C hapter O ne
I wish that I’d never looked up.
I wish that I’d kept my head down and focused on the ice cubes floating aimlessly in my glass, a mirror reflection of how I felt. Living one day to the next, slowly fading into the surroundings around me, always there, but not really necessary. Only acknowledged when I do something wrong rather than the other hundred things I do right.
I wish I would have kept to myself, phoned my husband and pretended to care that he had been called away for a last minute work emergency on our tenth wedding anniversary getaway when all I really felt was indifference. Then I could have wandered down the cobblestone streets slightly buzzed but completely content. I would have gone up to our hotel room, snuggled with a blanket on the balcony under a Tuscan sky with my e-reader. I’d have devoured those books I’ve come to love—the ones that have helped me reawaken my sexuality. The books that have made me realize it’s okay to want more out of my sex life, to want my husband to push the envelope with me. Experiment with me. Demand more of me.
But I didn’t.
I looked up and into eyes the color of dark chocolate, sinful and delicious. Irresistible. Instant attraction sparked with a subtle nod of his head and a bite of my lower lip. I met him stare for stare, a smirk ghosting his mouth as his eyes scraped across my features – lips, cleavage, wedding ring on my finger – before coming back to meet mine. We continued to stare at each other, his eyes darkening with desire and tongue darting out to wet his lips. I suddenly became uncomfortable with the blatant proposition his eyes offered – and averted my gaze. And even then, I could still feel his eyes on me, the hair on my arms standing on end from the feeling of being watched, studied, and scrutinized.
From being desired.
I should have refused the drink the bartender slid in front of me with a murmured, “Compliments of il signore .” I should have let it sit there untouched instead of drinking most of it, only to stare at remnants and the melting ice cubes.
I should have.
I wish I had.
But I didn’t.
My body shivers from a potent cocktail of fear mixed with traitorous pleasure. The heightened sensation shocks my mind back to the present. To the here and now. To the gloved hand sliding a fingertip between my breasts, to the ragged breathing of the man I can’t see, to the unknown rifling through me.
And the deep-seated ache to be owned.
I should have never looked up.
His fingers slide between my spread legs and push apart my lips, wet and swollen, a result of everything he’s done to me thus far.
Resistance is long gone.
Shame has been obliterated.
Fear remains, a cold and callous presence. But so does the unexpected desire that barrels through my body like a freight train.
I cry out at the feeling of two leather-gloved fingers as they push their way into me, the texture of the material an oddly pleasurable feeling. I’m so raw, so over-sensitized, so used, that I don’t think I can take much more. I try to close my legs and my mind is so consumed and overwhelmed that I forget, I can’t . Forget about the unforgiving restraints holding my ankles apart.
My body begins to writhe, its need to sate the burning ache a sharp contrast to the warring emotions in my psyche. My only focus is on the slow slide in of his fingers and the pressure and friction against nerves unexpectedly reawakened. The tortuous withdrawal of leather not wet enough tugging softly on the most tender of flesh, causing a different but equally arousing sensation.
I try to fight it.
At least I tell myself I do.
I try to understand how this is possible. How an orgasm can rip me apart right now—again—when fear still holds my breath captive.
I should have never accepted the drink, never looked up to acknowledge him with a subtle nod of my head.
My body vibrates as the swell of white-hot heat sears through me, taking nerve endings hostage and
I wish that I’d never looked up.
I wish that I’d kept my head down and focused on the ice cubes floating aimlessly in my glass, a mirror reflection of how I felt. Living one day to the next, slowly fading into the surroundings around me, always there, but not really necessary. Only acknowledged when I do something wrong rather than the other hundred things I do right.
I wish I would have kept to myself, phoned my husband and pretended to care that he had been called away for a last minute work emergency on our tenth wedding anniversary getaway when all I really felt was indifference. Then I could have wandered down the cobblestone streets slightly buzzed but completely content. I would have gone up to our hotel room, snuggled with a blanket on the balcony under a Tuscan sky with my e-reader. I’d have devoured those books I’ve come to love—the ones that have helped me reawaken my sexuality. The books that have made me realize it’s okay to want more out of my sex life, to want my husband to push the envelope with me. Experiment with me. Demand more of me.
But I didn’t.
I looked up and into eyes the color of dark chocolate, sinful and delicious. Irresistible. Instant attraction sparked with a subtle nod of his head and a bite of my lower lip. I met him stare for stare, a smirk ghosting his mouth as his eyes scraped across my features – lips, cleavage, wedding ring on my finger – before coming back to meet mine. We continued to stare at each other, his eyes darkening with desire and tongue darting out to wet his lips. I suddenly became uncomfortable with the blatant proposition his eyes offered – and averted my gaze. And even then, I could still feel his eyes on me, the hair on my arms standing on end from the feeling of being watched, studied, and scrutinized.
From being desired.
I should have refused the drink the bartender slid in front of me with a murmured, “Compliments of il signore .” I should have let it sit there untouched instead of drinking most of it, only to stare at remnants and the melting ice cubes.
I should have.
I wish I had.
But I didn’t.
My body shivers from a potent cocktail of fear mixed with traitorous pleasure. The heightened sensation shocks my mind back to the present. To the here and now. To the gloved hand sliding a fingertip between my breasts, to the ragged breathing of the man I can’t see, to the unknown rifling through me.
And the deep-seated ache to be owned.
I should have never looked up.
His fingers slide between my spread legs and push apart my lips, wet and swollen, a result of everything he’s done to me thus far.
Resistance is long gone.
Shame has been obliterated.
Fear remains, a cold and callous presence. But so does the unexpected desire that barrels through my body like a freight train.
I cry out at the feeling of two leather-gloved fingers as they push their way into me, the texture of the material an oddly pleasurable feeling. I’m so raw, so over-sensitized, so used, that I don’t think I can take much more. I try to close my legs and my mind is so consumed and overwhelmed that I forget, I can’t . Forget about the unforgiving restraints holding my ankles apart.
My body begins to writhe, its need to sate the burning ache a sharp contrast to the warring emotions in my psyche. My only focus is on the slow slide in of his fingers and the pressure and friction against nerves unexpectedly reawakened. The tortuous withdrawal of leather not wet enough tugging softly on the most tender of flesh, causing a different but equally arousing sensation.
I try to fight it.
At least I tell myself I do.
I try to understand how this is possible. How an orgasm can rip me apart right now—again—when fear still holds my breath captive.
I should have never accepted the drink, never looked up to acknowledge him with a subtle nod of my head.
My body vibrates as the swell of white-hot heat sears through me, taking nerve endings hostage and
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