Unrestrained, page 8
But did she want an idea? Sports tape? That seemed as sexual as Band-Aids. “An experiment in arousal with sports tape and dish washing? Seriously?”
He challenged her with a look. “You were the one with the questions.”
So she had been. Still, she would kind of enjoy proving Mister Know-It-All wrong. “I should put money on this. Go get your tape.”
He scratched his stubble thoughtfully. “Hmm, now where’d I put that thing?”
Ha! He didn’t even know where it was. She smirked. But her enthusiasm for the exercise dimmed when he lobbed her a crooked grin and promptly removed a roll of flesh-toned athletic tape from the kitchen drawer right beside her. She eyed it. What was it doing in the kitchen? Did he keep bondage paraphernalia all over his house just in case visitors dropped by? It was an unsettling thought. How many other women had he taped up? How many women came to his house for it on a regular basis? How many did he subject to this routine?
She watched, mesmerized, as his big hands pulled out a length of tape from the roll. A lump formed in her throat, making it hard to swallow. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just buy yourself a dish washing machine rather than go through this elaborate theatre with all your dinner guests?”
“Hmm, maybe, but not half as much fun.” With a practiced movement he bit and ripped off a long piece of athletic tape. Why did the tearing sound and action seem so threatening? And why on earth was she allowing this?
The walls of the kitchen pressed in on her. She couldn’t look anywhere without seeing Stein’s massive chest at eye-level. Had his bulk grown larger or was it just the small space? For the first time she caught scent of his aftershave, a subtle, clean smell that made her think of the forest. And a naked Stein in the bathroom applying aftershave.
Yikes.
What on earth was he trying to prove by getting her to wash his dishes with taped hands? She didn’t believe it was just to satisfy her curiosity. So what was the real point? What was he going to do? A thousand fevered possibilities presented themselves as she fidgeted with the hem of her T-shirt.
He looked at her. “Ready?”
She smoothed suddenly sweaty palms down her jeans and nodded.
“I can see how nervous you are. We don’t have to do this, you know.” He cocked his head as he waited for her response.
But this close, not knowing suddenly seemed far worse than knowing and wishing she didn’t know. She nodded. “I’m just going to do your dishes, right? And you’re not even going to touch me.”
He nodded. “Right.”
She stared as he held the piece of tape out to her, silver eyes intent on her face. “Here, so you feel safe, wrap this around my wrists first, and once I’m done I’ll help you with yours.”
That seemed acceptable. She stepped closer and wound the tape around the wrists he held out to her, conscious of how closely he watched her do it. Once she’d finished he held up his bound hands to show her. “You’re safe now.”
Sure, so long as those muscular, stone-hewing arms didn’t rip the tape apart.
He read her face and laughed. “I’m not Superman, you know.”
No, but you could probably take him in an arm wrestle.
She took the roll of tape he’d left on the bench, and wrapped it round and round his wrists until he looked like a mummy. Now he was bound. She bit the tape to tear the roll free.
“Hast du Schiss gekriegt?” Scared? He smirked at her and she rolled her eyes but her gaze quickly returned to the tape restraining him. She took a step back to admire her handiwork. There he was, trussed, unable to move his hands even an inch. What was that small tug in her chest? Was it excitement? No, not quite excitement, more a thrill of ownership, ownership of his vulnerability. Wow.
Was this what he felt? A rush of complete, total, undeniable ownership over his partner? Warm, oozing ownership to fill the cracks of his lonely soul? Though who said he was lonely? He could have a thousand girlfriends for all she knew, or at least one for each day of the week. And if she joined the parade, that would make her Friday.
“Your turn, Holly. Tear off a piece of tape and I’ll wrap it around your wrists for you.”
She stared at the tape. “You won’t touch me unless I say?”
“You have my word.”
She examined his scarred face, so fierce and yet utterly trustworthy, and, unless she was mistaken, very much wanting her trust in return.
She raised her hands.
