing, pinching, teasing. He doesn’t talk to me while he does it. I’m not a person to be chatted with; I’m an object to be prepared and then enjoyed. My elbows and knees are aching, but I don’t complain. If he wants me to suffer, I’ll suffer because it’s not for me to say otherwise. I’ve handed myself over to him, and I’m his to do with as he pleases. Knowing I’m hurting, hurting for him, will please him.
By the time he’s finished, I’m so wet from his attentions I don’t think he’ll be able to dry me off no matter how many fluffy towels he throws at the problem, but he only bothers with a cursory dry before ordering me to crawl back into the studio and stand facing the table. I’ve been on my hands and knees for so long that the ache has settled into an almost comfortable numbness. With the movement, the hurt comes alive again, and pain radiates up my limbs, turning into a less painful but no less intense sensation in my breasts, my pelvis. Yes. This is what I wanted.
He wraps cuffs around my wrists and ankles before draping a towel over the short end of the wood surface. Urging me forward until my hipbones press against the edge, he bends me over and clips my wrists to anchor points at the far side before nudging my ankles apart and tethering them to the legs of the table.
“Better, but not good enough. Head up, eyes closed.”
A blindfold is slipped over my eyes, a serious one of high quality that does a thorough job of blocking my sight. When it’s fastened snugly, I’m about to lay my head back down on the table when he scolds me.
“Ah, not done yet. Open your mouth.”
A harsh breath escapes my lips. Cris hasn’t gagged me before, though it’s been greenlit in our contract since the beginning. He was saving it for a special occasion, and I’m glad. I’m no stranger to the sensation—Hunter used to gag me all the time—but not having experienced it recently gives it more weight, makes it a bigger surrender. As he presses the ball between my teeth and tightens the strap at my neck, I groan in both relief and anticipation.
His hand rests between my shoulder blades as he leans down. “Show me your safeword.”
Right. Before I drift any further into no-man’s land, I should remember there’s an off switch. I uncurl my fingers from the palm of my hand and hit the table three times so hard it stings.
“Good girl.” He withdraws once more, and I feel the absence of his touch keenly. I know better than to put my head down after I’ve been chastised, but I’m surprised when he slips some earbuds into my ears. Three years ago, this wouldn’t have made me blink, but now the extra layer of isolation is going to be unnerving. “Head down.”
It’s not uncomfortable, except for the unbearable horniness. I fidget, trying to find a way to ease this ache. There’s a hard smack to my ass with a paddle, a stern, “Still”—and then music floods my ears, a pressing, consuming beat.
“You can still hear me if I want you to.”
I whimper in acknowledgment and sink into the fantasy world he’s carefully constructed for me, where I’m not responsible for anything at all.
Cris works me over. Not light slaps—blows that land in solid thuds, not stinging and evenly paced. His hand is heavy, calling my attention. By the time he switches to the paddle, he’s so thoroughly claimed my head I couldn’t think of anything else if I tried.
The song loops so many times it’s white noise, background for the fire being stoked on my ass. He works at me until my normally reliable timekeeping skills have been knocked askew by the sound paddling on my heated backside. His careful attentions put me under, but when he lets up for a breath, I moan around my gag.
He soothes me with a hand splayed across my lower back, assuring me he’s not done yet. He strokes my warmed cheeks with his other hand, and I whimper under his attentions and squeal when he squeezes. The isolation of my senses makes every physical feeling ten times as powerful. His rough fingers start to roam, and he finds me soaking wet and slick as he strokes his fingers first inside me, then parts my folds to seek my throbbing clit. When he pinches and tugs, my whole world shrinks to a pinpoint of pleasure, and I’m about to come when there’s a stinging swat to my ass. He’s still got the damn paddle, and I’m not supposed to come yet.
I keen in desperation and am met with another swat of the paddle. If he thinks another impact is going to extinguish the fire he’s kindled, he’s wrong. He knows me, though. Knows my body. Stirring the embers is precisely what he has in mind. He walks this precipitous sensual tightrope, keeping me on the desperate edge between blows and fondling, and when he withdraws, I cry out in despair of ever being able to come. I take out my frustrations by tugging at my firmly tethered wrists.
“Settle down and be a good girl, or I swear I’ll keep this up all night long.”
