and all.”
He chuckled. “I think I can keep my masculinity intact,
thank you very much.”
Could he ever.
Tristy watched his tight butt as he moved like a jungle cat,
every inch of him in charge of this place, his whole environment, which for the
moment included her.
For one unguarded second she imagined him naked. Don’t go
there girl , she warned herself. Thinking of Grant Collins in sexual terms
was one thing in the privacy of her own bedroom but doing it here, two feet
away from him, was another story.
Does he know how often he has starred in my fantasies?
Lots of times she pictured him gentle and vanilla, the way
she had known all her other lovers to be. But there were times when she tried
to picture him as he really was—a sexual Dominant.
It was this proclivity toward BDSM that had kept her from
trying to date him. In great detail, Grant had told her—after a bottle of wine
they had polished off one night—how he liked his women. Submissive. Bound.
Obedient. Open to his control. He was the master of her senses, her flesh, his
hands exploring, caressing, pinching…and whatever else he wanted.
He had alluded to spanking his partners and now it was
almost impossible to see those big hands of his and not imagine them on a
girl’s hot bottom. The couple of times he had introduced her to his lovers she
had blushed furiously, thinking what must go on between them.
It didn’t happen often, Grant being with women, and that was
another thing she wondered about. Surely there were plenty of partners to
choose from, even from the narrower pool of women who were into BDSM?
Tristy had had lots of misconceptions and he had tried to
set her straight. BDSM wasn’t exploitation and it was not abuse. It was meant
to be safe, sane and consensual, as he put it. But within those bounds he sure
did paint a pretty damn interesting picture of how a woman could get turned on
out of her mind by freely giving over erotic control of her body.
Grant had even hinted that such passionate intensity between
Dominant and submissive could spread into all aspects of the relationship,
creating something almost mystical.
She took his word on it, noting that, by his own admission,
arrangements like that were rare. Even he had not experienced such a thing,
which was maybe why he hadn’t gotten serious with anyone in the time they’d
known each other.
Overcome with the impulse to do something, Tristy made a
beeline for the kitchen. “Let me do this.”
“Got it covered,” he said. “You go sit in the living room.
Talk to me.”
“Just let me get the cocoa.” Even in her boots she had to go
on tiptoe to reach it on the upper shelf. The motion managed to raise her short
skirt just a little shorter. “You are such a guy. Do you have to put
everything so high?”
“Discourages mice. All except for one, that is.”
“Ha ha, very funny.” She tried to pry the top off. It was
too hard so she got a knife to use as a wedge. A moment later she was squealing
in pain with a cut finger.
Grant cursed mildly, though his eyes showed only concern.
“This is why I told you to sit down, you are much too agitated.”
He led her by the wrist to the sink so he could run the
wound under cold water.
“See, it’s nothing,” she proclaimed.
“Hmm.” He reached for the first aid kit in a nearby drawer.
His hand remained on her wrist.
Tristy bit her lip softly. He was barely squeezing her flesh
but of course she was putting up no fight. An impulse, more impish than
anything, told her to make it hard on him.
“I don’t need a bandage.”
“It’s not an option. Now give me your finger.”
“No,” said Tristy.
He made a face, not taking her seriously. Could she take herself seriously?
Grant applied the small adhesive bandage without further
resistance. “Keep your arm elevated.”
Okay, this was going a bit far. “What am I, the Statue of
Liberty?”
Grant raised her arm. “Whatever you want to call yourself,
we’re taking
He chuckled. “I think I can keep my masculinity intact,
thank you very much.”
Could he ever.
Tristy watched his tight butt as he moved like a jungle cat,
every inch of him in charge of this place, his whole environment, which for the
moment included her.
For one unguarded second she imagined him naked. Don’t go
there girl , she warned herself. Thinking of Grant Collins in sexual terms
was one thing in the privacy of her own bedroom but doing it here, two feet
away from him, was another story.
Does he know how often he has starred in my fantasies?
Lots of times she pictured him gentle and vanilla, the way
she had known all her other lovers to be. But there were times when she tried
to picture him as he really was—a sexual Dominant.
It was this proclivity toward BDSM that had kept her from
trying to date him. In great detail, Grant had told her—after a bottle of wine
they had polished off one night—how he liked his women. Submissive. Bound.
Obedient. Open to his control. He was the master of her senses, her flesh, his
hands exploring, caressing, pinching…and whatever else he wanted.
He had alluded to spanking his partners and now it was
almost impossible to see those big hands of his and not imagine them on a
girl’s hot bottom. The couple of times he had introduced her to his lovers she
had blushed furiously, thinking what must go on between them.
It didn’t happen often, Grant being with women, and that was
another thing she wondered about. Surely there were plenty of partners to
choose from, even from the narrower pool of women who were into BDSM?
Tristy had had lots of misconceptions and he had tried to
set her straight. BDSM wasn’t exploitation and it was not abuse. It was meant
to be safe, sane and consensual, as he put it. But within those bounds he sure
did paint a pretty damn interesting picture of how a woman could get turned on
out of her mind by freely giving over erotic control of her body.
Grant had even hinted that such passionate intensity between
Dominant and submissive could spread into all aspects of the relationship,
creating something almost mystical.
She took his word on it, noting that, by his own admission,
arrangements like that were rare. Even he had not experienced such a thing,
which was maybe why he hadn’t gotten serious with anyone in the time they’d
known each other.
Overcome with the impulse to do something, Tristy made a
beeline for the kitchen. “Let me do this.”
“Got it covered,” he said. “You go sit in the living room.
Talk to me.”
“Just let me get the cocoa.” Even in her boots she had to go
on tiptoe to reach it on the upper shelf. The motion managed to raise her short
skirt just a little shorter. “You are such a guy. Do you have to put
everything so high?”
“Discourages mice. All except for one, that is.”
“Ha ha, very funny.” She tried to pry the top off. It was
too hard so she got a knife to use as a wedge. A moment later she was squealing
in pain with a cut finger.
Grant cursed mildly, though his eyes showed only concern.
“This is why I told you to sit down, you are much too agitated.”
He led her by the wrist to the sink so he could run the
wound under cold water.
“See, it’s nothing,” she proclaimed.
“Hmm.” He reached for the first aid kit in a nearby drawer.
His hand remained on her wrist.
Tristy bit her lip softly. He was barely squeezing her flesh
but of course she was putting up no fight. An impulse, more impish than
anything, told her to make it hard on him.
“I don’t need a bandage.”
“It’s not an option. Now give me your finger.”
“No,” said Tristy.
He made a face, not taking her seriously. Could she take herself seriously?
Grant applied the small adhesive bandage without further
resistance. “Keep your arm elevated.”
Okay, this was going a bit far. “What am I, the Statue of
Liberty?”
Grant raised her arm. “Whatever you want to call yourself,
we’re taking
Similar Books
