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I scooped my arms around his waist, already relenting when I felt his muscles pressed against me. I felt protected and safe. As safe as I felt when I first entered Dungeon #3.
“It’s not that,” I assured him, squeezing tight. Who cared if we were being that gross, PDA couple? Who cared that in terms of a celebrity, I was a no one and he was an A-lister? None of that mattered when we were together. None of that changed the way we felt about each other. “Since we’re doing the open and honest thing-”
He cleared his throat, pointedly reminding me that he’d been doing the open and honest thing all along.
“Okay, fine,” I rolled my eyes. “I’m doing the open and honest thing. Finally. Better?”
He nodded, his eyes holding the grin that his lips teased. “Much better.”
“I was kind of feeling like I didn’t belong,” I explained, letting my tiny voice build. Embracing the grandness of the room and the fact that I was here, and had every right to be. “It felt like I was Cinderella and at any moment, the clock would strike midnight and all of this would disappear. You would disappear.”
People milled around us, but Desmond didn’t take notice of any of them. His eyes never left me. “That’s funny, I was gripping your hand so tight on set, reaching for you at every stop light because I was worried that if I let go, I would be roused awake. This would all be a dream, because in why do I get the girl?” He brushed my cheek softly. “What did I do to deserve someone so amazing?”
I was stunned, looking into his eyes, looking at a man that harbored my same insecurities. That he wasn’t enough. That he didn’t deserve happiness. But he was. And he did. And so did I.
I popped on my tiptoes and kissed him like it was the first and last time. Like I wanted to make an impression, packing all the love inside me into my lips, laying my bloody, beating heart on my sleeve. Giving him all of me and taking all of him.
When our lips finally parted and my breathing slowed, I whispered, “If you don’t get me to your place, I’m gonna have to jump your bones right here.”
He contemplated that for a moment, and I could tell from the redness in the concierge’s cheeks and the smiles on the faces of the other people in the lobby that we had quite the audience.
“Some other time,” he said aloud, reclaiming my hand and pulling me toward the elevator.
I stood in awe as a bonafide elevator operator in a sleek black suit greeted us and asked for our desired floor. Desmond told him the penthouse and he typed in the access code. After a second hearty tip, the elevator doors retracted, with a slender corridor stretching before us. A silver door waited at the end and I gaped as Desmond typed in a second access code.
“Are you secretly some covert government agent?” I joked.
“No,” he chuckled, “But this building has had some breeches in security, thanks to some determined paparazzi and reporters, so this extra layer was added, just in case.”
When the door opened and I saw Desmond’s place, I saw why. The walls were blood red, loud and visceral. Before me stretched a view that had to be pretty close to the view from a plane with plush clouds and breathtaking skyscrapers. Black and white nude photographs and drawings and sketches of crosses and whips were hung with care. All manners of kink surrounded us, the space wide open and complete, with the necessities like a bar top and what I was sure was top of the line appliances in the kitchen. A leather couch and a silver and gold coffee table rounded out the living room space, with an extra large flat screen TV affixed to the wall. But it was the St. Andrew’s Cross that I gravitated to, along with a rack of whips and floggers. Right there. Out in the open. Not hidden in plain sight or tucked away in some secret room. Bold, unashamed, and in your face.
I was getting wet just taking it all in.
He stood beside me, quiet and gauging my reaction. Before he could ask me if I wanted a drink or some other form of small talk, I leapt into action.
I practically ran over to the cross, sliding my fingers over the grooves. The mahogany had a scooped texture, soft to the touch, so stark compared to the harsh metal rings affixed to the four beams.
Remembering that the last time we'd been in a playroom, I'd revealed that it really was a role for me, I paused. Submissive. But what did that label mean anyway? The only thing that was real was the excitement that filled me until I was overflowing. Ready to do anything to be strapped to his cross. Ready to submit.
I was so lost in my excitement. I expected him to hold steadfast to where I'd left him, silently condemning my boldness and complete disregard for boundaries and rules, that I gasped when he dropped a kiss on my shoulder. Even through the fabric of the T-shirt, my skin tingled when his lips brushed against me.
"Let me guess," he purred in my ear. "‘Can I, can I, can I please?’. Or something along those lines?"
I tried to catch him with the end of my elbow, but he was too quick, dodging out of the way and using that same elbow to wrangle me and pull my body crashing into his. There was just muscle, lust, and those eyes stripping me down.
Even though I wriggled like I wanted to break free, my eyes gave me away and I finally stopped fighting, settling for sighing, extra loud. "Am I that obvious?"
He released me, but his hands gravitated to my breasts, fondling me through my shirt. "Or maybe I'm just that good."
He got no complaints from me. His hands did feel good on me, the power, the hold he had on me, unlike anything I'd ever felt. But when I moaned, when I called him 'Sir', his hands fell away.
I whipped around to face him and I could see the struggle whip across those chiseled features.
"There's nothing I want more than to tie you to that cross, Sophia. I'm a Dom. That's what turns me on." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "But you were pretending before. Curious. It's unethical and selfish for me to ask you to go along with this just because it's what I want."
I gripped his hands, bringing his knuckles to my lips. "It's not like that, Desmond. You're right. This is a new world to me. But my fascination with D/s is not some passing thing. Or some ruse to placate you." Just in case I wasn't being clear, I let go of one of his hands and unbuttoned my jeans and unzipped my fly. Before he could give me one of those scolding looks, I slipped his hand inside my pants. I didn't put his thick fingers where I wanted, letting him take the plunge. His eyes were unsure, his lips slightly parted, and then I sucked in a breath when his fingers pulled aside my panties and brushed my quivering slit.
"Fuck, you're wet," he groaned, his eyes widening. He was still on the fence, hesitant. "You want this. You want to submit to me?"
