Make Me (25 page)

Like a lightning bolt, my entire body aches at once, the nerves sizzling with annoyance. Claustrophobia sucks all air from the room and I want to twitch, to chew my way through the ropes to get out because there’s too much, my skin’s feeling too much at once and it’s over-exhilarating and I want it
off
.

But twelve years of yoga have taught me to breathe through the pain, to relax into it and wait it out, and I’ll be damned if I’m giving up now. Not with something so beautiful and peaceful. The panic is only a thought and thoughts change moment to moment. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The discomfort turns to something else, and my whole body flushes with warmth. The ropes are no looser, but breathing is easy once again. My vision sharpens and I focus on the ropes themselves.

Black and red and mesmerizing all over. My whole body is being held by her ropes.

Oh, Darko gives good presents.

I am going to thank him so hard later.

If he’d done this for me, it would have been amazing, but a completely different experience. Instead of focusing on the Shibari itself, I’d be trying to get him naked.

Feeling exactly like a sack of warm jelly, I’m surprised I haven’t poured out of the holes into a puddle on the floor.

Maybe I have and this is all a dream. Her hands flow over my body, lightly adjusting, tugging, tapping. One large tug on my shoulders and another on my legs, pressing the ropes deeper into my skin, but they don’t bite. They nibble with friendly lips and I want more.

I could teach statues about how to feel still inside like I do right now. No meditation has ever brought me so deep so fast.

Killed me with tranquility.

Drowned me in a sea of peace.

“Open your eyes.”

Were they closed? She smiles up at me. I’m floating? I’m
suspended
. “Hi.”

She laughs and taps my chest. “Breathe.”

I keep forgetting to. It makes me smile.

I’m so silly.

‘Darko.’

I cross to the intercom and depress the button. “Yes?”

‘We’re on our way back. Be ready for aftercare. It was intense.’

“Thank you.”

I trust Robyn gave Sloane an experience to remember. I chose to stay in my room to let her have something that wasn’t involved with me, something in kink that was all about her with no expectations. Even my presence in the room would have been a possible distraction in something I wanted to just be about Sloane. But I’m surprised my feet haven’t worn grooves in the floor from pacing back and forth.

I could have done a Shibari scene with Sloane, but it is Robyn’s forte and Sloane deserves the best. The experience must have hit her harder than she’d anticipated. Shaking off the concern, I return to making the bed so it’s ready for her.

Shibari can make a submissive’s skin sensitive like nothing else, and I want to ensure she feels comfortable when she comes back. Jersey sheets have replaced the luxurious, though stiffer, Egyptian cotton ones. Silk sheets would have been a distraction and further stimulated her—this way she will be soothed and comforted, hopefully lulled into a state of utter relaxation and warmth.

In keeping with the theme of comfort, I fling a soft, fuzzy blanket over top instead of the down duvet. I want her to be comfortable and warm, but this felt like something that would appeal to Sloane more if she was in a blissed-out state.

A snack has been arranged for her on the table, fruit and some biscuits, things that deliver energy quickly. Drinking and eating are good for getting the body grounded and working again after a particularly intense scene.

The door opens, and my heart stops. Robyn raises her eyebrows. “Don’t look at me like that, Darko.”

A few angry strides eat the space between us, and I’ve taken the place of one of the subs supporting Sloane, whose glazed eyes are barely open. I glare at the other sub, who scurries out of the room, and pick Sloane up. She moans and snuggles into my chest. “What is she doing back here in this state?”

Robyn sighs. “Her blood pressure is a little low but well within the normal range.”

“I’m okay, Darko.” Sloane giggles against my chest. “I’m just gonna wait here until I get my sea legs.”

Robyn laughs. “She’s fine; we had the doctor look her over.” She pats Sloane’s cheek. “Somebody’s just not used to all those endorphins.”

I open her robe to check the marks on her skin; they’ve done
Gote gasshou
, tied her hands behind her in prayer position; and
Futumomo
, tying her thighs with the heels bent back to touch her ass. “Did you suspend her as well?”

“Yes.”

“From
Gote gasshou
?”

“Yes.”

