Make Me (19 page)

What do I want from Darko?

Everything.

How the hell was I supposed to tell him that? Instead, I settled on dinner. For now.

The way he lit up when I confessed that it wasn’t just submission turning me on made me want to take a picture. Not just because he looked so happy but because that means he wants the same thing. My suspicions were correct thinking he stopped for my own good and not because he was rejecting me. I practically danced to my car when he texted his address.

Nerves find me while walking up his front steps, gripping hard. His house is charming, like someone took a cute little cottage, upgraded everything, and added a story, increasing the size while keeping the homey feel. There’s one of those little sunrooms in the front that I’ve always wanted—perfect for reading or writing in when there’s crappy weather, or sunny weather, or any weather at all.

My hands shake when I reach up to knock.

He answers with a smile, wearing jeans and a green t-shirt that unleashes butterflies in my belly. “Come in.”

My initial impression carries through inside with the hardwood floors that have obviously been redone and gleam beautifully. High ceilings give the house a spacious feel, and the deep, fresh, intense blue walls are off-set by wooden accents in various shades. No wood is painted in his house; instead the simple beauty of the grains shine through in the banisters, tables, and many wooden shelves.

There’s no modern, pointy, metal and glass decor. All the lines of the furniture and tables have gentle slopes and graceful arcs. It’s a house made for relaxing, right down to the crackling fire in the fireplace in the living room.

“Come, get comfortable.”

I curl up on one end of Darko’s couch.

“What do you feel like?”

I must have a deer in the headlights expression, as he grins and elaborates. “For supper?”

“Oh! Chinese?”

“Good. Would you like anything to drink while we wait?”

A bottle of anything to settle my nerves? “A glass of wine?”

“Red or white?”

What would taste better on his lips? “Red.”

He hands me a menu, I select a couple dishes, and he phones in our order before bringing us both glasses of a rich, fragrant red.

We sit quietly with our thoughts, but it’s nice. I don’t feel comfortable around many people. Growing up in politics, we were always taught that people are looking for an angle, waiting to use your flaws against you, and it taught me to look for the ugliness beneath the surface in other people. Journalism stoked that fire of negativity, teaching that people are monsters and that the bad things, harsh truths, are better stories. Sensationalism sells. It’s tainted how I see people, and I didn’t realize the extent of that until now.

Sitting in silence with Darko is easy because I know the shadows beneath his skin; he already performed his own exposé and what I saw only makes me more interested. There’s no other shoe dangling above my head with him. I’m never wondering what heinous secrets he’s trying to keep hidden, and that’s relaxing.

It’s easy to be around him like this, maybe because I’ve acknowledged my feelings and he seems to be on the same page as me. The curiosity I feel when speaking to him isn’t because I want to get to his truth. It’s because I want to know more of it. Curiosity without intent is a pleasant, though unfamiliar, experience. The idea that I even imagined being able to paint him into some dark figure of BDSM is laughably impossible.

He’s the safest person I’ve ever met, but my racing pulse might kill me.

I turn toward him and lay my head on the back of the tan leather couch. “How long have you lived in Seattle?”

“Five years.”

“You’ve had your store the whole time?”

“Yes.”

I kind of wish antiquing was a hobby of mine so we could have met sooner. “What’s your favorite part of it?”

“The city or the store?”

“The store. Your job specifically, I guess.”

He shifts toward me, mirroring my posture. I want to trace the angular lines of his jaw.

“Merging histories. Objects have stories of their own, lives in a way, as do people. And when I sell a piece to someone, their histories are merging, becoming one. It links people together through objects, and even though they may never know the history or those previous owners, the reality of the situation remains.”

“What’s your favorite object?”

He stares into his glass. “It’s silly.”

Is he blushing? “Please?”

He nods toward a small wooden box sitting alone on the mantle. I set my wine on the coffee table and head for the fireplace.

My fingertips almost touch when I wrap my hands around the small, dark, reddish wood box. No decoration other than the grain of the wood itself, but the clean lines and silvery green latch are gorgeous. “This, or what’s inside it?”

“Inside.”

Flipping it open, light seeps in and kicks up a warm gold from the amber stone, set into an ornate but delicate gold circle.

“What is it?”

“A brooch. A trinket, but it…” he trails off and takes another sip of wine.

“What?”

“It reminded me of a television show I saw when I was young.” He comes to the mantle, sets his glass down, and takes the brooch from the box.

“What was it about? Do I know it?”

“It is unlikely. It only had one season and was a small Canadian show. In it, there was a brother and a sister and they traveled to a magical land using a necklace they found.”

“And this looked like the necklace?”

“Sort of. Of course, the magical world was in trouble and the kids had to save it. Terribly eighties, full of puppets.” His mock seriousness tickles my lips into a smile.

“I don’t hate puppets.”

“They’re not without their charm.” He traces the edge of the brooch with his fingertip. “But the idea of an object that could take me away was so appealing it stuck with me. I saw this, and even though it’s not really magic, it’s not expensive, or useful, I can’t let it go. It’s managed to stay in my possession for fifteen years.”

“Amber is beautiful.”

“It’s my favorite. Again with the history of things, I must sound like a man obsessed. But it was once a part of the world thousands and thousands of years ago.”

His view of things takes my breath away. He’s strangely sentimental and it’s touching. “Amber’s my birthstone.”

He rubs the back of his neck and puts the piece back in the box. “Anyway, it’s just a trinket. Junk, really.”

