His Secrets by Lisa Renée Jones Page B

high breasts, then lifts. “Do you trust me, Sara?”
    “I did say I’d marry you.”
    The idea of Sara being my wife stirs a mix of heat and possessiveness that I never thought I would feel for anyone. “Yes. And being your husband gives me certain . . . privileges.”
    “Privileges?”
    My cock thickens with the raspy quality of her voice. “I told you once that if you stayed with me, I’d own your body. Every last inch of it. Marriage seals that deal.”
    “You already own my body, Chris. Sometimes too well.”
    “Not yet. But I will, baby. You can count on it.” I back away from her and go to the far wall, grabbing the red leather stool resting against the wall and bringing it to the center of the room.
    Her teeth scrape her bottom lip and I can think of all kinds of places I want those lips, and mine, as well. “What’s that?”
    “A surprise,” I promise, unbuttoning my jeans and shoving them down my legs. Her gaze rakes over my body, all signs of shyness gone, her eyes lingering where my shaft juts forward, and I am instantly thicker, harder, ready for her the way I know she is for me. But it’s still not time.
    I squat in front of the stool and remove two long, flat, rectangular boxes. “I brought us some toys.”
    She swallows hard. “Toys?”
    I open the larger of the boxes and pull out a pink, fluffy paddle we’ve joked about on numerous occasions.
    She laughs nervously. “You didn’t.”
    “I told you I ordered it.” I pat the stool. “The perfect companion toy.”
    “So you want to . . . ”
    “Bend you over it and spank you,” I supply. “Yes. Do you want me to?”
    “I . . . I don’t know. I mean, yes, I do but . . . ”
    “You’re not ready.”
    Her eyes go wide. “No. I mean yes. I am.”
    “No,” I say firmly, sensing she isn’t in the right place today. And respecting that is part of keeping her trust. “You’re not. You will be, but not now.”
    “But if you—”
    “I have other plans.” I open the second box and flip it around to display the butterfly nipple clamps inside.
    “I should have known that was next,” she observes. While there’s still a nervous quality to her voice, the tension in her body eases, telling me we’re in her comfort zone even before she asks, “Will they hurt?”
    “An erotic ache,” I explain, removing two pink sashes from inside a box. Then I walk to stand in front of Sara. “Put your hands over your head.”
    She does as I say without hesitation, and the fact that she trusts me that much in the midst of the unknown gives me a high I believe she shares with me. I need this control. She needs a safe place to give it away. It works for us, and I will always be safe for her in a way the whip never was for me—a way I never wanted it to be. I will never hurt her as I wanted it to hurt me.
    I tie each of her wrists, then hook the sashes to small hooks near the top of the wall I’d installed earlier this morning while she was asleep, then I press my hands to the silk by her head. She stares back at me, her lashes half veiled, her eyes laden with arousal.
    “You’re beautiful, Sara, and you’re mine.”
    “You’re beautiful, Chris, and you’re mine.”
    I laugh, tenderness seeping into the arousal pulsing through me; no one ever made me laugh in a moment like this. But then, I’m not sure there ever was a moment like this, before Sara. “Yes, baby—I’m yours.” I run my hands down her sides, her hips, and back up again, then gently let my thumbs brush her nipples. She whimpers, that soft sexy sound I’ve come to crave, and I step closer, sliding my shaft between her thighs, teasing us both, and then tugging lightly on the stiff peaks of her nipples.
    Cupping her breasts, I bend my head and begin sucking and licking, warming her nipples until I think she’s ready for what comes next. I move to the bench and remove the butterflies from the case, then return to Sara.
    “I’m nervous,” she confesses, a slight shake to her