Christ, no wonder she’s stratospheric. Her flexibility is both a help and a hindrance for her. Someone who wasn’t as flexible wouldn’t have been able to get into that position at all, never mind combining the two into a suspension. It’s a simple tie, but if done incorrectly can dislocate the arms.

Right now she’s acting drunk or high because she is—but on the chemicals her brain has released to help her deal with the pain. Sloane’s only seen Shibari in real life once, and she’s been put into advanced positions experienced submissives would have difficulty with. It’s a testament to her that she was calm enough to find subspace.

I find a smile for Robyn. “She really embraced it.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” She glides from the room, taking her helpers with her, leaving us alone.

“Is my little Shibari star hungry?” I carry her to the bed and set her down as gently as I can.

“No.”

Too bad.
I fetch a chocolate cookie and a bottle of water. She doesn’t resist, sipping and nibbling, though I take the bottle from her in between sips. It’s like watching a drunk when they’re moments from passing out.

She swallows the last bite with a gasp. “My skin, Darko.”

“I know. It will be hyper-sensitive for a little while. Let me have a look.”

She whips off the robe and rolls onto her stomach. Her flesh is decorated with gorgeous indentations in intricate patterns, invisible ropes that she will still feel tomorrow. No friction burns or anything to be worried about; Robyn’s too good for that.

“Flip over please.”

She does. More pink marks on her chest, above and below her breasts, criss-crossing down her sides. Entranced, I brush her hip and flank, heavily indented with the rope marks, and she inhales sharply, nipples instantly tightening.

Keep your goddamn hands to yourself.
I regain control though not without a flurry of wishes storming around inside me.

“Don’t stop.” Her hand reaches weakly for mine. “Please. Never felt anything like that before. I need it.”

I trace the boundary of one of the rope marks on her thigh, not quite touching it.

She smiles and shivers, eyes rolling back into her head. “Wow.”

I bend closer and blow cool air across the indentations of her upper arm, brush lightly against the one on her chest above her breasts.

“God, wow.”

I want to trace every mark with my tongue, but there’s a thin line between doing what she needs for her aftercare and being an opportunist bastard. Instead of tasting her, I stand and fold the blanket back invitingly. “Come here and get under the covers.”

It takes her a minute, since she refuses to stand, instead choosing to wriggle over an inch at a time, gasping at the soft friction against her back. Making her put clothes on would do no good, so I settle the blanket over her nude form.

“That’s nice.” She sighs happily.

No point asking her how she is—it’s stamped all over her face. A quiet room and a nap are the best things to bring her back to earth. I need some space as well to stomp down the irrational happiness flitting through me. This much happiness can’t last. “Get some rest.” I bend to kiss her forehead and her hand shoots out, gripping my shirt with surprising strength and white knuckles.

“Stay with me.”

“I am only moving to the chair, I promise.”

“No.” Her arm flops back to the blanket, and she resumes kneading it as though she’s trying to absorb the texture. “Here.”

A chair by her bed was what I’d planned on; I wouldn’t leave her alone like this, still half out of her body in subspace, but she wants me closer than I’d have elected.

Except this is about her, and she wants me closer. “Okay.”

“S’too bad you don’t have a movie.”

“I do have a laptop and a collection of DVDs if you would like to watch something.”

“I would like.”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“The eighties. No puppets unless they’re yours. From the thing. Your amber.”

I chuckle. “Thank you for narrowing it down for me.” A few steps away and I’m assaulted by thoughts of all the things I want to do to her, every sound I want to bring from her mouth by placing my tongue on different places on her body.

I brace my hands on the dresser, hanging my head before glancing in the mirror. Except for a brightness in my eyes, my expression is peaceful. I’m doing the right thing for her, showing her who she really is. I am proud of how well she did today with Robyn. The fact we’ve made love numerous times before is irrelevant; she’s not in a place to give consent, not blissed-out like this. I absolutely will not take advantage of this situation.

I grab my laptop and a DVD from the shelf. Most of my collection is from the eighties for nostalgia’s sake. Wanting something with a little of everything, and not too violent or serious, I choose one of my favorites about a writer like Sloane. Soon, I’m settled back beside her in bed, balancing the laptop on my quads.

