Nature Of Desire: Worth The Wait Part 4

Unfolding an arm, he slid his fingers through her ponytail again, bringing it forward over her shoulder. He had an obvious liking for her hair, and she had a vision of him wrapping his hands in it, pulling hard as he pushed her down to all fours and...

Seriously? Julie, rein it in.

"I'm hearing your professional interest," he said. "How about the personal one?"

"I meant what I said about having relationships, or talking about mine." She stiffened when she detected a mild flash of impatience in his expression, gone in a blink. She couldn't blame him for feeling that way, which just irritated her with herself. "I know that's stupid, after what we did a few minutes ago, but...is the way you're acting toward me just to make me comfortable with the rope stuff?"

"You're interested, I'm interested. If you were really as relationship-shy as you claim, you wouldn't be here," he said, not answering her question. He wasn't helping her bulls.h.i.t herself. She didn't want him stepping inside the boundaries of her personal dysfunction, so she bristled.

"I don't need to be told what I am or am not."

"Am I wrong, New York?" He tapped her hand, a reproof and caress at once.

He wasn't. She sighed. "I'm okay with flirting, but you're kind of intense, Des. It's easier for me to wade in the shallows on the rope stuff, but it feels like you want to go deep sea diving. I don't want to make a fool of myself over someone, and I don't play the games well."

He touched her face before she could close down entirely. "Let's go with straight honesty, then. I'd prefer you be interested in the Dom/sub stuff for yourself, first. Because you interest me that way. And it works better that way, however you use the information."

Well, that was direct and reasonable. The sliding touch of his hand on her face was something she wanted to follow. She wanted to reach out and thread her fingers through the strands of dark hair on his shoulder. She shivered, drew back.

"You've said your main relationship outlet happens in the BDSM world. I like the sub angle, but I haven't really explored it much. It may end up being purely academic for me. I don't know about what kind of Dom you are. We may be entirely incompatible..."

"A lot of maybes, and only a couple ways to answer those questions, love. There's a fine line between staying away from the games and drawing a complete map that leaves no room to explore." He curved his hand over her shoulder, thumb pressing into her collar bone in a distracting way. "Breathe for me. The nice thing about Dom and sub interaction is you can negotiate the lines and boundaries with no censure on either side. I may be intense when I want something, but I'm not pushy and I'm not going to ever make you feel like c.r.a.p because you want to move at your own pace and define your own finish line. All right?"

She believed him. It was part of his dangerous appeal. She knew the bulk of this unpleasant feeling was coming from her own worries.

"Why don't I just answer the question?" he suggested. "For you, not the theater manager."

"I've forgotten what the question was," she said.

He smiled. "About what kind of Dom I am. I'll answer the question in the Conservatory. How about some more snack mix?"

"Why not?" She rolled her eyes and scooped up another handful. She'd noticed everything he made seemed to be both healthy and tasty, even his PB&J sandwich. Another eerily wonderful thing about him. Maybe he was an alien.

"So do you know why I asked you to meet me here, instead of at the theater?" he asked, turning them to a different subject. She latched onto it gratefully.

"Because you wanted to win points by inviting a woman somewhere she'd enjoy, instead of to a monster truck rally or gun show?"

"You strike me as the type of woman who'd enjoy a gun show. But there wasn't one in town this weekend."

"d.a.m.n. I wanted to add to my a.s.sault rifle a.r.s.enal." She sighed. "Another weekend maybe."

"See? You're already contemplating another date with me. Progress." He rose. "I'll answer both questions in the Conservatory."

It was a short, sunlit stroll to the gla.s.s building where the orchids were. As he opened the door for her, the moist, close air enveloped her skin, the smell of growing things saturating the senses.

"Oh, look at all the different shapes and colors." Moving along the concrete path, she stopped to gaze at orchids in shades of orange, purple, pink, red, white, magenta...countless colors. They weren't planted like daisies in a field that grew thick together and formed a carpet. They were s.p.a.ced to display their a.s.sets in a jungle-like environment, surrounded by rock formations and water fountains. They looked like jewels in carefully designed settings, so the delicate twists and shapes of the petals could be examined from all angles. Some grew out of tree trunks. Others twined like vines over branches. Still others grew on their own stems, nodding from the wind generated by the fans mounted throughout the building.

"So why do you come here?" she asked. "What do you like about it, beyond the obvious that it's amazing?"

He'd stopped before a trio of white orchids. As he shifted his weight to one hip, he drew her over. "Notice the shape of the petals. When I look at them, I imagine transforming the female form into the same shapes, using rope. I get a lot of ideas from gardens, particularly orchids."

She shifted her gaze to the white orchid in the middle. He traced the air before it. "Imagine that's her thigh, lifted, bound to her ankle. Her back arched, arms behind her so her b.r.e.a.s.t.s form this curve here... I'd suspend her, but I'd also twist a rope beneath her, so it would become the stem of the flower and anchor her."

