Entirely, p.11
Entirely, page 11
He bound one arm, then the other, one ankle, and the other to each of the bed’s four legs, so she was spread-eagled. He stood still, looking at her—the waves of her hair, the rise of her shoulders and dip of her lower back, the curve of that fantastic ass, her long spread legs, and the treasure buried between.
But he would save his own sweet release a little longer.
From beside the bed, he took the feather and ran his hand from the quill to the tip, feeling its downy softness against his palm. He held it in one hand while in his other he took the birch cane—its long, thin strands held in place with a molded handle that fit his fist perfectly.
On his knees beside her, he gathered her hair and moved it over one shoulder so he could see her long neck.
That’s where he started with the feather tip, at the spot just beside her shoulder. Her hand jerked, pulled back by the taut chain of the restraint. He stopped and massaged the ticklish skin until she relaxed, then started again. Her body tensed, but her arm stayed mostly still this time. “Good girl,” he said.
Working his way down her body with the feather, he tickled and stroked and teased—her back, the sides of her breasts, the valley of her lower back and the top of her ass, the line between her cheeks—watching her small movements in response. The backs of her thighs, her knees, her calves, her ankles, her feet—her adorable, and probably tired, feet. When they tensed, he set the feather aside and took his time massaging them one by one, kneading the pads and spreading her toes with his thumb as if opening a fan.
He worked his way back up to her ass, tickling and massaging her calves and the backs of her thighs. Quietly, he put down the feather and picked up the cane.
When he swatted the fleshy, high curve of her butt cheek, she cried out. He could feel a welt rising even as he rubbed her skin to lessen the first sting.
“Are you ready for my instructions?”
She lifted her head to turn toward him. “Yes, Jonathan.”
“When I tell you to start, I want you to count down from ten. You’ll say one number at a time and not continue until you get a response from me. You won’t say anything else but the numbers, or your safe word, or else I add five to wherever we are. Understand?”
“Yes, Jonathan.”
“What’s your safe word?”
“Red.”
“Okay.” He leaned over and kissed her temple, just above the fabric of the blindfold. “Start.”
“Ten.”
He swatted her other full globe with the cane, and she gasped. He sat on his hand so he wouldn’t be tempted to rub the sting away this time. “Continue.”
“Nine.”
He did it again, the same cheek, intending to set her ass on fire, and sat back on his heels. A parallel red line formed. “Continue.”
“Eight.”
He did it a third time, same cheek but different spot, and sat back. “Okay.”
“Seven.”
He switched to the feather and tickled her foot with it. Her leg tensed, and he dragged the plume up the length of it, over her red cheek, and down the other leg, challenging himself to linger while still moving continuously toward her foot. When he lifted the feather off her skin and sat back on his haunches, he could see her leg muscles relax.
“Continue.”
“Six.”
With less force than he had applied to her behind, he caned the bottom of her foot. She let out a yelp. He did it again. “Conti . . .”
“Five.” Was it his imagination, or was she in a hurry?
He hadn’t planned to, but he flicked her foot with the cane again, then tickled his way up to her ass. A light brush down her center folds and more teasing over her back and along the length of her side. “Continue.”
“Four.”
“Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”
As she did, he gave her ass four slaps with the cane, three parallel lines and a cross-hatch. Her breathing sped up.
“Deep breaths.” The air was still as he waited to hear several rounds of her longer inhale and exhale.
“Continue.”
“Three.” Her voice was starting to sound distant, dreamy.
He swatted the other cheek twice, then quickly followed with the feather. Her leg jerked the short distance of play allowed by the restraint. He rubbed her hot skin until she stilled, then he took a deep breath, let it out, and slapped her with his hand. Her gasp followed the smack of his palm; it had hit just right.
Beginner’s luck.
Again he massaged, careful not to knead too hard. He had bought salve, but he was pretty sure she would still be sore tomorrow. As he moved around her ass, he let his fingers wander between her legs and glide slowly along the satiny wetness of her lips. He pressed the base of the plug, pushing it further, then released. Just to remind her it was there. To remind her he had put it there.
After undoing the restraints, he turned her over so she was on her back. One by one, he re-secured them, lightly running his nails over her limbs as he worked, making her shiver. “Continue.”
“Two.”
He took hold of her toes and caned the bottom of one foot, flicking his wrist lightly. Her toes curled and released and curled again when he swatted the other foot. Picking up the feather, he tickled her arch.
“No squirming.”
Her head made a shushing sound against the sheet as she nodded. Yes.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Her no came out like a quiet wail. He traced the lines of her leg with the feather, around her ankles, up the long curves of her calf, around her knee, up and down and up her thigh, each stroke moving inward. He lifted the feather and moved to her navel, slowly teasing downward.
She writhed; he stopped, waited for her to still. When she did, he continued downward. With the lightest touch he could manage, he played the tip of the feather around her mound and folds. He stopped only to spread her further, to heighten her sense of exposure.
She moved toward him.
“Shhh. Stay still, or I stop.”
She settled, but he could see her heartbeat racing against the skin of her neck.
