Worth The Wait: A Nature Of Desire Series Novel (10 page)

If it hadn’t had that effect, or if he’d allowed her to talk, she might have asked him more about what he was doing. She liked learning the ‘hows’ from her artists, but she understood the point of his earlier instruction. He wanted her immersed in it, not learning like a student sitting behind a desk.

With every knot he tied, every diamond shape he created between the knots, putting her body from throat to pussy in a net, heat spread through her. His nimble fingers caressed and manipulated her body so it melded with his work.

The high notes in “Ever After” heightened her reactions. On one drawn out note, she felt a spasm between her legs as if the range had plucked at her clit like a guitar string. Before creating the diamond shapes, Des had drawn the double strands of rope between her legs, split them around her labia and pulled that line up between her buttocks. As he created the net, the compression increased, so her bound sex throbbed. She dropped her head back as the lead singer screamed to fight for something. To face the music… Her knees quivered, but Des had her.

He was touching her incidentally, the sides of his hands, his fingertips, his knuckles, brushing her breasts, her nipples, her pussy. The casual stimulation was maddening, all the more because a glance down showed a steel bar of response against his jeans. Those flickers of eye contact between them were more weighted. When she licked her lips, his gaze followed the motion. He slid his fingertips over her hip as he bent and kissed her shoulder.

“You are fucking unforgettable, love. Time to make use of the hooks.” He unbound her wrists, but left the hands in their closed state. Moving around her to retrieve one of the lines from the ceiling, he hooked it to the knot between her breasts, then hooked another down at her waist, and a third above her pubis. He left all three suspension lines slack. “Put your arm around my neck for this next part.”

She did and he lifted her right leg, bending the knee and securing it so she was standing on one leg. Grasping her arm, he lifted it over her head, attaching it to a loop at the upper part of the rope that he’d secured between her breasts. He restrained the other hand to her upper thigh.

“You’re safe, Julie. You can’t fall. I have you at four points. When I go to the wall, I’m going to draw the ropes taut, let them lift you off the ground. I need you to completely relax. Just let the ropes take you. Don’t fight them.”

He reinforced the command with a caress of her hip as he moved away. She focused on doing as he’d commanded and, when the ropes slowly began to tighten, she let her body go limp. The rope holding her leg lifted her first, and she drew the other off the ground as she found herself tilted so she was at a forty-five degree angle to the stage, her hair spilling down toward it because her head was tipped back. That felt a little uncomfortable, because she couldn’t figure out if she needed to strain to keep it lifted or let it drop back.

He was back in a blink, his hand cradling her skull as he wrapped rope over her forehead and nape, knotting and weaving them with the lines at her back, shoulders and breasts so that when he tied off the ends to the suspension rope above her breasts, her head was supported, no unbearable strain on her neck.

Yet there was enough discomfort left over to make her feel…excited. At the orchid garden, he’d told her he liked contrasting stimuli, but he’d proven that was a two-way street.

"That a girl. You're a goddess, love. You feel it, you look it." He put both hands in her hair, fingers stroking again, combing deep, the sensation feathering over her scalp. Twisting her hair in a tight corkscrew, he bound the hair in a wrap of rope. He cupped her chin and loosened but didn’t release the other ropes. Easing her head back, keeping tension in the binding on her hair, he knotted it in the back of the breast harness so she was looking at the ceiling lights, the two opposing tensions supporting her head and holding it in place, increasing her sense of helplessness. His hand slid from her jaw to stroke her windpipe.

She was suspended in the air, her head back, one arm lifted above her and knee bent as if she were a fairy who had suddenly decided to turn over and face the sky, fly that way.

Her pussy was wet and her limbs were shuddering, her stomach a mass of hopping frogs. She was spread open, vulnerable, and she realized she was no longer silent. Little sounds were caught in her throat, a pleading noise.

“Still with me, love?”

She nodded.

“I need to hear your voice.”

“Yes.” She was breathing hard. He stroked her torso, a soothing and stimulating gesture at once. She was suspended at waist height to him and he took advantage of it, curling his fingers around her breasts to knead them in their rope bindings. The pleasure of it had her writhing. Bending, he put his mouth over one, and indulged a long, slow suckle of her nipple. She gasped at the sensation, those pleading noises now unmistakably moans. His fingers slipped down between her open legs to probe, caress and find her slick.

