A twinge of regret pokes at me as I remember that this is only temporary. But I push it soundly away. Right now, I am living only in the moment. Only in our arrangement.
I pause in the doorway despite the tug on the leash. He turns to look at me, mock disapproval on his face, and I smile. “Please, sir,” I say, and watch his mouth quirk with amusement. “Will you take me to the window?”
He does, and we stand together, looking out onto the brightly lit Las Vegas skyline.
“All the women in the world,” I begin. “You could have any of them, you know.”
“Not any,” he says. “Probably just ninety percent. Ninety-five tops.”
I smile, then sober. “You chose me.”
He moves behind me, then presses his hands to my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “No kitten,” he says. “We chose each other.”
I turn and look out the window again. “Yeah,” I say to our reflection. “We did.”
I tilt my head and smile at him, then trail my fingers from the choker, down the leash, to his hand. “So now that you’ve led me here, what do you intend to do with me?”
“Oh, I think we can think of something,” he says, and then unfastens my halter and unzips the back of the dress. It falls off me like so much gossamer, leaving me naked except for the silver collar, the lock, the red ribbon leash, and my three-inch heeled sandals.
“That,” he says, “is a very pretty picture.”
He gives the leash a tug, pulling me to him. I stumble into his arms, laughing, then kick off the heels.
“Maybe I’ll just have you serve me wine and cheese like that.”
“I would. But I think you can do better.”
“Oh, I think I can, too,” he says, then unclips the leash. He takes the ribbon and coils it in his hands. “Turn around, Jamie,” he says, and I comply willingly.
“Now close your eyes.”
I do, and then feel the gentle brush of the ribbon as he wraps it around my eyes—once, twice, three times, until it is at least as effective as a traditional blindfold. Then he pulls me down, laying me out on a soft, fur rug.
I wait for his touch, but it doesn’t come. At least not at first. Then I hear the subtle shift in the air and hear the clink of ice in a glass.
“Do you like bourbon, kitten?” he asks, and when I nod, I find his finger on my lip. I draw it in, suckling, and listen as the pattern of his breathing changes with his growing excitement.
Gently, he pulls his finger away, then trails it down my belly. When he gets to my navel, I arch up, surprised by the quick, cold shock of an ice cube.
“You’re delicious,” he says, and I tremble in awareness as he licks and kisses his way down the trail, then sucks at my bellybutton, the sensation making me a little crazy.
“I want to make love to you,” he says, and there is so much gentleness in his voice it seems to get into my heart and squeeze.
I reach for him, but he simply says, “no,” and I put my arms back. “Not yet. Not until I’m sure you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” I say. “I’m always ready for you.”
His answer is a murmur, and then he is upon me. Gently, sweetly. Hands, mouth. He strokes me, plays me, touches and teases me. If his goal is to turn me into nothing more than pure awareness, pure need, then he has accomplished it fully.
I am melting, wanting. And what I want is more.
“Please,” I beg. “If I can’t see you, at least let me touch you.”
Gently, he lifts my hand and presses it to his chest. It is bare, and I stroke lightly over the smattering of chest hair. I find his back with my other hand and stroke down, delighting at the firmness of his tight, bare ass beneath my fingers.
“I can’t wait,” he says. “I want you, kitten, and I’m taking you now.”
“Yes,” I whisper, lifting my hips and spreading my legs. I want him in me, on top of me. I want to lose myself under the weight of him, to feel consumed by him.