Page 8 of Cartel Devil

“If it hurts, and you don’t like it, tell me to stop.”

“More.”

He obliges until it’s almost more than I can take, but I breathe through it. I sense he’s probably kinky as fuck. Vittoria and Serafina have both hinted their husbands are into kinky sex just like both of them. Matches made in sexual heaven.

It wouldn’t surprise me if the men in all Four Families are all literally kinky fuckers. Apparently, that’s the unofficial name for the Diazes, the Mancinellis, the O’Rourkes, and the Kutsenkos along with their Andreyev cousins.

I’m kink-curious.

I have no official experience with real kink, but I like a spank here and there. I like my breasts sucked and squeezed, my nipples bitten and pinched. Maybe Joaquin can introduce me to some stuff tonight, even if there aren’t any toys to play with. I reach for his bow tie and offer it to him with my wrists already crossed. He hesitates as he watches me, and I think he’s going to reject my silent suggestion.

“If I tie your wrists, are you ready for what that means, Tre? Are you ready to submit?”

“Are you a Dom?”

“Yes.”

That seems antithetical to the shy man I thought he was. Maybe dominating his partners is how he gets over that shyness, or maybe it’s an escape from it.

“I’ve never been a sub before.”

He watches me again before he responds. “I want you to submit, but I don’t want you as a sub. I don’t want to be your Dom either.”

Ouch.

I guess he isn’t into the idea of teaching a novice.

“Tre—”

“Why do you call me that? I go by Tricia with family and friends. No one’s ever called me Tre.”

“If you don’t like it, I wo⁠—”

“I didn’t say that. I asked why.”

“I don’t know. It came to mind, and I guess it just makes sense to me.”

It’s special that he created a nickname for me, and intimate that it’s even shorter than the diminutive I often go by.

“I like it.”

I practically whisper that admittance because I don’t want to make more of something than it is. The longer we’re together, the more sober I’m getting. Or I’m so drunk I’m in that stupid haze where you believe you’re barely drunk at all. But it doesn’t feel like some toss-away thing he’s saying to seduce me or laziness that keeps him from saying my full name.

He eases my thong off as he continues to explain what he means. I’m glad he does because I don’t know how to differentiate his dominance from being a Dominant, or my submission without being a submissive.

“There’s a power exchange that happens in a D/s dynamic that I don’t want with us. I always want you to feel like you’re my equal. I don’t want to hear you call me sir or master. I’d like to hear you say my name. I won’t punish you if you do. I don’t think you’re ready or will ever want the headspace that subs enter when they give up that much control. But I still want you to have a word in case you don’t feel safe or fear being harmed.”

He sounds pretty fucking sober as he explains. Maybe he’s in better shape than I am. After all, he’s a lot bigger than me, so maybe the alcohol barely did anything to him. But I’m following along just fine. At least, I think I am. I’m definitely drunk because I’m feeling—and saying—all my emotions.

“I know I’ll always feel safe with you, and I don’t fear you harming me. I don’t think you could live with that. But I get what you mean about a safe word if I hit my physical limit.”

“Physical, mental, or emotional limits. Don’t accept things you don’t want because you feel like you agreed to kink, and now you have to live with it.”

“Guaro. I definitely won’t be asking for more of that.”

His chuckle is sin and seduction.

“Okay, chiquita.”