“Palms facing inwards.”
Startled by the correction, she turned them in without a word. It brought her wrists closer together.
He wrapped the tape once, twice, over her wrists. “What happened to your arm?” He nodded at the pale scars on her forearms.
“Bike accident.” Defensive wounds. Same thing, right?
He jerked her to him by her bound hands and she gasped, misgivings crashing over her.
“Liar.” The scent of aftershave and something more primal wafted from him as he gave her a mock fierce glare.
She licked her lips, aware of the way his pupils flared at the gesture. “Well, I know how much you love it when I tell you lies and you get to catch me out.”
He grinned down at her. “Hmmm, that’s right, I do.” He tugged on her tape. “Not too tight?”
She shook her head, overwhelmed by his size, the slight bite of the tape and the furnace of his chest. A tight, weak smile stretched her suddenly dry lips. “No, not too tight. But it feels a little weird. And I feel very, very stupid letting a stranger tape my wrists.”
He studied her. “Well, I wouldn’t call us strangers but I’ll go sit down over at the table and give you some space.”
He moved away and she found she could breathe again. “So…” She looked at her bound hands and then at the plates and cutlery next to the sink. “I’m going to do your dishes? This is some kinky shit, Stein. Does your mother know about this?”
He smiled. “She believes cleanliness is next to godliness. She’d be thrilled.”
She arched a disbelieving brow at him but her gaze quickly got caught up in the solid musculature of his chest and shoulders and the long line of his legs and she had to turn away before her look descended into ogling. A bump of the tap handle with her wrist and hot water streamed out as she fumbled to squeeze detergent from the plastic bottle with her bound hands, Stein’s gaze beating down on her back the whole time.
“How does it feel, Holly?”
The deep, dark velvet of his voice made her shudder. “Clumsy. Don’t blame me if I break your glasses.”
“Clumsy. Is that all?”
“Uh-huh.”
A low laugh. “That’s an even bigger lie.”
She could picture his dark smile behind her. “How do you know? Maybe some women just aren’t turned on by props, ever consider that?”
“Props? What do you mean by ‘props’, Holly?”
His tone was far too innocent.
“Oh, you know, the usual stuff. And just so you know, the thought of a fuck swing gives me motion sickness, those weird nipple clamp things look just plain painful, and I think paddles should be reserved for table tennis.”
Choked laughter rang out, followed by the scrape of a chair pushed back on wood and a heavy footstep. She peeked over her shoulder at the burning presence behind her.
He was right up close, looming, and she felt exposed. He raised his bound hands, expression innocent. “Not touching.”
He wasn’t allowed to touch her. She huffed and steeled herself to look away and focus on the plate in her hand.
“Sure you don’t feel anything more than just clumsy, Holly, despite your passionate dislike of props?” Was that his breath warming her back?
“Nope, not really.” Liar. How could she ever admit to the cacophony of feelings stirring inside her? The awkward mix of fear, arousal and anticipation.
“It doesn’t remind you of anything?”
Oh, he was bringing out the big guns now, talking about the photos.
“Holly?”
“The photos,” she mumbled. Could a heart actually burst from embarrassment? She heard the shift in his breathing and her own breath turned sticky in her lungs.
“I’m curious, how did you feel when you looked at them?”
She picked up a glass to distract herself. He was impossible. How could he expect her to describe what she’d felt while he stood right by her? She glanced over her shoulder and was riveted by the heat in his eyes. He was turned on. Him. Turned on by her. A thrill of vain, foolish victory ran down her spine. “Shocked, I guess. A little excited.”
“Excited as in turned on?”
The rumble of his baritone settled deep in her bones.
“Maybe,” she whispered and picked up a plate. She scrubbed the whole surface to distract herself from the heat building between them, the warmth between her legs.