He’d said no sex. At this tilted angle, he would have had to be a lot taller for sex to happen, but his touch was a vivid reminder there were plenty of over the top sexual experiences that didn’t involve fucking.

Moving back to the table, he changed the music from Marianas Trench’s now mournful “Porcelain” to “Henny and Gingerale” by Mayer Hawthorne. The twisting, provocative notes, the rocking tone of 'I can't get enough', slid through her like his fingers through her hair. If he kept her his prisoner like this forever, she thought he’d never use a brush, preferring to comb it with his own hands.

She was spinning in romantic imaginings. He'd put her in a fantasy world.

He returned and dropped to his heels, fingers templing on the floor to brace himself a few feet from her. In her peripheral vision, she could see him studying her. She could hear her heart pounding, feel her breath clogging in her throat. She was naked, and spread open. Her arms and hands bound, breasts framed in more rope, a snug but not too tight harness that displayed them. His stillness was a tranquil, arousing, living thing. Even if he’d told her it was okay to talk, she couldn’t. She was in the center of his web, which made her think of what he’d said, that his sub was the center—was everything—during his sessions.

He stayed motionless and watching her until the song ended, replaced with Mandy Moore's compelling “Have A Little Faith in Me.” How was it that every tune he played had that strong under beat that kept need pumping through her like an answering chorus? She felt alive, wild, tied up, at his mercy, but so vibrant, like the sun. When he rose, bending over her to put his mouth on her throat, she wanted to meet him with eager demand, tangle her tongue with his, bite his bottom lip. He denied her that, her heated, erratic breath a whisper of sound between them.

"Desmond." She felt so incredibly exposed, caught on an edge of euphoria, mixed with panic and unbelievably strong desire. She would come with only a whisper of contact, but she didn't want to leave this state. She wanted to ride the edge between euphoria and tranquility. Her heartbeat vibrated in her throat.

"You're a work of art, love. Let’s put the finishing touch on this masterpiece."

Retrieving a clear folded tarp from under the table, he spread it out underneath her. When he brought the taper candles to her and stretched up to position one above her, she noticed he was also carrying small lengths of rope to anchor the tapers to the thicker lines. He positioned one candle over her breasts, one over her abdomen, one over her open legs. Once he had them seated, he lit them with a silver lighter.

“Now we watch, and wait, for each drop to fall…” He stood back as panic fluttered through her, wondering how much it would burn.

The one over her abdomen struck first, the drip a momentary intense heat that melted away into sensation near her navel. Then another fell. Drips from the one over her breasts hit the areola of her right nipple, making her buck in her bindings, just as several fell onto her pubic mound. He grasped one of the suspension lines and slowly began to rock her so he could direct where the drips fell, within an inch forward or back, side to side, the rhythm unexpected.

“Oh…” She couldn’t move much, but she made the most of what she had, her body creating friction with the roughness of the rope. The psychological effect was the strongest stimulant of all. She was completely helpless, and yet she felt so safe, as if she could trust him to care for her. Was it the first time she’d ever believed that, with any man who’d interested her as a lover? She thought it was, and it terrified her, the enormity of it, how wonderful this all felt. This was supposed to be just a scene, a way for her to understand her performers. She’d known that for a lie, but she hadn’t realized how big of a lie it would end up being.

The smoke from the candles, the smell of the wax, mixed with her own intimate scent. He was stroking her body with his free hand and he bent to press kisses to her upper thighs.

“I brought a vibrator, but that’s too damn impersonal. I’m going to use my fingers, love.” He doused the candles and dropped to his heels between her legs, his hand on her knee. When he rolled his fingertips lightly over her clit, she jerked, her tissues already engorged. He tapped, stroked back and forth. She began to gasp, then cry out, sounds that increased when he shifted around her to stroke her breasts, play with her nipples. He slid his hand back between her legs to torment her.

"You're dripping, love, you're so excited. I can't tell you what it does to me, seeing your cunt cream like that for me."