He would, too—devious, tireless, maddening, and excruciatingly talented man. I take a deep breath and settle. I’m calling up reserves I haven’t needed for a long time, and it’s taking all the brainpower I have left. When I’ve managed to still myself into a quiet ball of barely harnessed desire, he strokes my clit and then a cool drip of something trickles down the cleft of my behind. Please be lube. Please.
At first, he spreads my cheeks. The idea of him watching me, studying me, drives me wild and sends my core into a clenching mass of craving. If I don’t get something—anything—inside me soon, I’m going to die. Thankfully I feel the cool smoothness of a plug at my ass, and I relax and press back in invitation. Please. Please.
He works it in slowly. It’s bigger than the ones he’s used before—not unbearable, but substantial enough I have to concentrate to stay open and not clench in panic. I breathe deeply and remind myself he’s never hurt me. When the plug slides home, I groan in relief. He presses it a few times, twists, pulls, and presses again, forcing grunts from me and whining pleas. Jesus, Cris, please.
His hands find my hips, digging into cheeks still smoldering and raw. He presses into me slowly, letting my body correct for the intense sensation of double penetration. Gliding in and out, he blazes a trail, and when he’s thoroughly cleared it, he pumps at me hard. I’m hanging on by a thread and about to expire, permission or no.
Then there’s the sweetest sound in the world, accompanied by a tweak to my over-sensitized clit: “Come for me, pet. Now.”
* * *
By the time I wake up on Sunday morning, Cris has so thoroughly extinguished my anxiety that my internal spring is sagging. When I open my eyes to the familiar sight of him by my bed, I don’t immediately sink into sub mode. I drop my gaze nonetheless.
“Good morning, pet.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Sleep well?”
“Yes, sir, thank you.”
I open my mouth to say… I don’t know what. I’ve never asked for this before.
“Something you wanted to say?”
“Yes, sir. Would you mind…” Hard swallow, much blinking. “Would you mind if we called this a little early?”
“Is everything okay, Kit? Do you need to leave?” The concern in his voice is palpable. I picture the worry lines on his face, and it warms me.
“No, I…I’m good. Everything’s fine. I thought, since we didn’t get the chance on Friday, if you wanted, we could…” Goddammit, India, spit it out. “We could talk before I have to go.”
My eyes flicker to his to see how this is being received. Relief and amusement flood his face.
“If I want?” His question comes with a smirk and a raise of his brow.
I drop my gaze again. “Yes, sir.”
“But you don’t care either way?”
His gentle mocking makes me want to scowl, but I can play, too, Cris. Better than you can.
“Whatever pleases you, sir.”
My deadpan sass is met by silence. Is he going to take me up on my offer?
Lucky for me, Cris is more mature and much less stubborn than I am and doesn’t play games, as he said. He sits on my bed and runs his hand through my hair and over my bare back, eliciting a sigh. “I’d like that. I’ll see you in the main house.”
He presses a kiss to my cheek before he leaves and pleasure flushes through my veins. I like when he’s affectionate with India, though I don’t dare show it. Save it for Kit; she’s allowed to accept it unconditionally.
* * *
When I walk into the main house half an hour later in a halter top and shorts, I find Cris in his usual spot, arm slung over the back of the couch, book in hand. Everything Is Illuminated. I’d recommended it last time I was here. I keep a running list of books Cris should read in my head. I’m sure I forget some, but there’s no way I’m writing it down.
I sit close and don’t fight him when his hand slips down to rest on my shoulder. I read along with him—faster, really—until he’s done with the chapter. He marks his page, shuts the book, and puts it to one side. After a beat, he inhales and strokes my shoulder with his thumb.
“I was thinking…”
My body goes rigid, my head wary. What’s this?
“…if it’s okay with you, that I wouldn’t call you Kit anymore. When we’re not playing.”
My eyes widen. That’s a big ask. “Why?”
“That’s not… It’s not you. I like your name. It feels more like you.”
I pull out from under his arm and tuck my legs up as indecision worms through me. “What do I get? If I let you…”
I can’t finish. If I let you say my name, if I let you in, if I give you that power over me? What could be a good enough insurance policy against the possibility of you ripping my life apart? He’s shown his hand too early, told me anything I wanted to know, and he’s got nothing left to offer.
