Page 96 of Dare to Love Again

He moved in front of her to check the fit; his fingers slipping beneath the leather that was snug, prevented her from speaking but wasn’t too tight. Then he bent and kissed her, his lips gliding along her cheek to her ear.

“You focus on sensations, the smell of the hay, how it prickles against your skin, the rope crisscrossing your body, and how binding your breasts has them thrusting out farther and swelling beautifully. Imagine what I’ll do to you next,mo chuisle. Perhaps I’ll clamp those pink nipples so that when I hoist you in the air, I can dangle little weights from them? Or leave them bare and vulnerable for the bite...of...my...whip.”

The last few words said slowly and with pulsing emphasis piqued both her excitement and her apprehension. A soft moan drifted up from her throat and past the gag.

“Eager for my lash, baby?”

She nodded vigorously.

“And just a wee bit afraid, perhaps?”

She hesitated but nodded again as Finn’s expectations—truthful answers and honest emotion. I’ll accept nothing less—clearly stated on that not-so-long-ago Saturday night, echoed in her head.

“There’s my good girl,” he murmured. “You’re going to love this, darlin’. Trust me.”

She blinked up at him, trying to convey that she did. If she didn’t, she’d have shouted “Red” and run screaming into the street. But she reveled in surrendering everything to this man, and when she did, soared to unbelievable heights of pleasure, spurred on by the erotic pain he expertly doled out.

Looking down at her, his lips curved into an affectionate smile. He pulled a soft cloth from his back pocket and wiped her chin. “Even gagged and drooling, you’re fucking beautiful.”

He returned to the task, rigging her first rope suspension that her earlier chattering had pulled him from. And since he no longer blocked the mirror on the far wall, which didn’t belong in a hayloft, unless it doubled as a bondage club, she had a clear view of her reflection.

Vanity aside, she had to agree with him. She made a beautifully erotic picture. Naked except for the white Stetson atop her head, she was on her knees, thighs spread, her hands bound behind her back, breasts swollen and standing out between the twisted, knotted rope bra he’d affixed to her body. Oh, and her boots—honey brown with hand-stitched flowers and little pinwheels in cream and pink—which she’d begged prettily for her master to let her keep on.

Though she wasn’t a country girl, when she found them, she knew they’d be perfect for tonight. Their rain-check scene in the hayloft, the second most popular theme room, had taken three months on the ever-growing reservation schedule.

Construction was underway for eight more rooms. It wouldn’t put a dent in the demand, but it was a start. And there was talk of a third club coming soon to San Francisco. Though it was a five-hour drive, many of their membership drove or flew in from the Bay area, and they had to do something to accommodate the hundreds of applicants on their constantly expanding waiting list.

She’d heard Finn talking to Master Eric one night, saying about the same thing she had, that owners or patrons shouldn’t have to wait forever for the playroom of their choice.

As she watched Finn run foot upon foot of the natural hemp rope, he preferred through his hands, she found it hard to believe they’d been together for three months already, living together nearly six weeks.

It was actually a lot longer. She didn’t remember them discussing it, except for the night of the shooting when he sang her cozy little Northridge abode’s praises. But a few items in her bathroom medicine chest—toothbrush, shaving cream, a razor—and a duffle of clean clothes had soon turned into a bottle of his man soap in her shower, two of her drawers filled with his boxers, socks, and T-shirts, and his jeans, button-up work shirts, and one suit jacket which he wore with dark jeans when meeting with clients, hanging in her closet. And each morning, unless he was working an overnight case which wasn’t often, his boots were at the foot of her bed.

The only ripple in their rapidly deepening relationship was when he’d brought in the mail one day and she saw him pocket two envelopes.

“Are you getting mail here now?”

“Not yet. It goes to the office.”

She raised her brows in question.

“Your city and county taxes are due; I’m paying them, as well as the electric bill.”

“What? Finn!”

“Don’t argue, Esme. If you had a mortgage, I’d be taking that over, too. I’m here every night, wake in bed with you every morning, eat supper here when we don’t go out, and use the utilities.”

“But you have an apartment to keep up downtown.”

“That’s a perk of ownership, and paid for out of the club profits, which are significant. You’re working for Rossi now, but not raking it in. You’re my woman; I’m taking care of you, end of discussion.”

“I’m earning more working for you than for Gerald. What do I do with my payday, then?”

“Buy fuck-me shoes and slinky dresses, which is also something that I enjoy, and cat food for Phin, or whatever else. Oh, and I’ve hired a lawn service. Neither of us is spending our limited downtime mowing and weeding.”

“But I enjoy working in my flower garden out back.”

“I’ll let them know to leave it alone, but if weeding and mulching get too much, we can hand it over and you can just sit on the patio and enjoy it.” He wrapped his arm around her and hauled her against his chest. “Trust me, this is nothing compared to what I’m bringing in between the club and Rossi. Your man is loaded, baby. Enjoy it.”

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