He was putting together a St. Andrew’s cross—which was, frankly, the very first thing I wanted to try. But he also had something that looked like a tumbling horse and a piece of pipe with soft ankle restraints on each end that he told me was a spreader bar.
There was a wall with various hooks and latches to allow for different positions. An ornate chandelier that Cole told me would—once it was properly mounted—act as the top cross bar for a sex swing that he had ordered.
Considering how much I’d loved swings back when I was five, the very idea of combining a swing and sex made me more than a little giddy.
In addition to all those things, Cole had at least a dozen more gizmos and contraptions in the works, none of which he’d tell me about.
“Trust me,” he said. And since I did, I left him alone to do the hardware thing while I worked on stocking the more intimate items into pretty baskets and picking out the colors for the room—which wasn’t too difficult since I decided I wanted a deep rich purple, and if Cole wanted to veto it, he would just have to repaint the room himself.
I’d just finished rolling paint onto one of the walls when I turned to find Cole watching me. “You are not going to tell me I’m doing this wrong,” I said. “Because all I’m doing is turning a wall purple. And even someone like me whose skill is limited to stick figures can handle that.”
“Take off your clothes and stand by the wall.”
I frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I have an idea.”
I narrowed my eyes, but he stood firm, his brows lifted in silent demand.
“Yes, sir,” I said archly, and then very slowly and deliberately stripped out of my shorts and tank top.
“Arms spread,” Cole said. “Like you’re doing jumping jacks. And here,” he added, handing me some of the goggles he wore when he used the circular saw. “Just in case.”
“What the hell?”
But Cole said nothing. And because I knew the score, I did what he said. I put on the goggles, I held my arms out—and then I laughed in delighted surprise when he flicked a wet paintbrush at me, splattering me and the wall, but in such a way that the splatter left the silhouette of a woman in a pose of what looked like exultation.
“Another,” Cole said, as I laughed and moved into a slightly different pose. And on and on until the wall was covered with dancing, brilliant silhouettes . . . and I was covered in paint.
“Now that is lovely,” he said, moving closer and tracing his finger over the splatters on my skin in a human game of connect the dots. “I do like to paint you,” he said, his voice full of heat and promise.
“Right now it’s my turn to paint you,” I said. “Off with the clothes.”
But I didn’t splatter him. Instead I pressed against him, hot and hard, and transferred the paint from my body to his. He laughed, then pulled me down to the floor that was, thankfully, covered in drop cloths.
We slid over each other, moving and stroking and playing in the paint—and laughing like little kids—until the mood shifted, taking on more heat. More fire.
“What are we doing?” I asked, because I could no longer hold back the question. “What are we to each other?”
“Everything,” he said, then pulled me in for a kiss.
And as his mouth captured mine—as I moaned from the sweetness of it all—I knew that he was right.
“What do you think?” Cole asked, taking his hands off my eyes so that I could see the finished St. Andrew’s cross. It was mounted on a deep wooden box that was attached to a mirrored wall, which allowed for access around the cross itself, not to mention allowing whoever was standing to see the face of whoever was on the cross in the mirror.
As for the cross itself, the wood was polished to a shine, and the leather padding looked bright and comfortable.
I felt my body clench just looking at it. I’d been wanting this ever since Cole suggested this playroom. Hell, ever since he’d put me on that imaginary cross in my car and stung my back with the leather flails.
“Cole,” I said, and heard the need in my voice.