Page 70 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

My brows lift. “Color me impressed. Is he a rigger?”

“I don’t... think so. He just prefers to do things properly.” She says it like she’s quoting him. “He just bound my wrists together and away from my head.”

I nod. “How was that?”

“Painful. But... it made things a little more interesting. I liked testing the bindings.”

I make a mental note of that for later. “Anything else?”

She shrugs. “Nothing to really write home about. I haven’t had that many partners in my life. I guess roleplaying if you count Beltane last year, but that was more of an ‘ecstatic trance’ thing than a kink thing.”

“Uh... I know you don’t think we’re just going to gloss over that,” I say. “Details.”

“It’s embarrassing,” she whines.

I test the waters with her then. I let my expression sober and my tone level out with a sort of unspoken authority. “Lillith,” I prompt again.

She looks adequately chastised, but a flush dusts across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. I reward her with a brush of my thumb over the crest of her heated cheek as she continues.

“Beltane is when The Goddess and The Stag meet, and he claims her as his bride. Bastion was chosen as the stag last year, and since he gets to invite whoever he likes to play the part of the goddess, he asked me. It’s an honor to participate, so I said yes. There was a chase, and once he caught me... there was a ritual. A claiming on an altar while other participants bore witness.”

“So... primal play. And a bit of exhibitionism. Are there any things on your wish list that you’d like to try? Anything you don’t want to do?”

“Nothing really comes to mind,” she says. “But... I do like the idea of you taking charge, if that’s what you’re trying to sus out.”

“Do you, now?” I ask, unable to help the way my smile widens. The promise of compatibility between us leaves me pleasantly breathless.

She leans her weight on me again, letting her head loll to the side as her eyes go hooded. She nods shyly and tucks her lower lip beneath her teeth.

“I need to hear more about that, little bird,” I say.

“I think... it might be nice to be your plaything for a little while. If you promise to like me as much as you do now when you’re done with me.”

Arousal tunnels through my middle in a way that makes every sinew and nerve ending feel like it’s on fire. I feel the tight expansion of her ribcage in the circle of my hands, knowing she must feel the same.

“Good,” I say with a warm smile, despite the way my voice bottoms out. “Then be a good girl. Undress from the waist down. And wait for me on the couch while I wash my hands.”

ㅤ

My skin feels impossibly hot in the most pleasant way as I sit on the couch, half naked. I hear the faucet in the kitchen as Damien hums to himself and washes his hands for entirely too long. I realize he’s humming “Happy Birthday”. Twice. Like how they told us to do during the pandemic to ensure we got all of the biohazards off our hands.

There is something oddly ominous about being sat on the couch while he cleans up. The threadbare fibers of the upholstery feel entirely new beneath my bare thighs despite the sofa being in my family for decades. I’m almost certain he means to create that foreboding air.

I’ve only seen little hints of Damien’s proclivities toward dominance. The very first kiss he planted on me before the show started a little over three weeks ago. The way he seems to enjoy marking me, or holding onto my wrists while we kiss. The way he pressed his thumb and index finger into my pulse points while he told me about how he and Oren want to share me.

It’s strange, because I feel very calm around him normally. I’d trust Damien with anything. With my drink. With my best friend. If I still had it, I might even let him handle the Nightingale Pearl. But when he comes into the room again, drying his hands with a fresh dishcloth, my heart starts to hammer so hard that I can hear my pulse in my ears.

He approaches the couch and stands right in front of me, lording over me—no, looming. He’s totally looming. His eyes are narrowed and hooded as he almost absentmindedly rolls his split tongue over his lower lip. Damien drops the dishcloth behind him with no real attention paid to where it lands, holding my gaze with a faint smile curving his full lips. A smile that looks menacing with how it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I can hear my breaths coming out of my lungs. They’re slow, controlled, but loud. My mouth goes dry, and I struggle with swallowing, hearing the click of my throat as my stomach bottoms out.

“You really put me through the wringer, Little Bird,” he says, his voice unnervingly calm. “And I don’t appreciate that.”

“What?” I blurt, stupidly.

“What did I tell you from the very start? When I first realized you were keeping things from me?”

“I don’t remember?” My heartrate picks up.