“Maybe,” he whispered back, the mocking echo sending her awareness of him shooting through the roof. Every hair on her neck sensed the way he leaned over her, dark, brooding and full of barely-concealed sexual intent. Though Stein’s hands were bound, she was almost certain he could subdue her with his weight alone. A sad admission for a judo brown belt to make. Her bound hands magnified her helplessness, despite the fact she knew she could tug off the tape with her teeth if she wanted to and play Chopsticks on his vertebrae.
She fumbled with a plate and dropped it. Warm, soapy water slopped down her front. “Shit.”
His soft chuckle grazed her nerves. “Which one did you like most?”
He was everything she was not—sensual, attractive, sexually confident. He was scarred, too, but they had nothing else in common apart from that one accident of fate. She wanted to believe none of that mattered, that none of it was really important in the face of the attraction between them, but she couldn’t.
She stared at the cup in her hand. “I liked them all.” That much, at least, was true.
A long exhalation whistled out of him and fanned her hair. “Did they make you wonder what it would be like?”
Bondage? Or being fucked by him? Or both? “A bit.” Her words came out a dry croak and she swallowed.
“Hmmm. Which bit of you, Holly?” The deep hum of his reply made the fine hairs on her forearms stand on end. The vibration of his voice made her long to feel that rumble pressed against her chest.
She placed a spoon in the drying rack and turned, only to find him hemming her in, sandwiching her between his big body and the sink, a gleam in his silver eyes that made her ache until she thought the hard button of her clit might pop like a pressure-cooker valve. Mine, her body insisted, mine, and it was with an unpleasant start that she remembered he was not.
Feeling too much a captive in every sense of the word, she tugged at the end of her bindings with her teeth and the tape unpeeled, as he’d said it would. Thank Christ for that.
“So how do you feel about doing the dishes now, Holly?” He eyed her.
This had all been just to make a point? Of course. She looked away from him. “Different. Real different.”
She would never be normal again. Doing the dishes would never be the same again either. Her cheeks flushed. She needed a moment to herself. “Um, where’s your bathroom?”
“End of the hallway.” He gave her a smug grin.
She hastily looked away and fled, creaking her way down the hallway, searching for the door and her composure. Where had that sudden feeling of possessiveness come from? She had never been the possessive sort. Ever. Perhaps too many years of hiding from relationships had driven her mental? Yes, madness seemed a reasonable excuse. As she washed her hands—the cool soothing water a pleasant contrast to her jumbled, heated thoughts—she doubted her ability to keep the relationship as casual as Stein would expect from one of his bed bunnies. She turned to dry her hands and found that they shook ever so slightly. What had Stein done to her? And would she be able to undo it?
She returned to the kitchen to find he’d finished the dishes and the gray Formica bench-top was once more spotless.
She shook her head. “Neat freak.”
He snapped the wet tea towel at her, his tone once again casual. “Sticks and stones, baby.”
She dodged away, looked him up and down from a safe distance. “I don’t think that saying applies to you. There’s not a stick or stone big enough to break your bones.”
He touched his scar, letting his fingers trail over it from mouth to ear. “I’m not bulletproof, not even dogproof.”
Unsure if she’d hurt his feelings, she frowned. “Did I just say the wrong thing?”
“Nope, not even close. Why?”
“It doesn’t bother you when people mention your size? Or they stare?”
He stretched his neck to one side with a crunch of cartilage and cracked his knuckles. “Nope, I just crush their bones.”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so.” He scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “But, seriously, it’s human nature to notice something different. I only get mad if there’s real malice or ill intent behind it, but most of the time people stare or say stupid stuff because they don’t have enough brains to think about what they’re doing and to realize how annoying it is.”
She leaned back against the counter next to him, folding her arms over her chest as she thought of all the looks and comments that had come sailing her way over the years. “That’s very accepting of you. I find I struggle not to smack faces.”
He patted her shoulder and she found the gesture surprisingly reassuring. “You are who you are. And with your writer’s imagination, you’re probably way more sensitive than a crusty old stonemason like me.”