As he described it, she could see it. "Why does it give you such a charge? It's not just about tying a woman up so you can do whatever you want to her, or is it?"

He gave her a quick, very male smirk. "That's a very important perk. But yes, there are other reasons. I explore a lot of rope disciplines, and one of my personal favorites is s.e.m.e.nawa, torture rope. Not as scary as it sounds. It's about contrasting stimuli."

They moved in front of another display, this one of lavender orchids grouped around a stone pool with a trickling fountain. He shifted behind her. "Pull all your hair over your right shoulder."

He could say things in a manner that wasn't saying them at all, as much as commanding them. What made it so intoxicating was that he pulled it off in such an unexpected moment. As Madison had said, Des didn't appear the commanding sort...at first glance. Yet he could compel a woman's attention with his unwavering gaze, the set of his jaw and an energy that emitted from him even when he was saying nothing at all. Some people were a fulcrum around which people unconsciously kept their radar attuned. When he was in this mode, he was one of those fulcrums.

"The other right shoulder." His voice held heat with humor, acknowledging the reason for her distraction. When he shifted closer, his breath stirred the fine hairs on her exposed neck. His body didn't touch hers, but a dense aura stroked her, a cushion of magnetism between two closely aligned bodies, the strength of his interest in her, his desire.

Curving his hand over her hip, he put his lips over the pounding pulse in her throat. A small breath escaped her, a shudder swaying her into a light brush against him. He moved in, and his lips parted, tongue teasing her.

"See how the top part of the orchid is slightly twisted?"

She nodded, her eyes fixed on it. His grip left her hip and cupped her hand, her knuckles nested in his palm. His thumb came over them to press into the flesh at the base of her fingers while his other fingers constricted, capturing her hand fully. Slowly, as his mouth stimulated a thousand nerve endings in her throat, he began to turn her wrist. Not a lot, but his hold and the angle made her gradually aware of pressure and his strength, discomfort edging toward pain. Just when she thought she was going to have to ask him to stop, he did, holding her hand at that unnerving stress point.

His lips created a lot of mad swirling between her chest and the folds of her s.e.x. His inflexible restraint on her hand sent a bolt straight to her core just as powerful. The mix of s.e.xual stimuli had her reaching for his hand on her other hip to steady her, even as things became far less steady.

"Imagine I can tie you in the shape of that flower," he said, lifting his mouth a fraction from her skin. "I can. You'll struggle between pain and ecstasy, and I'll use both to break you into a world of your mind you can't imagine, where every reaction you have belongs to me. I have full command of your senses, your body. You're not even sure if your soul belongs to you anymore. You're stretched to your physical limits, but you're aroused, too, not wanting the tension to end."

He turned her around to face him, though his hands remained on her hips, holding her. "You asked what kind of Dom I am. Spanking's not my thing, or putting a woman in a collar."

"Oh."

He rubbed his jaw against her cheek, his eyes close to her face. "You're sounding disappointed," he teased her in a husky voice.

She pushed half-heartedly at him and he drew back, taking her hand once more, continuing their stroll. Julie wondered if she was as flushed on the outside as she felt on the inside. "Running a theater, bringing a production together, that's your thing, right?" he asked.

"Yeah. Yes."

He stopped, showing her a tiny cl.u.s.ter of orange orchids, none bigger than her thumb. "The mice of the orchid world," he observed before continuing. "You understand theater in and out. It's your pa.s.sion, your heart. It's become your bible, in the sense that you can use it to center yourself, to interpret all sorts of things in your life. Rope is my pa.s.sion for the same reasons."

He touched her neck, brown eyes turning rust and gold from the sunlight coming through the gla.s.s ceiling. "I can tie you up in ways that will leave marks on your skin for days. I can put you in a harness that keeps your hands and arms free, that you can wear under your clothes, but while you have it on, you'll feel completely restrained, captured. I can make it real clear I'm in control. When you're in my ropes, with a little twitch or tug, I can take you to o.r.g.a.s.m. Or I can make you feel the burn, the pain. You'll be begging for forgiveness the way you would in a spanking...all while being wet and hot and wondering if I'll let you go before I f.u.c.k you, or if I'll take you while you're bound like that."

When he stroked her mouth, making her lips part, he was reminding her to breathe. She'd stopped.

"Hypothetically speaking, that is," he added, straightening. "I wasn't directing that at you specifically...unless you want me to do so."

Her hands had dropped to his hips as he slid his palms slowly up and down her upper arms. She would have punched him for picking at her, but he wasn't unaffected by her reaction. He was logging and absorbing it. Wanting to drive it, just as he'd described.

"And if I do?" She dared to ask the question.