“Breathe,” he told her, sitting back, taking her in, watching that beating spot. Her pulse soon slowed, just like he wanted. He knew this woman, he knew her body, he knew how to rev her up and calm her down.
He waited a few more moments, the brief down time enough for his straining member to let him know it needed some serious up time.
Soon.
He wasn’t done playing with her yet.
Silently, so she wouldn’t know what he was going to do, he lifted the cane and smacked the bottom of her foot.
He had expected her to cry out; her moan surprised him. He swatted the same foot again. It must have hurt. This time, she expelled air where the moan had been. She was trying to be quiet.
“I’m changing the rules. I want to hear you.”
“Yes, Jonathan.” He swatted her foot again, trailed the cane up and down her legs, used it to tease her spread lips. She gasped. “Yes.” Her hips tipped toward him, wanting. Asking.
“Do you want my fingers inside you?”
“Please. Jonathan.”
When he complied, she cried out and he hardened even more against his fly at the sound, at the sensation of heat radiating from her center, at the sensation of the plug still. . .
“Jonathan. Can I come? . . . so close.” Her words were clipped and breathless.
“No.” He slid his fingers out quickly. “You haven’t earned it yet.” He spoke slowly, again picking up the cane and, lighter this time, swatted the bottoms of her feet to distract her.
Her uneven breathing and small movements slowed. While he waited for her to retreat from the edge, he undid the button of his jeans, the fly practically lowering itself from the pent-up pressure. A couple of strokes and he could come all over her, but he wanted to wait. He wanted to be inside her—inside her body, her heart, her life.
“What do you think? Are you ready for me to take you? To fuck you?” It came out softer and more tentative than he wanted. He still wasn’t used to talking dirty to her. “With the plug still in you?”
“Yes, Jonathan. Yes.”
He loosened all the restraints, positioned her on her hands and knees, and re-bound her wrists. Then he took off his pants, pulled her hips toward him, and slid into her velvety wetness, burying himself deep. The sexy sound she made almost had him coming on the spot.
. . . 99 . . . 98 . . . 97
“You feel . . . delicious.” He thrust hard and fast, counting down as he did for distraction. He did not want this to be over anytime soon. A few years right here, her ass fitting perfectly into the bend of his pelvis, would be nice.
He leaned over and bit the soft skin beside her shoulder, nipped at the side of her neck, whispered in her ear. “Do you like it when I fuck you?”
That was exactly what he was doing—there was no polite way to say it. Hard, fast, deep. And she was taking him. All of him.
“Yes,” she panted, “yes.”
“Like this, with your hands bound, your body open to me?”
“Yes. Jonathan. I like it. Because I trust you.” Her voice held pleasure and surrender at once, and it made his heart melt all over again.
Their rhythm escalated to a frenzied pitch. He may not have fully understood her need tonight, but he could see it, sense it. She leaned into it like the flower growing toward the sun. He grabbed her hair, a fistful on each side of her head like reins, and yanked each time he thrust.
“Jonathan, can I . . .” Her breathlessness coalesced into a long moan that set him afire.
“Come,” he growled. One word was all he could manage before she screamed, clutching the sheets in her fists as swells of their fused hunger rose and crashed as one.
9
Emergency contact
At Octavia’s desk, she paid the last of the bills and scheduled the DMs for the next few days so Octavia, due back at the end of the week, wouldn’t have to.
Please—no more delays.
It wasn’t the club that weighed on her; it was Charles’s comment by the bar cart in Jonathan’s apartment. I trust we’ll both keep each other’s confidences.
She could not do that for long. That night she had, perhaps selfishly, let Jonathan distract her. But Charles’s words had troubled her, and he was the only person she could address it with. Unfortunately, she had not seen him since that night.
Jonathan offhandedly mentioned Charles was traveling for a few days and busy working on another deal, which might explain his absence from the club.
She had been so very close to telling Jonathan she had met Charles at Octavia’s, but then she thought of the rules. She had an obligation to maintain confidentiality. Octavia would be incredibly disappointed if Quinn violated that. She might revoke Quinn’s membership or, worse, her friendship.
At the same time, she couldn’t continue to ignore the elephant in the room that was her and Jonathan’s relationship. Especially after the intensity, the closeness, of that night. She had been on the verge of telling him she loved him as they made love at dawn, her body aching everywhere from the previous evening, his touch so gentle, so loving and tender, it had nearly brought tears to her eyes.
But if Charles were keeping his club membership a secret—from Jonathan and, please not, from Becca—and Quinn knew about it, that would mean she was keeping the secret from them as well.
And that was not, to put it mildly, sustainable.
But there was always another perspective; she had learned that from writing fiction, if not from life itself. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe one simple conversation with Charles would clarify everything. He might tell her it was fine if Jonathan knew. He might tell her that Becca, even if she didn’t go to the club herself, was good with it.
Yes, maybe that’s exactly how the conversation would go.
She looked through the old wedding text threads on her phone for Charles’s number, but she didn’t have it.