She made a rude sound. “Yeah, right, crusty. That’s just the word I’d use to describe a hot, built artisan.”
He smiled. “Did you just call me hot?”
She rolled her eyes and he laughed, flashing a set of healthy white teeth that made her curious how they would feel under her tongue. She remembered the pink lipstick on the wine glass and the urge dulled. “Stein, what are we doing?”
“Flirting.”
So prompt, so honest.
“But I’m not the only woman you’re flirting with, am I?”
His expression grew guarded. “I’m not dating anyone else, and I’m not married.”
That left a whole lot of other sexual territory uncovered. One night stands. Friends with benefits. Kinky sex club conquests. She was afraid to ask. Almost. “Do you hook up with people who are into the same thing as you?”
A pause. “Yes. Sometimes. Does that bother you?”
She looked at the ceiling. “I’m not sure.” It depended on what she wanted, didn’t it? A relationship or just sex. She wasn’t sure.
With a heave he pushed himself off the counter. “How about I give you a lift home?”
She stiffened. “It’s okay, I can ride from here.”
He gave her a flat, unimpressed look. “It’s late and it’s dark. I’ll drive. Unless your bike is a Harley and won’t fit in the back of my pick-up. You don’t ride a Harley, do you, Holly?”
He was taking the piss. She lifted her chin. “Nope. Disappointed?”
“Did I say I was disappointed? Anyway, I doubt that you could. Disappoint me, that is.”
He waited for her response but she couldn’t tell him what she was thinking as she gathered up her bag and helmet. That he held her in too high regard, and that she was always going to disappoint him because, after all, she always disappointed herself.
He followed her down the deck steps but when she headed for her bike rather than his utility truck he blocked her path. “I’ll get it. Give me the key and I’ll unchain it and load it in the back.”
Her shoulders hunched, muscles bunching into a tight knot. “I’m not getting in your car.” Why did he always force her to say things so flatly and rudely? To reveal too much?
He narrowed his eyes and took a step closer. “Why not? You just let me tape your hands together but you don’t trust me to give you a lift home?”
Frustration blossomed hot and tight in her chest. Why did she have to be such a freak? “I said, I don’t want a lift.” Just the thought of it, of being boxed inside that small space with another person, trapped, with no escape, was too much; it squeezed all the oxygen out of her lungs.
His eyes widened. “You’re afraid.”
“No, I’m not.” Her vehement denial came out too loud.
He blinked, took a step back, raised an open palm in apology. “I apologize, I’m an idiot.”
“Yes, you are.” She couldn’t shake her anger at being found out.
He lowered his hand. “If you’re afraid of the car I’ll walk home next to you.”
The implied sympathy rubbed her the wrong way. “It’s not an entirely irrational fear, alright? Some fucker got in my cab and stabbed me fourteen times. You wouldn’t want to hop in a car again either.”
The deck’s spotlight exposed every last detail of ugliness as they faced off, her the weaker of the two as she failed to gasp out enough of the excess acid and adrenalin swirling through her veins to stop it from jacking her heart into high gear and curling her fingers into fists. Her body’s flight or fight chemicals, old friends, readying her to face that dark, familiar foe, the passenger vehicle.
There was no way to hide her fear and now he would give her one of those looks she hated, a look richly basted in sympathy, one she’d be expected to eat up. The hell she would.
“Oh, Holly.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
She expected him to reply in kind, or to walk away, but instead huge arms enfolded her. She struggled, her face pressed against the oven of his chest as she kicked, flailed and swore, calling him every filthy name she could think of in both English and German, some of which he laughed at, others which made his arms tighten. She even hit him to make him let go, and felt his big body flinch, but the arms stayed put. He held on and on. Until she didn’t want to struggle anymore. Just wanted the solidity of him, the way he kept his mouth shut and let his T-shirt soak up her tears. And when finally the arms loosened, and she looked up, his head bowed down to drop a kiss soft as a falling eyelash on her forehead. “Better?”
