Once—even a year ago—she would have dismissed such thoughts as ridiculous. Why would a man suspect such intimate, sexual things when coming upon a locked door? Ian had broadened her horizons, however.
She remembered one evening last March when Ian had tried to explain things to her.
They were scheduled to meet Lin and a new man she was dating for dinner at Lucien’s fashionable restaurant, Fusion. Ian had led her into the private room beforehand. She’d followed him with a familiar sense of mounting excitement spiced with just a hint of trepidation. He’d instructed her to strip naked, and then restrained her wrists to the straps that hung from hooks on the wall.
She’d waited in anxious excitement after he’d positioned her, standing with her back slightly bent forward, her knees straight, her spine arched slightly, her feet planted about a foot and a half apart, her bottom protruding, the wrist restraints stretched tight. He’d used a black leather flogger on her—not cruelly, never that—but using the leather straps to awaken and fire the nerves on the surface of her ass, hips and thighs, his dominance over her carefully controlled and deliberate, designed to arouse, not harm. His occasional gentle reminders to maintain her rather awkward position with her breasts thrust forward and her ass made conspicuous for the flogger had not offended, only aroused her.
As always, he’d frequently pause to rub her prickling, stinging skin soothingly with his open palm. Sometimes he’d use a finger vibrator on her clit or massage the tiny bundle of burning nerves with a bare finger in a bull’s-eye fashion while he plunged another into her pussy. Closing her eyes in the present, she could still hear his low, raspy voice through her whimpers and cries, telling her how beautiful she was . . . how desirable.
That’s right. You’re never more beautiful than when you trust me and let go. Come again, lovely. Come against my hand.
Toward the end, after he’d allowed her to climax several times, he’d told her to straighten completely. He’d come beside her and she’d seen for the first time that his cock protruded from his open pants. She’d kept her eyes glued to it as he stroked his heavy, swollen erection and gently used the flogger on her breasts. She could still hear how rough his voice had gotten as he stimulated them, turning the pale globes a pale pink, pausing to occasionally caress and pinch the tips until they were almost painfully erect and sensitive. When she’d been unable to stop herself from coming from the precise nipple stimulation, his need had overtaken him. He’d taken her from behind, his scalding, forceful possession thrilling her.
She loved it when he finally lost control.
Afterward, he’d carried her out to the bed. She could recall how good the cool sheets had felt next to her overheated, sensitive body, so delicious sliding against the hot, prickly skin of her ass, hips, and breasts. It’d felt wonderful to sink into the mattress, even more so when he came down next to her on his side and took her into his arms.
He’d touched her heated cheeks with a fingertip.
“You need a moment to cool down before we get ready,” he’d said with a small smile. “You still wear your passion.”
“It will fade by the time I shower and dress,” she’d murmured, stroking dense, swelling biceps.
“Not as easily as you might imagine. A woman always shows telltale signs of good sex. For you, it’s far more blatant. You radiate like a beacon. I don’t like strangers to see you this way,” he’d said thoughtfully, still brushing her cheek and brow. “The vision of you after lovemaking is mine, and mine alone.”
She’d laughed softly, not fully understanding him.
“Don’t be ridiculous. People aren’t mind readers. They can’t know what we were doing before we go out in public.”
One raven-dark brow had risen. “You’re mistaken. Men know. Many of them anyway.”
She’d opened her mouth to argue, but sensed he wasn’t engaging in his typical dry teasing. “How?” she’d asked, mesmerized by his touch on her face and his somber expression. “How do men know?”
“By the amplified color here and here and here,” he said slowly, touching her chest, cheeks, and lips in turn. “Even after it fades, it still leaves a telltale glow. By your muscles, your overall level of relaxation, and seeming satisfaction with life. By some indefinable sense of comfort in your body, the way you move and carry yourself . . . your sensual awareness, I guess you’d call it. You show it most here,” he said huskily, brushing a fingertip over her eyelid gently. “Your eyes slay me always,” he’d said, his mouth tilted in wry self-amusement at his poetic turn of phrase. “But during and after lovemaking, your soul shines out of them,” he finished, his small smile fading.
She’d swallowed thickly, moved by his gruff, unrehearsed anthem.
“I can’t believe men can really see all those subtleties. Are you sure it’s not just you?”
His abrupt smile awakened her body with a jolt. “No. Most men can immediately spot a sexually satisfied woman, whether they put it in concrete, conscious terms or not. We’re much more practical than women. We lack finesse as a whole, but in matters that are crucial, we’re forced to learn early on the meanings of the subtle signs on the trail.”
“The trail of sexual conquest, you mean,” she said, rolling her eyes.
His mouth twitched. “Men’s goals are simple and blatant enough when it comes to sex, even if the means of pursuing them isn’t. Women, now,” he mused thoughtfully, still stroking her. “Aren’t always so aware of their goals. They’re a mystery to themselves, so men have little hope in figuring them out. You’re very inward. Secretive. A real conundrum.”