He shot her a look that stilled her racing thoughts. Everything around them had gone behind a curtain, leaving them center stage.

"Then that opens a whole different dialogue between us," he said.

She started walking again, feeling the need for some s.p.a.ce, some sense of control. She wanted to make sure she could walk without his direction. He could take her over so easily. It was terrifying as a drug. "You do really unique small talk," she said as he caught up to her, walked at her side.

"Well, these things keep a conversation lubricated. Only thing worse than a dry f.u.c.k is small talk."

She choked on a laugh at the crudity. He took her hand again, squeezed it. "Let's ease back some and I'll tell you stories about the origins of these orchids. The depth of botanical trivia I know will send you into a coma of boredom."

"I did all sorts of menial labor to get a foothold in the theater world. Your flower trivia would be amateur hour."

"Well, since you've given me a challenge..."

He was as good as his word. Not the boredom part of course. He could read the phone book and she'd hang onto every word. But he kept things relaxed and friendly, the intensity of those earlier moments gone like they'd never existed, except they felt imprinted on every inch of her body and her lightly throbbing wrist.

She was still reeling from it, even after they concluded their tour, had soup and a sandwich from the cafe, and he was walking her back to her car. Stopping by her door, he turned her to face him.

"Did I answer your question about what kind of Dom I am?"

"You did." She wasn't sure if 'thank you' was the appropriate response. She was wondering if he was going to kiss her, like at the end of a normal date. Nothing about this felt normal, and she meant that in the best way.

"You said when we met yesterday you'd be interested in letting me demonstrate my rope technique on you," he reminded her.

"I think you may have just done that. I'm sold. If ever you change your mind about performing, you have a slot. As far as the consulting you offered, if you give me your email, I can send you the specifics on who will be doing what for the show. You'll want to-"

"Stop." Des touched her shoulder. She realized she'd placed a hand on his chest when she'd turned toward him, and was worrying the b.u.t.ton of his shirt. He closed his hand over hers, glancing down at it. "Julie, I want to come see you later this week. I want you to experience what I do. I want to see you decorated in my rope. Is that what you want? Yes or no."

"I don't know." She drew her hand away, stepped back. "Yes. Or rather, I'd say yes if I knew it could stay manageable. If it won't be another great experience that will end up crashing and burning."

His gaze softened. "Your honesty is heartbreaking, love. Okay, let's do it this way. It's a session, like you'd experience in a club environment. We'll set ground rules. Helping you understand what will be happening on your stage is the biggest part of it. All right?"

So you're going along with my farce to get your foot in the door. We'll both fake it and pretend it doesn't mean anything, because we both know I can work with that.

Snarling at herself for being a smart a.s.s, she tilted her head in a stiff nod. "Okay. Uh...what should I wear?"

"That will be up to you. If you want to do clothes, wear something that's not loose, like leggings and a sports bra. If you're okay with no clothes, I can incorporate more things into the experience. Like candle wax."

"Got it. Um, anything else?"

"Yeah." He brushed her face with his knuckles. "Bring someone with you, like Madison. It's important to be safe, and it will help you keep the control you need right now. You don't really know me as a rigger and, while I have a good reputation and you're not going to be hurt under my care, you've only got my word on that."

"So it will be rope, maybe some candles, and Madison there. No s.e.x."

"No s.e.x. Not that night. And not just because of Madison's presence." He had his back to the sun, so his eyes were dark. He had a very straight nose, a firm chin. Nice features upon which she tried to focus so she wasn't caught in his deep, rich earth eyes. She should be saying no to this. A big h.e.l.l no. But she'd suggested it, hadn't she?

"This is your first scene, isn't it?"

She warred with embarra.s.sment, even as she knew it was stupid to feel it. It wasn't like saying she was a virgin. He snapped her attention back to him as he wrapped her hair fully around his hand, used it and the pressure on the base of her neck to bring her closer to him. Her hand fell on his chest again.

"Answer me, Julie," he said quietly.

How did he do that? "Outside of my really vivid imagination, yes. This is my first scene." She pretended she didn't sound breathless.

"That's what I thought. And why I'll save my vast seduction techniques for another night."

She was fairly sure he'd already seduced her in the Conservatory. It sounded like a game of Clue. Mr. Hayes, in the Conservatory, with that intriguing pain-pleasure grip on her hand. It had made her nervous, her knees weak and her whole body stimulated. But he was trying to make her smile now. When she couldn't summon one, he touched her face, his own expression sobering.

"I'll come at six o'clock, day after tomorrow. You have my number, Julie. If you have to cancel, cancel. But I hope you won't. I've enjoyed spending time with you today." He straightened, making a show of surveying the parking lot. "And look. No zombies."

"Yet," she said ominously. "They would attack urban centers and then fan out, right?"

