me.” His fingers traced the edge of my jaw before continuing down the side of my neck. “Do you trust me not to take advantage of that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
His thumb extended across the front of my throat, a gesture that would have doubled my pulse had it been anyone else. I swallowed hard, the subtle ripple against his hand making me even more aware of his gentle hold on my neck.
“ I won’t choke you ,” he’d said last night. “ I might put a hand on your throat to restrain you, if you’re comfortable with that, but anything that cuts off blood or air flow? No way .”
Even without those words seared in my memory, I knew he wouldn’t tighten his grasp. There would be no more pressure than was needed to let me know his hand was there. It was a touch, not a threat.
In a low, gentle voice, he said, “Do you trust me not to harm you?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said without a second thought.
“Good. I demand respect and submission, not fear. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
His hand moved down until his fingertips paused at the hollow of my throat. They followed the ridges of my collarbone, hooking on my robe and pushing it aside until it slid off my shoulder and partway down my arm. Then he did the same to the other side, and I held my breath as he my robe fell into a pool of cool, discarded fabric around my bare feet.
I shivered. The room was warm, but the exposure created a chill beneath my skin. Thrilling, but unnerving.
“Take everything else off.”
I did so without question. My panties landed on top of my robe. A second later, my bra. Between the cool air touching my skin and the exhilaration flooding my veins within, my nipples hardened almost instantly. Being naked in front of Scott was… hot. Unnerving. Thrilling.
“Unbutton my shirt,” he said.
I raised my hand and reached for his shirt, then realized I didn’t know how close he was. I didn’t think he’d like me pawing at him until I found a seam to guide me to the buttons, so I withdrew my hands.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I—” I hesitated, drawing an unsteady breath. I wasn’t sure if I should ask. If I’d be out of line.
“Kristen?”
Well, if I’m going to push boundaries and make mistakes, might as well do it now while he’s still patient . “Will you guide my hands, Sir?”
He said nothing. His fingers closed around my wrists, and warm relief rushed through me when he laid my hands on his lapels.
“Thank you, Sir,” I whispered. I started on the first button.
Without my sight, this simple task took on a whole different sensory dimension. The almost imperceptible hiss of my fingers across fabric. The near silent pop when a particularly stubborn button finally cooperated. The slow, steady rhythm of his quiet breathing, a rhythm I caught myself mirroring.
As I untucked his shirt from his jeans, I wondered if he was hard like he’d been last night when I’d done this very thing. There wasn’t quite enough space under my blindfold to sneak a look, and though it was tempting, I dared not brush my hand over the front of his jeans.
When he told me to, I pushed his shirt over his shoulders just as he’d done with my robe, and my fingers encountered hot skin. No T-shirt underneath this time, no other layer of fabric to keep me from touching him. Imagining his bare torso in front of me, I tried—not very successfully—to breathe. In my mind’s eye, I saw the tattoos running down his sides. I couldn’t remember exactly what each character looked like, but I filled in the memory as best I could, curling my fingers into loose fists as I fought the temptation to touch him.
“Take a step back,” he ordered. When I did, he followed and repeated the order. We kept moving like this—my steps at his command—until my calf bumped my bed.
“Sit, then swing your legs up on to the bed.”
I did, feeling around to make sure I wasn’t too close to the edge.
He ran his fingers through my hair, his hand stopping
“Yes, Sir.”
His thumb extended across the front of my throat, a gesture that would have doubled my pulse had it been anyone else. I swallowed hard, the subtle ripple against his hand making me even more aware of his gentle hold on my neck.
“ I won’t choke you ,” he’d said last night. “ I might put a hand on your throat to restrain you, if you’re comfortable with that, but anything that cuts off blood or air flow? No way .”
Even without those words seared in my memory, I knew he wouldn’t tighten his grasp. There would be no more pressure than was needed to let me know his hand was there. It was a touch, not a threat.
In a low, gentle voice, he said, “Do you trust me not to harm you?”
“Yes, Sir,” I said without a second thought.
“Good. I demand respect and submission, not fear. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
His hand moved down until his fingertips paused at the hollow of my throat. They followed the ridges of my collarbone, hooking on my robe and pushing it aside until it slid off my shoulder and partway down my arm. Then he did the same to the other side, and I held my breath as he my robe fell into a pool of cool, discarded fabric around my bare feet.
I shivered. The room was warm, but the exposure created a chill beneath my skin. Thrilling, but unnerving.
“Take everything else off.”
I did so without question. My panties landed on top of my robe. A second later, my bra. Between the cool air touching my skin and the exhilaration flooding my veins within, my nipples hardened almost instantly. Being naked in front of Scott was… hot. Unnerving. Thrilling.
“Unbutton my shirt,” he said.
I raised my hand and reached for his shirt, then realized I didn’t know how close he was. I didn’t think he’d like me pawing at him until I found a seam to guide me to the buttons, so I withdrew my hands.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I—” I hesitated, drawing an unsteady breath. I wasn’t sure if I should ask. If I’d be out of line.
“Kristen?”
Well, if I’m going to push boundaries and make mistakes, might as well do it now while he’s still patient . “Will you guide my hands, Sir?”
He said nothing. His fingers closed around my wrists, and warm relief rushed through me when he laid my hands on his lapels.
“Thank you, Sir,” I whispered. I started on the first button.
Without my sight, this simple task took on a whole different sensory dimension. The almost imperceptible hiss of my fingers across fabric. The near silent pop when a particularly stubborn button finally cooperated. The slow, steady rhythm of his quiet breathing, a rhythm I caught myself mirroring.
As I untucked his shirt from his jeans, I wondered if he was hard like he’d been last night when I’d done this very thing. There wasn’t quite enough space under my blindfold to sneak a look, and though it was tempting, I dared not brush my hand over the front of his jeans.
When he told me to, I pushed his shirt over his shoulders just as he’d done with my robe, and my fingers encountered hot skin. No T-shirt underneath this time, no other layer of fabric to keep me from touching him. Imagining his bare torso in front of me, I tried—not very successfully—to breathe. In my mind’s eye, I saw the tattoos running down his sides. I couldn’t remember exactly what each character looked like, but I filled in the memory as best I could, curling my fingers into loose fists as I fought the temptation to touch him.
“Take a step back,” he ordered. When I did, he followed and repeated the order. We kept moving like this—my steps at his command—until my calf bumped my bed.
“Sit, then swing your legs up on to the bed.”
I did, feeling around to make sure I wasn’t too close to the edge.
He ran his fingers through my hair, his hand stopping
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