Sloane’s a little more alert, but still spacey, and insists I get under the covers with her. She snuggles into the crook of my arm like it was made for her and she’s entitled to it. She’s not wrong.

She claps with delight when the menu appears. “I love this movie!”

“I am glad I chose well. It was between this and Indiana Jones.”

“Oh, that would have been good too. Unless it was the one with that chick with the voice.”

“I feel the same way.”

My eyes are on the screen, but my awareness is transfixed by the woman whose body is pressed to my side, whose hand casually traces distracting patterns through my shirt. Fifteen torturous, glorious minutes go by in silence before she inhales sharply and grins up at me.

“Please tell me you learned English by watching bad American movies.”

I touch the tip of her nose. “No, I had an ESL teacher. I did pick up a lot of colloquialisms from movies.”

“You do still speak a little formally and have a small accent.”

I shrug. “My ESL teacher was British, but I’ve worked very hard to lose her affectations. I wanted to blend in here in America.”

She snorts. “You couldn’t blend in if you tried. Besides, you still have your Serbian accent.”

“I do not.”

She strokes my chest. “It comes out when you’re angry or upset.”

“You’ve never seen me either.”

“Or flustered.” Her hand moves lower, and my accent curls my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

“Maybe you’ve seen me a little bit flustered.”

She laughs and returns her hand to my chest. “This movie made me want to become a writer, but I got into journalism instead.”

“Why did it make you want to be a writer?”

She tips her head and gazes at the ceiling. “It all seemed so exciting. Having adventures like that. Not the sister being kidnapped part. I thought that’s what writing would be like. Don’t laugh, I was a kid.”

“And yet, with the career you chose, your life is closer to hers than if you’d gone on to write...what genre were you going to focus on?”

“Something with ponies or fairies.”

I laugh and she hits my chest.

“I told you I was a kid! You can’t hold that against me.”

I capture her hand and trap it over my heart. “Why not do both?”

“Write about ponies and fairies?”

“No, write a book about your experiences as a journalist.”

She pushes up onto her elbow, rests her chin on my chest. “This one time, I let a Serbian spank me...”

I lick my lips. “I spanked a girl and I liked it.”

She inches closer. “So did I.” Soft as a sigh, her lips meet mine and set my head spinning.

It’s a kiss unlike any I’ve had in years. Gentle, languid, intensely tentative as only a first kiss can be, but this isn’t our first.

I hope we never have a last kiss. “But I mean things you’ve seen while writing stories. Features about war and like the one you did about prostitution rings.”

“You read that?”

“I’ve read everything I could find. You’re a fantastic writer, Sloane.”

She pushes the laptop aside and settles on top of me. Her body heat washes over me like a blanket, and I’m hyper-aware of her nudity, but keep my hands safely at my sides.

All I want to do is crush her to me, beneath me, devour her with my tongue and hands, but that would be too much for Sloane at the moment.

Right now, butterfly-light touches are the far edge of what her saturated nerves can handle. With twenty seconds, a feather, and a good deep breath, I’d have her come so intensely she’d pass out. I’m hard picturing it; I want so much to be with her. But I don’t want to be limited by constraints of gentleness.

I also don’t want this to end.

Her tongue teases mine, infuriatingly elusive, never stopping long enough, deeply enough, to satisfy the hunger, but I don’t dare move my hands for fear that she’ll stop. I increase suction, pulling her lower lip between mine and nibbling on it just a little.

With a moan, her tongue slides across mine, sending a jolt straight down my belly to my cock. Her mouth tastes rich and dark like the chocolate cookie I made her eat, and the silken texture of her lips mingling with her tongue finally forces my hands off the bed, and I trace the curve of her hips and ass. Even through the blanket the sensation is overwhelming; she shudders and groans and presses closer, grinding against my now painfully hard cock.

I take my hands away.

The marks on her body aren’t mine. It would be one thing if I’d brought her this high, made her this free and then continued the scene together, but I didn’t, and making love to her right now—hell, even what I’ve done so far, feels very much like exploiting the situation, using her endorphins against her. I can’t trust that this is what she really wants, or if it’s the endorphins talking. I don’t fuck women who have had a few too many drinks, and I don’t fuck subspace-drunk women either.