Lisa Jones: His Secrets

“I trust you, Chris.”

Trust. It’s something I value. It’s something I intend to deserve with this woman every day of the rest of our lives. I caress the robe off her shoulders, feeling the goose bumps that rise in its wake, liking how I’m never on edge alone with Sara. As I toss the garment aside, my gaze lowers sliding hotly over her full, high breasts, then lifts. “Do you trust me, Sara?”

“I did say I’d marry you.”

The idea of Sara being my wife stirs a mix of heat and possessiveness that I never thought I would feel for anyone. “Yes. And being your husband gives me certain . . . privileges.”

“Privileges?”

My cock thickens with the raspy quality of her voice. “I told you once that if you stayed with me, I’d own your body. Every last inch of it. Marriage seals that deal.”

“You already own my body, Chris. Sometimes too well.”

“Not yet. But I will, baby. You can count on it.” I back away from her and go to the far wall, grabbing the red leather stool resting against the wall and bringing it to the center of the room.

Her teeth scrape her bottom lip and I can think of all kinds of places I want those lips, and mine, as well. “What’s that?”

“A surprise,” I promise, unbuttoning my jeans and shoving them down my legs. Her gaze rakes over my body, all signs of shyness gone, her eyes lingering where my shaft juts forward, and I am instantly thicker, harder, ready for her the way I know she is for me. But it’s still not time.

I squat in front of the stool and remove two long, flat, rectangular boxes. “I brought us some toys.”

She swallows hard. “Toys?”

I open the larger of the boxes and pull out a pink, fluffy paddle we’ve joked about on numerous occasions.

She laughs nervously. “You didn’t.”

“I told you I ordered it.” I pat the stool. “The perfect companion toy.”

“So you want to . . . ”

“Bend you over it and spank you,” I supply. “Yes. Do you want me to?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I mean, yes, I do but . . . ”

“You’re not ready.”

Her eyes go wide. “No. I mean yes. I am.”

“No,” I say firmly, sensing she isn’t in the right place today. And respecting that is part of keeping her trust. “You’re not. You will be, but not now.”

“But if you—”

“I have other plans.” I open the second box and flip it around to display the butterfly nipple clamps inside.

“I should have known that was next,” she observes. While there’s still a nervous quality to her voice, the tension in her body eases, telling me we’re in her comfort zone even before she asks, “Will they hurt?”

“An erotic ache,” I explain, removing two pink sashes from inside a box. Then I walk to stand in front of Sara. “Put your hands over your head.”

She does as I say without hesitation, and the fact that she trusts me that much in the midst of the unknown gives me a high I believe she shares with me. I need this control. She needs a safe place to give it away. It works for us, and I will always be safe for her in a way the whip never was for me—a way I never wanted it to be. I will never hurt her as I wanted it to hurt me.

I tie each of her wrists, then hook the sashes to small hooks near the top of the wall I’d installed earlier this morning while she was asleep, then I press my hands to the silk by her head. She stares back at me, her lashes half veiled, her eyes laden with arousal.

“You’re beautiful, Sara, and you’re mine.”

“You’re beautiful, Chris, and you’re mine.”

I laugh, tenderness seeping into the arousal pulsing through me; no one ever made me laugh in a moment like this. But then, I’m not sure there ever was a moment like this, before Sara. “Yes, baby—I’m yours.” I run my hands down her sides, her hips, and back up again, then gently let my thumbs brush her nipples. She whimpers, that soft sexy sound I’ve come to crave, and I step closer, sliding my shaft between her thighs, teasing us both, and then tugging lightly on the stiff peaks of her nipples.

Cupping her breasts, I bend my head and begin sucking and licking, warming her nipples until I think she’s ready for what comes next. I move to the bench and remove the butterflies from the case, then return to Sara.

“I’m nervous,” she confesses, a slight shake to her voice.

I like that she can be that open and honest with me. I like where that leads us, what that makes us. “Because it’s new, but all you have to do is say ‘stop’ and we’ll stop. You know that.”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I do know.”

“These are gentle clamps, without weights.” I reach down and start stroking one of her nipples, taking her mind off the unknown, readying her for the pressure she’ll soon feel. “They’re good for beginners.” I lean in and kiss her.

“Chris,” she whispers. “You . . . you make me feel . . . I don’t even have words.”

“Ditto, baby, from the first day I met you. You ready?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a clamp for both nipples and your clit, so when we fuck, it tugs on all the right places. I’ll put the ones on your nipples first. They’re going to bite and then throb, but the ache will ease quickly. Okay?”

“Yes. Okay.”

“Good.” I stroke her hair from her face, pulling her mouth to mine, kissing her deeply, passionately, drinking in the taste of her nervous excitement, her passion, then letting my lips caress down her neck, over her shoulder blade, until I suck her nipple again.

Lifting the clamp, I run the metal over her sensitive skin, glancing up at her as she sucks in a breath and waits. I close the butterfly down on her and, panting, she drops her head forward. “Oh, God. Chris, it—”

I lean down and lick around the metal, and at the same time, I press my fingers down her flat belly and into the slick, wet heat of her sex. She whimpers, and the sound is pure pleasure, no pain, as she whispers, “It’s . . . hmmmm . . .”

“Good?”

“I . . . yes.”

I lick the other nipple, and then warn her with the feel of metal on the stiff peak before I clamp the second butterfly into place. Her reaction is the same as before, with her head falling forward, followed by panting. And damn, I like the way she pants.

Careful to ensure those pants stay about pleasure, I again lave the nipple with my tongue, easing her away from the ache. Lowering myself to my knees, I let the chain connected to the clamps drop down her belly. I tug gently on the end, applying pressure to her now sensitized nipples, and she moans in response.

I stroke her swollen nub back and forth. “This one won’t be as intense as the other two.” I don’t give her time to think about it. I clamp down on her clit with the metal, then, sliding two fingers inside her, smile with satisfaction when she starts to spasm around me almost instantly. Her hips arch, and using my fingers and tongue, I stroke her to completion, fast and hard, and then ease her down soft and slow, until she’s done. She turns her head to hide her face.

I stand up and cup her face, forcing her gaze to mine. “It’s sexy as hell,” I promise her, kissing her, letting her taste herself on my lips, my tongue. “And that was only the beginning.” I cup her gorgeous backside and lift her hips, pressing my shaft into the warmth of all that slick heat of her orgasm, knowing the motion will tug on the clamps.

She sucks in air and jerks against the wrist ties as I thrust into her, then she moans and confesses raspily, “If I didn’t get the whole pain is pleasure thing before, I do now.”

The words punch me in the chest, shifting my mood, darkening the place I’m taking her, and us. I tangle my fingers into her hair and drag her mouth to mine. “There are two kinds of pain, Sara. Pain meant to create pleasure, and pain meant to be just pain. You will never know that kind with me. Never.” I drive into her harder, faster, with a need that wasn’t there seconds ago. A need for escape, though I’m not sure from what. Just . . . escape.