problem; Porter doesn’t want to scare me away.
His lips manage a tight grin. “Overwhelming for me,” he says.
That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “I understand,” I say.
“You can’t understand.” He shakes his head. “My dungeon is something very private.” His brow hardens into a frown. “You don’t have much in your apartment, but for some people, personal space is an extension of ourselves.”
“You’re worried I’ll judge you?”
“Well… Yes, I guess I am. You don’t know all the things I’m into.” It’s clear from the way he says this that he wants to drop the conversation right now.
“An example, please,” I say, refusing to give up. “Tell me one thing in your dungeon.”
“A brick wall.”
“I’d hope it has at least four.”
Porter’s frown deepens.
“That’s a joke,” I say, trying to be light enough for both of us. It’s not working, and I sigh. “Obviously I don’t know what a wall is.”
“It’s just that. A wall.”
“What does it have sticking out of it?” I ask, imagining spikes or some kind of medieval fortified castle.
“Cuffs,” he says. “For your legs, for your wrists.”
Heat curls around my body and sinks into my middle. “That sounds sexy.”
“Whips,” he says. “Twenty-four of them.”
“On the wall?”
“Yes.”
“Porter, I… I really want to see. Please.” I know I shouldn’t be pressuring him after all the things he’s done for me, but I suddenly feel like if I don’t get to see his dungeon, touch the whips, press my body against the wall, I’ll die. And he’s already confessed that he likes it when I beg. “Please, Porter.”
Then I realize something. I clear my throat. This will either work or it will fail spectacularly. I don’t think there’s any middle ground. “I have a confession,” I say.
Porter is already smiling. “Go ahead.”
“When we were in college, I saw you and your… girlfriend outside a movie theater. You were spanking her.”
For a moment there’s silence. “That was you,” he says. It’s not really a question. “I always wondered. Wow.”
“I’ve wanted that ever since. So whatever’s in your secret room, I want to see it.”
He flips on the turn signal and shoots me a look.
“What?” I ask as he shakes his head and turns his attention back to the road.
“You’re making me hard again.”
Twenty minutes later, Porter takes my coat and leaves me waiting in the gorgeous vestibule. The carpet is cream colored, the walls a soft beige to display the collection of abstract art to its greatest advantage.
“Would you like something to drink?” Porter asks. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, the fabric tight over his shoulders, clinging to the muscles of his chest and arms.
“If I drink, that means you won’t play with me,” I say. “So, no. I’m fine.”
He smiles. “I’ll bring water later.” Taking my elbow, he steers me through a long hallway. As we walk, lights in sconces flicker on.
Porter stops in front of a door that looks like all the others. He pushes it open. “This is where we’ll sleep tonight.”
I peer in and see an enormous bed. The room itself smells faintly of wood smoke. I spot the fireplace.
“This way,” Porter says, then escorts me down the hall again until we reach a set of double doors. “My dungeon.”
There’s tension in his voice, enough to make me worry about what I’m about to see.
He flings the doors open, steps into the room and flips on light switches.
I almost gasp as I take it all in. There might be twenty-four whips, but there are other things, too: paddles with spikes, cruel canes, and rows and rows of what look like torture devices.
There’s another wall, one with cuffs hanging. I see there are plenty of knobs, starting at the floor and going all the way to the ceiling.
“They’re adjustable,” Porter says from right behind me. “The possibilities are endless.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll walk
His lips manage a tight grin. “Overwhelming for me,” he says.
That’s the last thing I expected him to say. “I understand,” I say.
“You can’t understand.” He shakes his head. “My dungeon is something very private.” His brow hardens into a frown. “You don’t have much in your apartment, but for some people, personal space is an extension of ourselves.”
“You’re worried I’ll judge you?”
“Well… Yes, I guess I am. You don’t know all the things I’m into.” It’s clear from the way he says this that he wants to drop the conversation right now.
“An example, please,” I say, refusing to give up. “Tell me one thing in your dungeon.”
“A brick wall.”
“I’d hope it has at least four.”
Porter’s frown deepens.
“That’s a joke,” I say, trying to be light enough for both of us. It’s not working, and I sigh. “Obviously I don’t know what a wall is.”
“It’s just that. A wall.”
“What does it have sticking out of it?” I ask, imagining spikes or some kind of medieval fortified castle.
“Cuffs,” he says. “For your legs, for your wrists.”
Heat curls around my body and sinks into my middle. “That sounds sexy.”
“Whips,” he says. “Twenty-four of them.”
“On the wall?”
“Yes.”
“Porter, I… I really want to see. Please.” I know I shouldn’t be pressuring him after all the things he’s done for me, but I suddenly feel like if I don’t get to see his dungeon, touch the whips, press my body against the wall, I’ll die. And he’s already confessed that he likes it when I beg. “Please, Porter.”
Then I realize something. I clear my throat. This will either work or it will fail spectacularly. I don’t think there’s any middle ground. “I have a confession,” I say.
Porter is already smiling. “Go ahead.”
“When we were in college, I saw you and your… girlfriend outside a movie theater. You were spanking her.”
For a moment there’s silence. “That was you,” he says. It’s not really a question. “I always wondered. Wow.”
“I’ve wanted that ever since. So whatever’s in your secret room, I want to see it.”
He flips on the turn signal and shoots me a look.
“What?” I ask as he shakes his head and turns his attention back to the road.
“You’re making me hard again.”
Twenty minutes later, Porter takes my coat and leaves me waiting in the gorgeous vestibule. The carpet is cream colored, the walls a soft beige to display the collection of abstract art to its greatest advantage.
“Would you like something to drink?” Porter asks. He’s wearing a black T-shirt, the fabric tight over his shoulders, clinging to the muscles of his chest and arms.
“If I drink, that means you won’t play with me,” I say. “So, no. I’m fine.”
He smiles. “I’ll bring water later.” Taking my elbow, he steers me through a long hallway. As we walk, lights in sconces flicker on.
Porter stops in front of a door that looks like all the others. He pushes it open. “This is where we’ll sleep tonight.”
I peer in and see an enormous bed. The room itself smells faintly of wood smoke. I spot the fireplace.
“This way,” Porter says, then escorts me down the hall again until we reach a set of double doors. “My dungeon.”
There’s tension in his voice, enough to make me worry about what I’m about to see.
He flings the doors open, steps into the room and flips on light switches.
I almost gasp as I take it all in. There might be twenty-four whips, but there are other things, too: paddles with spikes, cruel canes, and rows and rows of what look like torture devices.
There’s another wall, one with cuffs hanging. I see there are plenty of knobs, starting at the floor and going all the way to the ceiling.
“They’re adjustable,” Porter says from right behind me. “The possibilities are endless.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll walk
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