"Des…" The urgency was all powerful, too demanding.

"No," he said in a low voice. "I'm not here. This is all about you, love. You're floating on a cloud, about to explode like a star, scattering your light over the universe. I'll feel the beauty of it, but you are far above and beyond me. You're what I worship."

"Ah…God…help…” Her cries went to screams as he stroked her clit and an even stronger response surged through her core.

His words should have seemed ridiculous, fantastic. But with the way he'd tied her, the rolling waves of sensation he sent through her, she did feel disembodied, a celestial body set to go super nova. She was powerful, beautiful, detached and yet connected to all. Because she was helpless to him.

"Are you ready, love?"

She could barely speak, body straining, breath rasping, body on fire, pussy spasming. "Yes. Please, God, Des…"

He rubbed her pussy slow, torturously. "Work yourself against me. Show me how fucking hot you are. How you want to rock my world."

She managed three jerky rotations of her hips, then she exploded like that star he'd described. The climax pulled from her inner thighs, ripped through her cunt and into her womb. Her back bowed up farther and the cry that came from her throat was a sound she didn't recognize. A primal scream, a wail in an unbroken firmament. Before anything had ever been created, this was what was there.

It echoed through the theater and came back to her. She was rocking so hard she should have wrenched something out of joint, but now she understood why he'd tied her so securely. He carried her to paradise and back safely, while taking her to a dangerous edge that could destroy her sanity.

When the orgasm at last ebbed away, everything was too bright. She shut her eyes as he rose and dimmed the ghostlight even more, registering her discomfort. He returned to untie her, supporting her so she had no worry about falling as he freed and carried her away from the tarp. He had a piece of carpet behind the table, a blanket spread out on it. Keeping her in his arms until she was laid out on it, he dropped to one knee beside her.

The sheath at his belt held both a knife and a pair of what looked like medical snips that EMTs carried. He flicked open the knife and left the snips. As she watched, he used the flat blade to scrape the wax off her smooth skin in curled, vanilla scented-petals. He followed the movement with his fingers, soothing chafed skin.

All she had the power to do was breathe and stare at him, watch everything he did. It was as if taking her eyes away would break the spell he’d created between them.

After he removed the wax and set it aside in a small pile, he reached for his shirt and threaded her arms through it, lifting her up enough to get the shirt to lie smooth beneath her. Because of the musculature in his shoulders and arms, the sleeves and back were no problem. However, as she’d predicted, the front was problematic, but it didn’t faze Des. He buttoned the shirt up to just below her breasts, so the straining fabric above framed them, her nipples and curves exposed. The tails of the shirt split over the juncture between her thighs, leaving her pussy bare to him as well. “Arms above your head, love.”

She was like a noodle, with no strength of her own. She raised her trembling arms, but he helped her take them to the position he wanted. He held them there, his fingers curled over her wrists as he bent and brushed his lips along her throat, the top of her breast. When he lifted his head, she could tell he was enthralled by how the shirt barely contained her ample bosom, framing it in such a provocative way.

Normally she would have made some weak joke about how easy men were in their fascination with breasts, but all she could do was shake beneath the weight of his absorption.

“Keep your hands where I put them.”

He released her wrists, leaving her arms above her head. He molded his hands over her curves, then buttoned the buttons of his shirt over them, pulling the fabric together as needed to make it work. It was a tight enough hold to create an additional sense of restraint, one she craved. She wanted to be back in the ropes, wanted that feeling again.

With a savage look of lustful pleasure, he ruined his own shirt, tearing it open with one powerful jerk so her breasts spilled forth with a generous bob of reaction. He bent to put his mouth on her again. Suckling, nipping. Despite his initial roughness, now he was gentle. She was spiraling up again as if she hadn’t just climaxed, rolling and lifting under his hands. As he moved his way down her body, the fabric of his shirt slid against her back, cloaking her on one side as he cloaked her on her front. When he put his mouth between her legs, she cried out, the sensitive tissues meeting the stubble on his cheeks and jaw. He rubbed it deliberately against her again and nipped at her clit, dragging his tongue over her labia.