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I looked up at him as I said it and was struck again at how beautiful he was, the Loki from the comic book movies, his hair swept back. He was blonder than Loki, but with storm dark eyes and a triangular smile, all wide at the top and mischievously pointed at the bottom. His body was all lean muscle. He'd taken his shirt off to avoid getting soaked and wore sweats that rode low on his narrow hips.
He raised an eyebrow at me. "You couldn't think of the word for bathroom?"
"Not this room this room. This room," I said but helped out with a finger circle and jab that took in my – whatever it was.
"Your apartment?" he asked.
"Apartment! That's another word! I had squirrels. No, I mean rabbits."
He bit one lip and did not smile at me. Intentionally, I thought. "You're a little tiny bit stoned," he said. "Endorphins are wonderful, aren't they?"
His hands were soaping my breasts, which apparently were very, very dirty. He circled them, lavished the soap on them, dripped handfuls of hot water over them and started over.
"Sir?"
He met my eyes. I couldn't think how to say what I wanted. I was still ashamed of what I wanted, confused at wanting it, and somehow Mark was back in my head, the way I had to ask him for things because our styles were so different.
I thought he'd make me ask. I thought I wouldn't quite admit I thrived on the humiliation as well. But he just met my eyes and smiled so slightly it could have been an illusion. Then he slid both hands down the slopes of my breasts, grabbed both nipples and squeezed, twisting and pulling, making them ache and the place between my legs throb. I thrashed in the water and despite all the soap, he didn't let go, just kept pinching harder until I was ready to shout Red and I didn't even know if we were playing, if I was being punished, if he was responding to what I'd wanted.
If he'd stop.
My mouth started to form the word.
He let go of both breasts, slapped them hard back and four half a dozen times, then plunged one hand under the frothing water, finding my entrance with no hesitation. He shoved two fingers deep inside me and his thumb went hard on my clit.
"Come," he growled.
I obeyed. Over and over and over.
He put me to bed, still slightly damp, and cuffed my wrists and chained them to the headboard. He wrapped the sheet confiningly tight around my legs.
"Not safff," I muttered, because the word wouldn't come out just right. I could barely focus on him or the fact that, impossibly, the sun seemed to be setting.
"Shh," Cole St. Martin whispered, his lips against the bath-damp wisps of hair at my temple. "I'll be right here."
I saw him settle into the armchair near the bed right before my eyes closed.
He was still there when I woke in the morning.