His gaze is cool on mine. Cris is pretty good about rolling with my crazy, but this seems to be grating. It is childish, a bizarre brand of superstition, a verbal voodoo doll. How can a reasonable person offer a counter to that? Why would they want to? His eyes and brows drift skyward, possibly wondering the same thing.
“You could call me Crispin,” he offers. “It’s not the same, but no one’s ever called me that before. It’d be all yours.”
Always with a trick up his sleeve.
My lips part, and my breath quickens. “Crispin?”
A broad smile lights up his face. “Yeah. I like it. What do you think?”
I love it. I’ve loved his name since I saw it in type. Crispin—the perfect antidote to my no-h skepticism. Not the same, but precious. Mine alone.
More than once, I open my mouth to say yes. I must look like a fish out of water.
Cris thrusts out a hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Crispin.”
A slow smile peels over my lips. He’s the cutest. He makes things easy on me when he doesn’t have to. But he wants to because he likes me. So it’s with a gratitude I’ll never properly be able to express that I grit my teeth, put my hand in his, and shake. Firmly. “India.”
“India.” My name rolls off his lips as he savors the taste of those five little letters. This time, unlike on the phone, it’s far more pleasant tingle than creeping anxiety that comes over me. “Pleasure. Buy you a drink?”
My brows crease, and I laugh. “You don’t drink.”
“Right, I forgot. Make you an omelet?”
“Even better.”
“Omelet it is.”
Before he can push up from his seat, I lean over and kiss him. On the lips. I’m shocked by myself. I, India, haven’t kissed anyone since high school. And that’s what this feels like. An awkward, chaste, adorable kiss. I flush as I pull away. What the hell?
The look of sheer delight on Crispin’s (Crispin!) face makes me less embarrassed, but not enough that I don’t have to retreat to the bathroom to splash water on my heated face to wash the blush away.
I try to snip the ribbons of guilty pleasure wending through me as I pat my face dry, but the only thing my brain seems capable of is a singsong melody on loop: Crispin and India, sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…
I am in so much trouble.
When I come back out, instead of being hard at work in the kitchen, Cris—no, Crispin, I correct myself—is putting his cell back in his pocket and scrubbing a hand through his hair. He is not okay. Somehow, horribly, everything has changed in the time it took me to cool my burning cheeks.
“Kit—India. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go to Kona.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Probably, but my dad’s in the hospital. They’re running some tests.”
That doesn’t sound okay to me, but I don’t know anything about the situation. If Crispin’s not panicking, I’m not going to either. “Of course, you should go.”
“Will you come with me?”
I choke off the “no” rising in my throat. We never go anywhere, and that’s how I like it.
“To Kona?” I ask to buy myself some time.
“Yes.”
“Um, sure. There must be a coffee shop near the hospital. I’ll grab my Kindle, and we can go. Or should I—”
“I meant to the hospital.”
“And meet your parents?”
“Yeah.”
This time I can’t stop it. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t do parents.” I don’t do anyone. I don’t do friends, and I don’t do family. I didn’t meet Hunter’s parents nor did he meet my family. We were together from the time I was eighteen until three days before I turned twenty-five. Six years in his gracious home and behind the closed and padlocked doors of the kink community and nowhere else.
That hadn’t been my idea, but I’d agreed to it because that’s what Hunter had wanted and I wanted him. It didn’t occur to me then, but I’ve wondered since if he wasn’t trying to imprint his expectations without making them explicit: If you want more of me, there are certain things you’ll have to give up.
Whatever his intentions, it wasn’t always easy. Sometimes I’d wish for Hunter to be a regular boyfriend, someone who would take me to a movie, kiss me on a park bench, or be my date to my sister’s wedding. It would’ve been nice to be able to silence my mother when she berated me for the millionth time about why—despite my looks and my money and my smarts (in that order)—I couldn’t get a man to tolerate me. But for the most part, I was satisfied by what we had. Hunter had been a master of making deprivation feel like gratification.
Now Crispin wants me to meet his parents during some medical crisis? And tell them what about us? I don’t think so.
“Please?”
“Are you asking Kit or are you asking India?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does.”
If he’s asking India, the answer is an unqualified no. If he’s asking Kit, it’d be yes. I wouldn’t be happy about it, but I’d do it. His eyes are boring into me. I want to crawl under the coffee table, but I stand my ground.
“Then never mind. Get your things. I’ll have to drop you off at the airport on my way.”