"You are a fascinating, weird woman." Giving her a friendly look, he left her side, headed for a battered green Ford pickup she expected was his. "I look forward to seeing you soon."

Chapter Three.

For the first production, Julie and the stage manager were doing double duty as co-directors, and Julie already considered Harris a gift from the G.o.ds. He was an obese thirty-something with sharp pale blue eyes, a golden beard and silky blond hair he kept in a long tail down his back. He looked like the first mate on a pirate ship. He'd done stage manager work in dinner theater out on the West Coast, and was in a position to volunteer fulltime to help Julie.

Like most of the cast and crew, he was part of the BDSM scene, a submissive who served and lived with two Mistresses, also lovers. Though Julie had yet to meet them, his adoration for Millie and Tiana was obvious.

Over the past few weeks, he'd shared long hours here with Julie, and his eyes had glowed as brightly as hers as they took each step toward turning the building into a playhouse and bringing the production together. He had the marvelous and terrible pa.s.sion that afflicted all those dedicated to the theater, whether in front of the curtain or behind it.

Madison had recruited theater students from the area community colleges to provide technical skills. On Julie's recommendation, she'd shamelessly used Julie's resume to attract their interest. Whereas actors could look for work through the trade papers, those interested in a career in backstage work had to build themselves from the ground up, not only volunteering in high school and college productions, but doing heavy networking to get experience that might lead to paying jobs. Julie had worked in almost every backstage capacity in her twenty years in theater, including paid work on Broadway and Off-Broadway shows, before deciding to move to community theater work. Working under her would look good on a theater student's resume.

Harris's ability to organize the students freed Julie up to focus on the other million details a managing director had to handle. Like today, when he was at the theater handling some technical direction, while she was signing off on the scene pieces the set design students were finalizing in Logan's barn.

Unfortunately, once she took pictures and measurements for Harris, she was still later than she'd intended to be. Tonight was the night she was supposed to meet Des at the theater, and being late only spun up her nerves further. Rush hour traffic had her pulling back up to the building at 6:20.

Harris was already gone, but he'd received her text to let Des in before he and the others took off, because Des's old truck was out front without Des in it. She'd texted Des as well, filling him in on the delay.

As she walked past the Ford, she glanced in the open bed. Tar paper, shingle bundles, several coils of twine. A cut piece of PVC pipe, an empty gas can, a scattering of fresh clumps of dry red clay and dried leaves. A crumpled coffee cup was wedged beneath the shingle bundles. She wondered if he'd tucked it there to throw away later, because except for it and the natural debris, everything in the truck was organized and secured with twine.

The bindings on the shingles seemed more thorough and far more elaborate than she suspected was the norm. Had it been an idle pastime on breaks between jobs, practicing his skills?

She hadn't let herself think about what was going to happen tonight, though it had been in the back of her mind simmering like a witch's cauldron ever since she'd somewhat agreed to it. The parameters he'd set had helped her rationalize away the multiple flares of panic. It was just a session. That was all. It didn't have to be anything outside of that. Inside of it, it could be incredible and intense, as Madison had warned. Yet when it was over, it was over. No fallout. That was what she wanted. As long as she held onto that, she could fully enjoy the experience.

She hadn't had a second thought about Des being in her theater without anyone else there. Out of all the worries she had about Des, trusting him here wasn't one of them. That feeling was reinforced when she found him sitting on the edge of the stage.

He had his hair pulled back more sleekly tonight, accommodating the jaunty black plaid fedora he wore. He wore a dark blue b.u.t.ton down over stonewashed jeans. Several brightly-colored woven bracelets were on his right arm and he had a small knife sheath threaded onto his belt. The untucked shirt crumpled high enough up on his hip in his seated position to see it, and the curve of his a.s.s pressed to her stage. His biceps rippled in an appealing manner as he sipped from a bottle of his preferred flavored water, black cherry. When her footsteps made him twist around to find her with his russet eyes, he smiled.

He could la.s.so a woman with that smile as easily as with any rope he could call to hand. It was the real deal, a gift of the G.o.ds. Not artificial charm, not the l.u.s.ter of the sun reflected off a fortunate surface, but the sun itself, a limitless energy source.

If she was composing flowery narrative, she was in trouble. He screwed the top back on the bottle and set it to the side as she crossed the stage. The curtains were drawn, leaving a several foot wide ap.r.o.n of the stage visible. A ghostlight was on to illuminate the theater area. In theater lore, it was kept burning throughout the night for friendly spirits. It also kept unfriendly ones away, supposedly. She mused it must be working, since all she saw was Des.

"Hey there. What are you doing?" She took a seat next to him. It felt natural to sit close enough to brush his shoulder, particularly when he flipped open the cooler next to him and twisted the top off an Angry Orchard to hand it to her. It was crisp apple flavor, her leisure time drink of choice. He'd talked to Madison.