tight (tīt)
(adj.) strictly imposed
“he kept tight control”
For a small period of time, I was able to keep track of my days. On the wall below my bed, in the dark space hidden by sheets and shadows, I scratched lines in plaster. One line every night. I marked them slowly, the scrape of the butter knife’s edge wearing smooth, the repeated action breaking through the grime, my movements patient, the act ritualistic.
He discovered the marks on the twelfth day, his reaction a mixed bag of delight and intrigue. He crouched, looked at the marks in the same way a parent would look at a school project. I watched from the corner, my arms cuffed to the front bars, butt on the floor, as he stripped my bed. My exertions during training had moved it slightly, and, when he bent to push it back, he paused, his eyes catching my lines, his haste to pull the bed back almost comical in its excitement.
“You did this?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at me. I said nothing, watching as his fingers scrolled lightly over my hard work. “Eleven.” He repeated the number, his head tilting at something that came to mind, and he leaped up, grabbing his notepad and frantically flipped pages. “Eleven.” He looked up at me. “Eleven days ago I took off your handcuffs. Gave you freedom in the room.” He glanced around. “How did you know what a day was? There aren’t any windows in this room. And the lights are always on.” His eyebrows pinched.
I swallowed. “You visit every day. Wear different clothes. That’s how I count.” He stared at me for a spell before pulling a pen from the notebook and writing, a long line of cursive that wasn’t legible from my seat on the floor. I took a risk. “How long did it take for you to take off my handcuffs? To give me that freedom?”
He laughed, jotting down something in the margin before clicking the pen shut. “Great question, Kitten. But I can’t tell you that. And I can’t let you do this. Counting days signifies hope. We can’t have hope.”
“Why not? Wouldn’t hope endear me to you?”
He walked over, crouched before me. I dropped my eyes, examining the seam of his dress pants as they stretched over his knee. “No Kitten,” he whispered. “Believe me when I say that hope will only drive you insane.”
That night, when he left, he chained me back up. I didn’t know how long, how many days stretched by while I was back in those cuffs, but when he let me free, I didn’t keep any more hatch marks. I couldn’t. He varied his schedule, visited a bunch in a row, then would leave me for what felt like days. I cursed myself for speaking, swore - for at least a week - to not tell him anything. I didn’t keep that vow. A part of me felt that the only thing he wanted me for was information. And once he had all of that, maybe he’d let me go.
Or, maybe he’d kill me.
I had to face all options.
The driver’s name was Leo. White Escalade with custom rims, tinted windows. I stepped into the backseat, Brett following me inside, his long legs cramped in the backseat. I clutched my purse, smiled at Leo as he shut the door. I had parted with the girls, their protective nature insisting on a face to face with Brett before letting me disappear into the night. Jena had taken it one step further, getting his business card and verifying his cell. He smiled through it all, relaxed and at ease, the intensity of our alley romp gone as he shook hands, oh my god, those fingers were in me, remembered names, and stole all of their hearts.
The SUV moved, rocking over cobblestone steps that pirates once roamed, the movement of the car tossing me slightly. Brett’s hand found me in the darkness.
“Sorry about the interrogation in there.”
“I’m not. They’re watching out for you. It’s the smart thing to do.”
I bit the edge of my smile. “You say that. Jena Crawford has your number. You might regret that in the wee hours of the morning. I think her second major was drunk dialing.”
He brought my hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “I can handle it.”
I glanced to the front. To the Bahamian man less than five feet away. “What you said in the alley, about what this will mean...”
“Yes.”
I shrugged. “I just want you to know that I’m a big girl. I’m not gonna attach anything to this. If it doesn’t turn out to be anything.”
He looked out the window. Tugged at the front of his dress pants, adjusting himself, he said, “I may have spoken out of turn. I’m not used to this.”
I lowered my voice. “We can have sex. Without it meaning anything.”
“I’m not seventeen, Riley. I’m familiar with the concept.”
I shut my mouth. Did my own turn of looking out the window, trying to decide if I should bail on this man when we hit the hotel lobby. It was easier when I looked out the window. When I didn’t see the line of his jaw and imagine how it tasted. When I didn’t look in those eyes and fall further into trouble. He moved my hand, from the armrest where he had held it, to his lap. I pushed my palm flat against him, and lost a bit of my breath. Wow.
His hand atop mine, he slid my palm—my exploring, inquisitive fingers—from his belt buckle to his leg, letting me feel exactly how much, how hard, he wanted me. I darted my eyes, tried to see more, but the dark cab showed me nothing but the glow of his eyes. Watching me, his mouth hidden by shadow. Those eyes closed briefly when I gripped him through the fabric. “More,” he breathed.
I fumbled with the zipper, my own hand struggling, his hand moving to help, holding the fabric tightly as I tugged down the metal tag, holding my breath, hoping the driver’s music would drown out the sound, the man’s head not moving, not turning. When the action ended, my hand stole in and came in immediate contact with bare cock.
There was a moment when my body relaxed as my fingers wrapped around it, as if I was finally at peace in a place where I belonged and everything else could subside. I am touching it. The thought was a shot of arousal to my body. I moved my hand, explored. My first thought, the observation that my thumb and index finger didn’t meet. That his fingers which had satisfied me so easily in that alley, wouldn’t hold a candle to this organ. I squirmed a bit in my seat. Gripped him with my full hand and was rewarded with an exhale of breath.
A squeal of brakes. I looked up and realized we were stopping. It was a tollbooth, Leo leaning out the window, the street lights of the toll plaza casting in full light, my hand on Brett’s ohmygodthatisgorgeous cock. He leaned forward quickly, pushing my hand gently to the side, and my ears heard the faint sound of a zipper closing.
“Royal Towers.” He put his hands on the front headrests, resting his weight on them as he spoke to the driver, and I fought the urge to run my hand over the line of his back. It’d been so long since I touched a man in a loving way. So long since I was in a role other than that of professional friend—sweet ol’ Riley.
I didn’t touch his back. I sat, my hands between my knees, the heat of my fingers remembering the lines of his cock. The ridge between his shaft and his head. How it moved slightly in my hand when I grabbed it. The warmth of his skin.
Then the truck stopped, a burst of air brushed over my bare legs, and I accepted Leo’s hand and exited the vehicle.
“Thank you.” Brett’s hand was on my arm, taking over from Leo, firm pressure in his touch as he guided me toward the entrance, his steps quick, my heels almost struggling to keep up. I tugged on his hand, and his head turned, noted my agitation, and he slowed his gait. “I’m sorry.” He looped an arm around my shoulders, pressed a kiss on the top of my head. “Do you want to grab a drink at the bar?”
Do I want to grab a drink at the bar? I didn’t think I could handle the wait to walk down the hotel hallway, much less sit out the agonizing process of ordering, sipping, and then paying for an unneeded drink. I shook my head. “No. I’m good.”
He held the door, our eyes catching for a moment as I passed through. Just that catch, that brief hold of two stares... it relit the fire that didn’t need any additional fuel. I didn’t know why I was going to fuck this man. There was no sense or reason in the decision. But there was need. There was need, and there would be satisfaction. I didn’t know what was about to happen, but I knew it would be different than anything I had ever had. Anyone I had ever fucked. I felt like I did when I was a virgin. Nervous. Apprehensive. Excited. The hand on my back guided me to an unfamiliar elevator, and I waited as he pressed the button.