Read an Excerpt
‘Trust me,’ he said, and brushed a strand of her blonde hair off her forehead. He was staring down into her eyes with an earnestness she was unaccustomed to in her usually light-hearted lover.
Elizabeth smiled uncertainly. ‘Of course I trust you,’ she replied.
He slid his hands down her arms and grasped her hands in his, then slowly brought them around behind her and held them there. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I mean, “Trust me now.” To do this.’
She took a sharp breath, unnaturally loud in the sudden stillness of the room. ‘Eric–’ His hands were firm, but gentle. He stroked his thumbs along the inside of her wrists, where they met each other in his hands. She shivered.
‘I know you’re afraid,’ he said softly. ‘But trust me, Elizabeth. I won’t hurt you.’
She held herself very still, wanting desperately to pull back against his hands, knowing it was illogical to feel the fear that coursed through her at just that minimal level of confinement – but there it was.
He lifted one hand to her cheek, brushed a finger across her lower lip. His eyes, grey green in the morning light, never left hers. ‘Trust me,’ he said again.
Of all the things she’d let him do to her in the almost-year they’d been together, she’d never let him pin her, never let him restrain her, could barely tolerate him even holding her wrists above her head. It was irrational, she knew, but she had been unable to shake her terror of it, of being bound in any way. And so he had spanked her, fucked her, slapped her, dripped wax on her, made her scream with orgasms and occasionally with pain, all without once binding her with rope, leather, his hands or restraints of any kind.
A sacrifice to be sure, for this man who loved all things rope, who used leather with abandon, and who loved the feel of a woman helpless beneath his hand.
Still holding her wrists, still holding her gaze, he moved her slowly back until she felt the couch behind her knees. Moving carefully, like one would around a frightened animal that just might bite in its fear, he reached down and picked something up off the sofa. She shuddered as she felt the slide of silk rope on her skin.
‘I’m not going to make it tight,’ he said. He looked down and began to loop the rope around her wrists. ‘This rope won’t even hold a good knot. But this isn’t about what’s here–’ he tapped her wrists where he’d looped the rope, ‘it’s about what’s here.’ He tapped her temple lightly. ‘And here.’ Another tap, just over her heart. ‘I’m going to take care of you this morning. All morning. And you’ll have to trust me to do that.’ He stopped what he was doing and looked back into her eyes. ‘OK? Can you do that?’
She licked her lips. Felt the sensuous, intoxicating slip of the rope against her skin, felt her own incipient helplessness. She’d never let anyone take care of her, not since she’d left home at 16 to escape her bully of a stepfather; not since she’d seen what a killing-noose dependency was, after her father had passed away and her mother had found herself barely able to function without her husband’s direction. She’d quickly remarried another domineering man, the stepfather Elizabeth had run away to escape, and had fallen into the same helpless role with him.