Four

Dax stared at his wife’s shapely ass, stunned to see the flush of pink his hand had left on her pale skin. He might’ve had a bad-boy rep as a kid, he might be more comfortable in the bush than in the city, but despite his rough edges, he’d never imagined hitting Lily.

The only thing that shocked him more than his behavior was her response. Or, rather, lack of response. She hadn’t yelled at him or leaped off the bed. Did that mean that, at some level, she really was into this dom-sub stuff? Would she obey him and roll over? If she did, what did she want from him?

Did she have another lover who did these things with her?

Fuck, no; he couldn’t think that way. Tonight, there was only him and Lily. He’d challenged himself to read his wife’s needs, to satisfy them, to see if the two of them could recapture the passion they’d once shared.

His cock strained against the fly of his jeans. He’d been rock hard since he’d worked his way down the slim lines of her back, digging knots out of her muscles. Such a contrast, her delicate, feminine shape and silky skin with those tough, lean muscles. She’d been working out. For herself, or for a lover?

No! Don’t go there. Concentrate on her, on the two of us.

The distinctive musky odor of her arousal made his nostrils flare with primal need. Dax wanted nothing more than to drive into her, to claim her. To claim this fiercely independent, controlled woman who was his wife.

She pushed up on one elbow and tugged the pillow out from under her chest.

What could he do next, to play this dominant role without hurting her?

He rose and strode to the closet. Wooden pegs held her scarves, ranging from featherlight silk to soft wool, all in the muted shades she preferred. He grabbed four long, silky ones.

Lily was on her back now, settling the pillow under her head. A rosy blush colored her cheeks and the top of her chest, staining the upper curve of her small, firm breasts. Her feathery brown lashes were lowered so he couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew she watched his every move. The room, with the closed curtains and golden lamplight, seemed like an oasis cut off from the busy city. A place where he and Lily could do anything they chose to, and no one need ever know.

He grabbed one of her wrists, lifted it to a bedpost behind her head, and secured it with a scarf. Her arm was stretched out, but not to full extension so that it’d be too uncomfortable.

Her eyes flared open. “What are you doing?”

“I didn’t say you could speak.” He captured her other wrist, though she struggled to evade him. When he’d tied it to a bedpost on the other side of the bed, he went for an ankle.

She twisted her body and kicked out, landing one bruising blow on his forearm. He won the battle and tied both of her feet. Now she lay spread-eagled on the bed. She tugged against the scarves, testing them.

He stood back and studied her.

She glared up at him, her light blue eyes dazzlingly bright, her cheeks rosy. He read shock, outrage, but also arousal. God, but she was beautiful. Gone now were the lines of tiredness and strain he’d seen when she arrived home.

In the past, when he’d commented that she looked tired and tried to be considerate, she’d snapped his head off. But tonight, his take-charge approach had relaxed her, and turned her on.

“Dax, what’s going on?”

He wondered the same thing himself. Instead of answering, he cast his gaze with slow deliberation down her body, to stop at the vee of her spread legs. His cock jerked painfully against the distended fly of his jeans. Seeing her opened wide for him, powerless to close her legs, was amazing. Her swollen folds, a rich, deep pink, gleamed with her juices and her clit was engorged.

He raised his gaze to Lily’s face. “Have I done anything you didn’t like?”

Her eyes widened, the outrage winning out. “You tied me up, for God’s sakes! You hit me!”

“Slapped you once. And it turned you on. Look at you.” He leaned over the bed and slowly swiped his finger across her slick folds. Then he held it up and, because he couldn’t resist, slid it into his mouth. He loved the taste of her, so musky and earthy compared to the crisp, tailored way she presented herself.

She moaned and now it was pure sexual heat he saw in her eyes.

He was about to ask if she trusted him, but a dom would make it a command. “Trust me.”

Her throat rippled as she swallowed.

Did she trust him? He had never hurt her, not physically, but he hadn’t contributed a hell of a lot to this marriage. Not that he’d ever sensed that she really wanted him to. Her life was neater and tidier without him. “Trust me with your body,” he amended. “With your pleasure.”

Slowly, maybe reluctantly, she nodded. “But if—” she started.

If she was into dom-sub stuff, she had to know by now where he was going with this. “One of the rules is, you don’t talk. You’re in my hands. There’s only one word you can say. Your safe word. If you say it, I stop, untie you, leave you alone.”

He read the uncertainty on her face. “What word?” she whispered.

“Your choice, Lily.”

A pause. Then, softly, “Skookumchuck.”

What did it mean that she’d chosen that name of the place where they’d first met, had sex, fallen in love? “Fine. If you say ‘Skookumchuck,’ I stop. If you say anything else, you’ll be punished.”

Her mouth opened on a protest or a question, then slowly closed.

Did she, like Cassandra in Bound by Desire, find the idea of punishment titillating? The idea that pain might give Lily pleasure—and that in fifteen years he’d never known—disturbed him. It wasn’t in him to give her more than a light slap or pinch—and to fuck her with all the pent-up need in his body.

To relieve the pressure against his cock, he stripped off his jeans, and then added his boxer briefs and tee to the pile on the carpet.

Lily stared at him and the tip of her tongue came out to lick her lips.

His cock pulsed and Dax forced back a groan. It had been a couple months since he’d had sex—other than with his own hand—and he longed to bury his aching hard-on either between her pink lips or deep in her hot, wet pussy. But he’d damned well give her a climax first, or maybe even two.