I squeeze his forearm. “It’s not junk. At all. It’s an idea. A dream. Don’t be embarrassed; I love that you’ve kept it.”

He drops his gaze to the floor. “You are a fascinating, dangerous woman, Sloane Winters.”

“Me? Why am I dangerous?”

His blue eyes are a dark smolder when he returns my stare. “You make me nervous.”

Said the teardrop to the ocean. “Why?”

“Because you matter.”

The chime of the doorbell drowns out my inhalation.

The doorbell rings a second time, freeing me from her gravity. Somehow I manage to make my way to the door, collect the food, and pay the deliveryman, though I remember none of it, unable to think of anything but Sloane.

My kitchen seems to have shrunk; Sloane and I get in each other’s way a suspicious amount of times. My hand brushes her lower back on my way past to get the plates. Her hip bumps my leg when she grabs the utensils. My skin burns for more, but she’s here for dinner, not dessert.

Soon the table is set and food is spread out, and Sloane sits across from me at my small dining suite looking as flustered as I am. “This looks good.”

I nod and spoon some vegetables onto my plate. “It does.”

She unwinds some noodles from the carton and onto her plate with chopsticks, fumbling a few times. “Damn it.” She throws them down and grabs a fork, taking such obvious delight in the instant gratification of the upgrade that I laugh.

She looks up in surprise. “What?”

I set my chopsticks down and grab a fork as well. “I hate chopsticks.”

“You do?”

“It seems like people are trying to be hip or something when making a big deal about using them.”

Her eyes light up. “That’s exactly it! Look at me with my awesome sticks I never use to eat anything else with ever. I’m so hip and cultured.”

“They are not more efficient if you’re not used to them, that’s for damned sure.”

“Unless using them to stab the pretentious idiots with.”

I smile and eat a water chestnut. Despite the deliciousness of the food and the levity of the moment, all I want to devour is her. “Tell me more about your work in journalism. You seem to have very flexible hours. Do you have to go into an office for regular hours at all?”

She sets her fork down. “I’m a freelancer but under a contract with a paper right now, so it’s a bit more flexible for me. I still have deadlines but pretty much just hand things in when they’re done.”

“And?” I prompt when she doesn’t elaborate.

“I like it, for the most part. Some stories are hard. Some are easier than others. But it’s about the truth, right?”

“Is it about the truth or about stories?”

She chews her lip. “For me, the truth is what matters. For the paper, it’s a business.”

“Yes, I understand. They need to put out what sells. But there must be temptation to take things from your life and work them into stories, yes?”

“Not really.” She pushes her rice around, not eating it.

I’ve made her uncomfortable by prying about her personal life and change the subject. “I am glad you came over tonight.”

Warmth floods her eyes again. “I am too.”

“You expressed the interest in changing things between us. Are you okay with the scenes so far? Do you wish to redefine any limits?”

“They’ve been amazing. No changes, please.”

The taste of my only bite has long since been drowned by the wine. “Have you put any thought into something you’d like to try in a future scene?”

She hesitates. “I like the way you’ve done things.”

“But?”

Her sip leaves a slight tinge of red to her lower lip. “No buts. Everything you do has been so good.”

I am not imagining the huskiness in her voice on those last two words nor the hunger in her eyes.

“You’ve barely touched your plate, Sloane.”

She leans closer. “I’ve never been less hungry in my entire life.”

I am going to make her come inside out. “What is your safeword?”

Her silky hair slips through my fingers when I reach out, and she closes her eyes and shivers. “Bunnies.”

“Good.” Oh, the things I could do to her. The things I am going to do to her. But which ones will make her scream the loudest, come the hardest?

She is light in my arms when I lift her from the chair and carry her up the stairs to my bedroom. Setting her down on the large four-poster, canopied bed, I turn on the small lamp on the nightstand instead of the harsher one overhead. I remove her clothes like unwrapping a present, unveiling her body slowly, savoring the sight of each new inch of skin that’s uncovered until she is naked.

I regret deeply that I never got to savor her when we last slept together. I will not rush this encounter.

She loved Shibari. Should I get my ropes? She liked my chains, should I grab them instead? Candle wax?

No. The thought of even a vibrator between us is too much distance, too removed. Tonight, I will worship her with only my hands, my tongue, my cock. No toys, nothing but her and me. If I can’t satisfy her with only myself, then I do not deserve her.

“One moment.” She does tend to be stubborn. I move to the wardrobe and return with four deep blue silk scarves.

Her eyes are wary and dangerous. “You’re not going to tie me up and leave, are you?”

“Not tonight.”

“Just to be clear, I want you—need you—to fuck me tonight. And if you do anything like you pulled with the vibrator the other night, I will chew my way through those scarves and strangle you with them.”

“Sloane, I swear on my honor you will not leave this bed until you’ve been thoroughly fucked.”

Her eyes widen when I lean down and trace her inner thigh, pausing at the ankle and tying it to the bedpost. I tie her other ankle to the other bedpost. Her soft, pink flesh spread before me makes me groan.

She smiles. “Your eyes just turned black.”

“Did they? Must be because you are in trouble for threatening to strangle me a moment ago. Do you know what happens to willful little subs who threaten their Doms?”

She writhes against the restraints and bites her lip. “God, I want to know.”

I tie her left arm, stroll leisurely around the bed, and tie her last free limb, relaxing as I do so. “They get punished.”