Page 78 of Sinner's Vows

I’m on standby with the pepper mill, and a minute later, the dish is done.

She smiles up at me. “It’s as if all Italians are born with this recipe programmed into our minds.”

“Probably,” I say, handing her two bowls.

She ladles the pasta into the bowls, and we sit down at the kitchen counter to eat.

I twirl up a first bite on my fork. “Here, taste if it’s good.” I’m playing with her, taking things maybe a bit too far, but I can’t stop myself.

It’s a neat bite, and she opens for me, trusting, her eyes locked with mine, those sparks of lust still trapped in her gaze.

“Hmm,” she moans as she shifts in her seat. “It’s delicious.”

“Good.” I dig in, knowing I should stop. But the whole night stretches out in front of us, and I don’t know what I’m going to do with her. Someone needs to keep an eye on her, and I don’t trust the guards. Even worse: I don’t trust myself.

After a few minutes of quiet eating, she takes a cautious sip of wine. This one likes her Dutch courage, but she still has to spill the real beans behind her day spent with Portia.

“Do you…” she starts and trails off again, staring down at her food, fork still parked in the fettuccine.

“Do I?” I prompt, watching as she slowly turns the fork, wrapping the ribbons around the prongs like I wrapped my ties around her last night.

“Do you tie women up when you…” She glances up at me, pink blooming on her cheeks. “When you do what you do?”

Fuck. Neither of us is letting go tonight, are we? With a soft groan, I give up.

Submissives usually have a lot of questions when they start out, but training subs isn’t my thing. I’m not in a regular Dom/sub relationship and have never wanted one, whatever the outside world might think. My approach is almost sterile, but it works for me and keeps things clear and simple. All I need are reference lines, guiding me where to go and where to stop.

Everybody is unique, and I’m the outlier with a lot of things, but it’s better for all parties not to get involved in something long-term.

As for Ariana, being restrained is the one thing she’s been objecting to from the start.

“Yes,” I tell her. “They’re tied up, but it isn’t about control for me.”

“No?”

“It’s a different dynamic, Ariana.” I’ve never had to explain this to someone before, but she’s asked, so. “It helps people relax because they don’t need to do anything. They don’t need to perform. They only get to focus on sensation, on desire…and it helps some people learn to trust and let go of fear.”

She’s quiet for a long time as my answer just hangs in the space. Something I said hit a nerve, because she reaches for her cheek where she surreptitiously wipes at a tear she hopes I don’t notice.

“Sweetheart—” Fuck. If she’s going to start crying, I’m going to pull her into my arms, and then every part of her is going to test my already frayed resolve.

“But what about you?” she asks, her voice on edge. “They don’t get to touch you, and that seems to be key to this whole thing you do. You got hurt, too, you know.”

Her question is a punch to the gut, so profound, it almost winds me. Nobody has ever asked me this or even considered me in this equation.

“Yes… But that’s becausenobodygets to touch me.” There are rules on both sides.

Except this woman has been bending my rules one by one, scraping through my layers, hitting me hard. I can add that, in fact, they don’t get to see me either, but she hasn’t asked, so I’m not sharing until she does.

“Don’t you like being touched?” she asks, glancing at me.

I can still feel her fingertips exploring every inch of scarred tissue between patches of healthy skin. I’ve longed for more of it the whole day, of this thing I crave to give others but deny myself.

“Of course I like being touched, sweetheart,” I say softly. In fact, I love it, but— “Women’s hands roam, and the first place they go are my sides, my back, and then they feel my scars and—” They get put off, revolted, or worse, they get curious. “They have questions. Questions I can’t answer without dragging them into my world.”

And once they’re in, they want out, and there’s only one out for most of us.

“I get it,” she says, and her tone is defeatist. “Questions are the worst.”

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