He’d learned Lily’s body years ago. Learned her triggers, as she’d learned his. On a bad day, he could make her come in five minutes flat. And today, with her steamy wet already, was definitely not a bad day.

But now . . . His wife lay naked and vulnerable, trusting him with her body. Trusting him to give her the pleasure he’d promised. And, just as when he’d massaged her, he wanted to do it. Not fast and hard, the way his body urged him to, the way she no doubt expected. Not doing the same old stuff he normally did. And not through pain.

So far tonight, he’d surprised her. And she was hot for him. He wanted to keep surprising her, and he wanted to make love through slow, lazy, sensual torture—torture that was pleasure, not pain.

Dax knelt at the foot of the bed and circled his hand around her right ankle where the silk scarf wrapped it. Gripping her firmly, he bent to kiss the top of her foot. Lily’s feet were strong and smooth, the nails—like her fingernails—unpainted and clipped short. Neat, elegant feet, just like the rest of her.

He tongued soft flesh that smelled like a summer garden, massaged her sole, and, impulsively, sucked her big toe into his mouth.

She gave a breathy gasp.

He worked that toe the way he liked her to work his cock, giving it his all: sucking hard then easing off, giving firm, swirling swipes with his tongue, scraping the edges of his teeth over sensitive flesh. His penis throbbed and leaked drops of come.

Taking his time, he moved from her foot up her leg, stroking, massaging lightly, kissing and licking. Reading her reaction. She didn’t like him lingering on her kneecap, but moaned when he caressed the back of her knee. And, as he moved up her thigh, her muscles quivered.

The sultry odor of arousal mingled with the lavender from her bath as he licked moisture from her inner thigh. He swiped his tongue across her pussy lips, and more drops slipped from her body.

If he licked firmly, pumped three fingers into her, and sucked her clit, she’d come.

So he didn’t. He poked his tongue inside her, circled, then withdrew. Laved her with two long swipes then retreated. Flicked her clit lightly, enough to tease but not give her the pressure she needed.

She panted and her hips lifted, pushing her pussy toward his face in a silent request.

He slid two fingers inside her, then a third, pumped rhythmically, but avoided touching her clit.

“Dax,” she moaned. “Please. I need to come.” Her head thrashed on the pillow.

He pulled his fingers out of her and sat back on his heels. “You spoke.” This was easy punishment—not giving her the orgasm her body craved. “I’m in charge. Trust me to give you what you need.”

Her eyes flashed pale blue fire. “I need to come.”

Like she was the only one? He fought back a grin and played tough. “There’s only one word I’ll listen to from you. Are you ready to say it?”

She groaned, turned her head to the side, closed her eyes.

“Good.” He resumed teasing her with caresses that were almost, but not quite, enough to take her over the edge. Each time her body tensed, telling him she was at the peak and it would only take one more touch for her to climax, he pulled back.

She groaned in frustration, twisted her hips, but didn’t speak.

“That’s right, Lily. You’re obeying the rule and you deserve a reward.”

He thrust his fingers deep and hard, pressed her sweet spot. “Come now,” he commanded, then sucked her sensitive clit.

Her body spasmed against his fingers and mouth. She cried out, something wordless and wild.

Dax’s self-control shattered along with her body. He reached into the drawer in his bedside table, found a condom package, and sheathed himself. Lily was still trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm when he drove into her in one long, forceful thrust.

She cried out again, and tugged against the scarves that restrained her.

“Don’t,” he grated out. “Stay still.”

Her eyes squeezed shut as if to disavow knowledge of what they were doing. Bright pink patches blazed on her chest and cheeks. Her short blond hair, normally so neat and stylish, stuck up every which way as her head thrashed on the pillow.

Normally, she’d wrap her arms and legs around him and cling as their bodies took up a familiar rhythm. It felt strange to have her spread wide and open, unable to touch him, but she wasn’t motionless. She lifted her pelvis as far as she could, pressing up against him as he plunged in and out of her.

She gave panting gasps, a counterpoint to Dax’s guttural, animal-like sounds.

Fuck, she was hot. Lily hadn’t been this hot in . . . he couldn’t remember when. Nor had he.

Torturing her and delaying her release had been torture for him too, and he couldn’t hold out much longer. His balls were tight; the desperate need to come burned at the base of his spine. Knowing how sensitive her clit would be now, he reached down to press it. Her body convulsed, then release crashed through Dax in a wave of pleasure so extreme it almost hurt. Dimly, he was aware of Lily crying out again, of her body’s spasms matching his jerky thrusts.

His heart pounded so frantically it might burst out of his chest as he struggled to draw air into his lungs.

Gradually, his breathing slowed. Clumsily, his legs and arms rubbery, he lifted himself off Lily’s body and headed to the bathroom to deal with the condom. The mirror showed a wild man: cheeks with a hectic flush, hair even messier than Lily’s, beard glistening with her juices.

When he returned to the bedroom, she slanted him a quick glance through lowered lashes. She didn’t say a word, but tugged gently at one of the scarves.

His wife, the strongest, most tough-minded woman he knew, was tied to the bed. She’d opted in. Dax felt powerful and macho like that wild man in the bathroom mirror, but also, he realized, vulnerable. Being in control meant he was solely responsible for her pleasure. He risked failure if he didn’t read her signals correctly.

In the book, Neville thought he understood Cassandra’s deepest desires better than she did herself. How the hell did a man do that?