On Octavia’s desktop computer, she opened the membership database and typed “Maximillian” into the search field.
When his record came up, Quinn glanced at the screen. His “connections” field was empty, as was the space for his emergency contact. At least on this screen, it was as if Becca didn’t exist for Maximillian at all.
She scribbled his number on a sticky note and tapped out a text on her phone, saying they needed to talk.
Is it urgent?
She pictured one of his eyebrows rising as he read.
Yes, it is.
Monday at 11?
Monday? That was days away. And, right. Of course. Monday was her date day with Jonathan, the one he had asked her for, and she had agreed to, at the wedding. The day that was so important to him he had mentioned it excitedly several times. The day she should not reschedule for a reason she could not tell him.
Is that really the soonest you can talk?
Yes. I’ll meet you there.
He wasn’t using the club name. Her stomach churned.
She slid her phone into the back pocket of her black jeans and left Octavia’s office.
On the main floor, she straightened up the rooms that had been used last night. The DMs left clean supplies and equipment on the counters to be put away today, each room, each drawer, each closet organized the same way to make it easy for members to find and keep track of things.
Nipple clamps, red and black ball gags, straps, harnesses, switches, paddles. She thought of bringing a few items to Jonathan for their play day, but she knew him—he would assume she was gently prompting him to do more, although that couldn’t be farther from the truth. He might not consider himself a real dominant, but he was perfect for her.
Her phone vibrated and she yanked it out of her pocket. It had to be Charles, texting back with an earlier meeting day and time. Surely, he wanted to clear this up as quickly as she did.
She sighed and shook her head at the universe. It was Becca.
Short notice, but are you by any chance in the city for a quick bite? My lunch meeting was canceled, and I’ve been wanting to talk to you.
Oh, thank goodness. Quinn let out a deep, tense breath as relief flooded her every pore. Becca did know. She was so sweet and thoughtful, she would want to tell Quinn she knew all about her and Charles meeting at the club. “We didn’t want it to be weird,” she would say. “But it’s all good and, don’t worry, I won’t tell my mom.”
Yes, I’m in the city! Love to meet you. Name the time and place.
The restaurant came into view as soon as she turned the corner.
When she approached, a gust of wind caught the heavy wood door as she tugged on the sculpted brass handle, blowing it wide open.
Inside, the hostess was leading Becca to a table. Quinn hurried to catch up.
Once the woman left their menus, Becca turned to hug Quinn. “I’m so glad this worked out. What are you up to in the city today?”
“Not much, really. I was . . . at Jonathan’s and then . . . I was at . . .”
What if she was wrong about why Becca asked her to lunch?
For some reason, she thought of the bookshelves in Octavia’s office. “. . . the library.”
“Well, you look great,” Becca said. “You have that rosy, I’m-in-love glow about you.” She gestured around her face.
Quinn pictured last night, how Jonathan had held her and caressed her after he caned her, tickled her with the feather, pulled her hair as they shattered together. Her cheeks heated like glowing embers, and she looked away from Becca’s happy, eager gaze. “Aww, thanks,” she said. “He’s wonderful; it’s going well.”
“As my mom would say, he’s such a peach.”
Quinn laughed at that. It was definitely something Leigh would say. “He is a peach,” Quinn said, shifting in her seat to take the pressure off the sorest part of her rear.
A server came to their table, ran through the dishes on the blackboard, and took their order—an iced tea for herself and lemonade for Becca, along with two of the day’s specials.
“Not to change the subject too abruptly, but I have something I’d like to ask you,” Becca said. “But you have to promise me you’ll give me an honest answer.”
“I do, I will.” Quinn bit the inside of her cheek. Have you seen my new husband at your BDSM club?
“It’s actually a huge favor,” Becca continued. “It’s fine to say no.”
“Ask away.”
“I know you must still be recuperating from all the wedding planning and the reception, but I was wondering—would you be willing to help me plan a shower?”
Okay, not what she was expecting. Or hoping.
“Of course I’ll help. Is Robin getting married? Or Ji?” Robin was a childhood friend; Ji, her college roommate.
Becca giggled. “No, I mean a baby shower. For me—us. We’re pregnant!”
Quinn coughed and took a drink from the slender straw in her tea. “My. That’s . . . wonderful news.” As a teenager, Becca had had some medical issues. It was hard in the moment to recall the details, but Quinn did remember Leigh saying pregnancy might not be an option. “I’m thrilled for you—that’s incredible.”
“But here’s the thing,” Becca went on. “Charles doesn’t know yet. With my history, I want to wait to tell him until I know more. I have an appointment with my doctor next week. Mom’s coming with me. In case we bump into each other between now and then, please don’t say anything. And I hate to ask you to keep a secret from Jonathan, but can you not tell him either, so he doesn’t slip with Charles?”
“I won’t say anything, honey. It’s your news to share.”
Quinn excused herself to the restroom but continued past it to the side entrance of the restaurant.
Outside in the fresh air, she took a huge breath. Had she been breathing at all at the table? It didn’t feel like it. Her lungs, her chest, they felt tight and empty.
