Page 80 of Snowbound with the Vineyard Owner
Two simple words that somehow set my body on fire. I've never considered myself submissive—quite the opposite. I'm the one in charge, the decisive one. Yet hearing him call me 'good girl' makes me melt.
The first touch is his hand, smoothing over my hair, down my back. Gentle. Almost reverent. Then it’s gone.
I wait, breath held, for the next contact. When it comes, it's the paddle—a light tap against the curve of my bottom, barely more than a pat. Not painful, just surprising. The next is firmer, creating a warm bloom of sensation that spreads under my skin.
"Breathe," he reminds me, and I realize I've been holding my breath.
I inhale deeply, and as I exhale, the paddle connects again—a perfect counterpoint that somehow amplifies the sensation. He establishes a rhythm—unpredictable enough to keep me alert, consistent enough to build a rising tide of sensation.
Between strikes, his hands soothe and explore, finding places I didn't know could be so responsive.
Imoan. I plead. Ifeeleverything.
Time vanishes.
"How do you feel?" he asks after what could be minutes or hours.
"Alive," I whisper, startled by the raw honesty in my voice. "Every nerve ending is awake."
"That’s the point." He presses a kiss to my shoulder.
He unties the blindfold, and the firelight seems impossibly bright after the darkness. His face comes into focus, eyes dark with desire but watchful, assessing my reactions with careful attention.
"Still with me?"
I nod, unable to form words for the swirl of sensations and emotions coursing through me. With my hands still bound, I'm completely at his mercy, and yet I've never felt safer.
My soul is wide open.
"You’re beautiful like this," he murmurs, thumb brushing my lip. "Surrendered. Open."
The kiss that follows is unlike any we've shared before—deeper, more commanding. I yield to it completely, letting him dictate the pace, the pressure. Without my hands to touch him back, all I can do is receive.
He lowers me gently to the rug. When he finally unties my wrists, my arms fall limply to my sides, muscles relaxed in a way I can't remember feeling before. He massages them gently, restoring circulation; his touch now nurtures rather than provokes.
"Lie back," he says, guiding me down onto the plush rug, the fire warming my side.
What follows is unlike any sexual experience I've had before. Without the blindfold or restraints, it's not technically different from conventional sex, and yet it's transformed.
Having surrendered control so completely, having trusted him with my vulnerability,every touch feels magnified. Every kiss, every caress seems to reach past my skin to something essential within me.
Dominic maintains that edge of dominance—guiding my movements, setting the pace, occasionally using his strength to hold me in place—but always with an awareness of my pleasure that borders on reverence. There's play in it too, moments of lightness amid the intensity that remind me this is exploration, not obligation.
When release comes, it's shattering in its totality—not just physical but emotional, leaving me trembling and clinging to him as if he's the only solid thing in a world suddenly turned liquid.
After, he holds me against him on the rug before the fire, one hand stroking my hair in a soothing rhythm.
"Now you understand," he whispers.
And I do. I understand that what happened between us wasn't about pain or control for their own sakes, but about trust. About the freedom that comes from completely letting go, knowing someone else will hold what you surrender safely.
"Is it always like that?"
He smiles against my skin. "No. It’s different every time. This... was just the beginning."
"Of power exchange?" I recall a term I’ve read but never fully comprehended until now.
"To possibility," he corrects. "To what happens when we stop performing and start playing." He tips my chin up to meet his gaze. "When was the last time you truly played, Elena? Not competed, not achieved, not impressed—just played for the joy of it?"
