My desire must have shone on my face. He grinned and flexed for me. His pecs flicked up and down. He slapped the rippling six-pack at his belly. 'What do you think, Kate? A hundred thou a week pays for a lot of gym time.'
I could not respond. My throat was too tight. His hands fell to his belt buckle. The distinctive clank of it opening, the hiss of leather through the belt loops, made me shiver. Those sounds meant sex to me: meant the imminent approach of relief. But not today. Today, relief was no sure thing. I should have been enraged. Instead, I lay spellbound.
He undid the waist catch and drew down the zip, inch by rasping inch. He paused, holding the edges together. My body tensed from toe to scalp. Let go, I thought. Let me see. His fingers opened. The trousers slid to the floor in a sibilant, silk-lined rush.
He wore nothing beneath them, just himself, springing upward now from a nest of shiny black curls. He planted his hands on his hips and widened his stance. His balls swung free between his thighs, heavy and full. I couldn't laugh at his machismo. He looked too good. In any case, he was laughing at me, silently, his eyes dancing with triumph. Somewhere I found the strength to frown.
'Now, now,' he said. 'Let's see if we can't make you more comfortable.'
I discovered what the scissors were for then. He cut the clothes off my body, piece by piece, skimming my limbs with the back of the cold, sharp blade. To my shame, I hadn't the presence of mind to regret the loss of my designer outfit. I was too elated at the prospect of being one step closer to intercourse. With a flourish that suggested he knew my expectations, Joe reserved the final snips for the sides of my panties. He pulled them from beneath me as smoothly as he had the rest, then sat beside me with one leg bent on the mattress. The smooth skin of his hip warmed my thigh, the hairy skin of his thigh, my side.
He cupped the rise of my mound, surrounding it, squeezing it. The tip of his middle finger slipped into my pooling warmth, just grazing my clit. My hips surged off the bed, but as soon as I moved he withdrew. I couldn't bite back a groan.
'You want me a lot, don't you?' He pulled his fingers lightly up my meridian, bisecting my belly and breasts.
Silence was my only defence, a thin one, considering how badly I was shaking.
His fingers ghosted back to my fleece. They drew an outline around its periphery, an arrow of lust. "That's all right, sweetheart. You don't have to answer. Yet. I'm looking forward to torturing it out of you. I know you need to give yourself completely to a man, not the separate parts, but the whole: mind, body and soul. You want mastering, Kate. You need it.'
He didn't see me grinding my teeth because he turned to the bedside table and opened the drawer. Instead of the small foil packet I expected, he removed a calligrapher's brush.
I stared at it, bemused.
'We're going to play a game now - an ancient Chinese game, one I learned from a Nepalese sex guru in New York. No, don't laugh. The Asian world has made an art of sex. They understand that sometimes even foreplay is too purposeful. Sometimes teasing is its own reward. So close your eyes, Kate. Imagine yourself naked in the sun on a warm spring day. You're lying on a blanket in a beautiful field of flowers. Hear the bees, Kate? Feel the balmy, velvet breeze?'
I did hear them. I did feel it. My eyes flew open. 'You're hypnotising me.'
'Shh.' He smoothed my lids shut with the flat of his palm. The calming singsong continued. 'No one can be hypnotised against their will. In your heart you know you're safe with me, and very relaxed, so relaxed that all your awareness centres on the pleasant sensations in your body. The sun is warm. Your body melts like honey under its rays. That's right, sweetheart, breathe deeply. Breathe in the scent of the beautiful flowers.'
‘I love when you call me "sweetheart",' I said, stupid and stuporous, drowsing under the spell of his words. I could feel the hairs on my arms prickle as his movements stirred the air. I wanted him to touch me, but between my languor and my bonds I couldn't budge an inch.
'Now a butterfly comes,' he said. 'It's fluttering above you, looking for a place to light. You're nice and warm, Kate. Butterflies like to be warm, but it wonders if you're a safe place to rest.'
My lips curved at the silly story. Still, I could see the butterfly, an iridescent, sapphire angel, hovering against the clear spring sky. Something soft brushed the arch of one foot, then the other, then skittered to my toes. I knew it was the calligraphy brush but, in my mind, shimmering blue wings fanned the air. I gasped at the intensity of the gossamer touch, at the trail of tingling nerves it left behind.
The butterfly skimmed my ankle, my calf. It lingered for a moment on the warmth of my inner thigh. My buttocks tightened with longing and it took flight, alighting on the areola of one nipple. The centre erected at once, painfully. I moaned and it fled to the other breast.