The soap is in my hand and I give up the fight. One slow long stroke from tip to root and I’m weak kneed and moaning. With each slide of my hand, the rope wraps around her naked body, framing her lush breasts, rendering her helpless to my control, her wrists tied behind her head, making her own wings, as I send her into flight.
Slowly, I increase the pressure on my cock, my rope sliding along her pussy, the knot right against her clit. My climax builds and I squeeze tight, holding back the release, my fingers wet with her juices coaxing her to explode, she softens, trusting my ropes, giving all the control to me.
She’ll float in my harness, secure in the knowledge I have her as I thrust my starved desperation deep inside her tight, fluttering walls. I pull out, hold my cock and spin her to a new position. She’s my flying creature, caught in my vines, begging me for a release only I can deliver. Faster she flies. I’m so deep in her, there’s no her or me. She ripples against my cock, squeezing me the way my ropes bind her. Warm wet splashes of her satisfaction coats my skin.
Come covers my hand. I turn to face the shower head. The lonely hot mess skulks down the drain. Shame and satisfaction war within. The ache to make my fantasy a reality despite the risk to me. To her.
How can I lasso this butterfly without breaking her wings?
There’s no way.
Is there?
God, I haven’t felt this strongly about a woman since I left Texas. Why now? Why her?
I haven’t been celibate, not completely. The bunnies at the St. Louis club were always willing to let me rig them up. The club asked me to do demos more times than I can count. And in some of those instances, I was so in the moment, I got my dick wet—well the condom. Brought the bunny to orgasm while I found release. Never in private and never without witnessed consent.
My grandpa used to say, “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”
I ain’t no fool. Except, I’m feeling pretty foolish about SJ. Is it her red hair? Or her Texas twang? That sweetheart ass her jeans hug so expertly? Is it the wide-eyed stare when she watched the couple at the club? Her fascination? Or her innocence?
Innocence. She’s no virgin, but she’s not a bunny either. She doesn’t crave the ropes, to feel the squeeze again. She has no clue what it would feel like to be tied up. But her breath, her pulse, her exquisite concentration on the scene have wrapped me up in a fantasy. To be her first and initiate her into my web of pleasure.
Damn. I’m getting hard again, craving what I shouldn’t want. With a slap of my hand, I shut off the water. Dried off, I climb naked into my bead and wait for the strain of a long day of construction to drag me under. When I finally find peace, it’s wrecked with dreams of SJ and vine-wrapped butterflies.
Eight
SJ
“Alex, wait.” That fucker was trying to escape again. It’s five in the morning and he’s already headed for the door. I’ve been trying to catch him since last Friday, getting up earlier and earlier. Mornings suck, but I can’t let this drop.
“My rides waiting.” He doesn’t even turn to face me.
I smother the urge to rail about him being an asshole. “I really need your help to finish the wording for the website and brochures. They aren’t going to write themselves and I don’t want to get anything wrong. If you don’t have time, I can ask Stone or someone else, but?—”
“Tonight.” He opens the door.
“What time?” If he makes a promise, he’ll keep it. I’ve seen that much.
“I’ll be back for dinner. Stone’s grilling.”
Thank you, Stone. He must have called a group dinner again. Probably nothing to do with me, but I’m happy for the assist.
Alex finally faces me, one foot out the door. “We can work after we eat.”
Almost an invitation. Look at him being all gentlemanly. I smile, but it’s more feral than friendly. “Perfect.”
The door closes soundlessly between us. I march back upstairs to my bed for a nap, or whatever it’s called when you have to get up at the ass-crack of dawn to wrangle a jackass into the corral and a couple more hours of sleep are required before being fully human.
After my second sleep, I spend the day researching rope ties and techniques, and how to plot a romance novel until my brain is mush. I’ve been trying to write details about my characters, and the hero is eerily similar to Alex. How can I write a monster as my hero? But is he? The Alex I know, not the one my uncle has described. Could he have misunderstood Alyss’ relationship with him? Because when I think back, all I remember is how much Alyss gushed about the guy she was dating. He was perfect, a football player, a gentleman. Maybe I’m the monster for trying to catch him at something so my uncle can get payback for everything he thinks Alex did.
I drop my head in my hands, tears sting the corners of my eyes. My life is a series of bad decisions and compounding shit. Every time I turn around someone is taking something from me. Leaving me in a worse position from where I started. If I’d stayed working in the diner, instead of tying to be a model, my uncle wouldn’t have had to save me. I’m supposed to somehow get dirt on my cousin’s ex, catch him in a compromising situation, and I can’t even catch him in a conversation.
I can’t see how this will come out the way my uncle wants.
A knock at my door startles me out of my doom spiral. Amy’s on the other side.
“Hey, I know you’re writing, but the guys are grilling. You’re welcome to join us. There’s plenty.”
