Page 98 of Flare

“Back.” He flipped to his stomach and crossed his wrists behind him.

I straddled his hips and bound him tight enough to satisfy that niggling corner of my mind. The head of my dick nudged his crease and he pushed up for more. One day. Not tonight.

Tonight, I’d eventually have him on his knees with my cock down his throat and that long hair fisted in my hands, before I pulled out and came all over that glorious fat dick.

* * *

An hour later, with sweat cooling on our skin and oxygen beginning to leak back into our brains, we linked hands, shoved the duvet down to our hips, and lay panting in silence as a gusty southerly did its best to wreak havoc outside the window.

I rolled to my side and snorted at the red tie still hanging around Beck’s neck. He’d thrown it over his head as soon as I untied him with the warning he’d never be able to look at it again without getting hard. That immediately set my mind spinning with ideas about what else I could maybe whip up on my machine and in what material.

He tapped a finger to my forehead. “Do I want to know what filthy things you’re cooking up in that dirty little mind of yours?”

I ran my gaze down his naked body, sticky with both our spill, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever get enough of him looking like that. “I was just thinking how damn good you look wearing me all over youandwearing that tie.” I grabbed the ends and pulled him closer for a kiss.

“Inspiration for your next collection?” He arched a brow.

I tucked the idea away because it wasn’t without merit. “Bondage and evening wear? Scarlet men?” I was liking it more and more.

He laughed and rolled to his back, studying the play of shadow and light on the ceiling above. “I have a harness.” It was said so softly, I almost missed it and I jerked up on an elbow.

“Say what?”

He smiled up at me. “You heard. I’d forgotten about it.”

“Damn.” I fell on my back, my face one enormous smile. “Is this another gift you haven’t worn? Because I have to say, I can’t see you buying one.”

“Rafe, again. For a bears night I never went to.” Beck turned his head and winked. “I mean, what was he thinking, right?” He glanced to the window as the wind jangled the stays on the neighbour’s shade sail.

“Oh, I don’t know.” I curled into his side and ruffled my fingers through all that gorgeous hair. “But I suspect you might’ve got way more attention than you bargained for. I’d have paid good money to see that.”

He chuckled. “Never. Gonna. Happen. But I’m thinking it might have potential... for us. It has a ring at the back for... attaching things.”

My fingers froze mid-ruffle and I stared, tongue fixed to the roof of my mouth as images of me fucking him from behind, his hands tied to the ring and me holding on to the strap like he was a bronco and... holy fucking hell.

“Stop!” I sprawled on my back, arms outstretched. “You’re killing me here. How the hell do you forget about something like that? Tomorrow, you’re going to dig that sucker out from wherever you stashed it and stick it in the drawer by the bed, understand?”

He laughed. “Only if you promise to put a pair of those sexy-as-hell black rim glasses next to it.”

“Oh my god. They’re prescription, for close work. Everything beyond is a blur. I’ll likely stick my cock up your nose instead of into your mouth.”

He huffed. “Good luck with that.”

I startled as the top branches of Beck’s cherry tree squeaked across his bedroom window and a flash of lighting lit up the room. “Come here.” He pulled me close and drew the duvet over our shoulders just as an ear-splitting rumble of thunder crashed through the house.

“Holy shit.” I snuggled down, safe in his arms, relishing this rare peaceful connection with the weight of his body so hard against me. “I like Callum.”

Beck stilled, then rolled to his side. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “I think he’ll be good for me. He seems to just get it.”

“Maybe he’s been there.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. He calls it rape trauma syndrome rather than PTSD, which he sees more as a symptom, and he says I need to look at it not as a problem to be solved, but a completely normal reaction to an incredibly traumatic event, like grief is to death. You don’t solve it; you work through it. And he said only about five to twenty percent of sexual assault survivors even report it. With men that’s even lower. He thinks I’ve done extremely well considering I’ve had little help. The fact I can have sex, even needing the rules, is encouraging.”

Beck’s hazel eyes shone bright. “He’s right. You’re so fucking brave.”

I didn’t feel brave. I still felt... numb. “He’s hopeful I’ll achieve more flexibility, but he obviously can’t make any promises and that it would take time to reimagine seventeen years of a coping mechanism that’s worked for me at some level. The challenge was to slowly bend those rules I’ve made for myself into something closer to what I want my sex life to look like.”

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