edge to his voice or the hard stare in place of the boyish gleam in his eyes, but I nod and put the drink down on the low glass coffee table separating us.
“Good,” Sam says, though he doesn’t relax at all with the pronouncement. He is still pitched forward like he’s going to come to his feet any second. Is he anxious as well, I wonder. Angry at my ploy? Frustrated with me for pushing the issue of whether he’s interested in me or not? “You didn’t challenge me for once, Rina. I’m surprised. In certain circles, people might call you a brat.” He raises one hand when I stiffen defensively at the remark. “And before you get mouthy with me, that’s a specific term in BDSM. Fairly self-explanatory, but it basically means you like to push until someone pushes back.”
Unable to argue with that based on…well… any of my behavior in the two years I’ve known Sam, I fold my arms and try not to look like I’m pouting. It’s a struggle. Cautiously, watching my tone if for no other reason than to avoid proving Sam so utterly right, I mutter, “So you never did tell me exactly what you’re into… on the scene .” Is it just me or did that emphasis come out sounding a tad snotty?
He rubs his hand over his mouth, almost certainly to hide a smile and muffle a chuckle. After a moment, Sam grows still again and watches my face. “I’m dominant, if that’s what you’d like to know. Nothing very extreme, no blood or knife play, no flat-out sadism.”
“How did you get interested in it?” Please don’t say it was your girlfriend, unless there’s an ex- in front of the word.
“A client,” he admits with a grin bordering on bashful. “You’ve worked with me, Rina. You know I push. Some women like that. Some women like being pushed hard . After a workout session that went, well, about the same way ours do, it became pretty clear that resisting me was arousing my client. As inadvisable as it is to mix business with pleasure, I let her introduce me to BDSM and resistance play.”
“Resistance play?” The word resistance rolling off Sam’s tongue tightens the back of my neck with anticipation. The mention of play , however, leaves me uneasy, my fingers fidgeting and twisting the hem of my dress.
Sam nods as I repeat the term. “It’s also called force play.” There is a heartbeat’s worth of pause. “Or rape play, if it gets a little more hardcore.”
My voice doesn’t sound like my own—distant, guttural, hungry—as I ask, “Can we try that? You and I?”
Sam’s reaction confuses me. He swallows hard, like the thought leaves his mouth as dry as mine is right now, but he uncoils and sits back on the couch. A very calm, controlled demeanor passes over his face like a cloud over the sun, and sweet, playful Sam is suddenly completely unreadable to me.
“That’s an advanced form of play, Rina. It usually involves partners who have been intimate for a long time, a lot of conversation beforehand, even a contract setting limits. Because once the play starts, nothing stops it. The adrenaline is pumping, and blood is pounding in your skull, and safe words are just a whisper in the distance.” Sam shakes his head at some private thought. “And if I knew better,” he starts to say. Then he mutters under his breath. “And I obviously do, goddamnit.” After a rough-edged breath he continues. “We shouldn’t even be considering something so dangerous this late at night after a long party with just enough alcohol and flirtation to warp our better judgment.”
The urge to argue with Sam wars with the desire to plead with him to force me, to take me, to play with me, if that’s what he must call it. I don’t have play acting in mind so much as I want to be the prey this predator plays with before pouncing. “Are we?” I finally find the breath to ask. “Are we considering it?”
I watch enrapt as Sam thoughtfully sucks on the sinfully plump bow of his lower lip for a moment, before he slides
“Good,” Sam says, though he doesn’t relax at all with the pronouncement. He is still pitched forward like he’s going to come to his feet any second. Is he anxious as well, I wonder. Angry at my ploy? Frustrated with me for pushing the issue of whether he’s interested in me or not? “You didn’t challenge me for once, Rina. I’m surprised. In certain circles, people might call you a brat.” He raises one hand when I stiffen defensively at the remark. “And before you get mouthy with me, that’s a specific term in BDSM. Fairly self-explanatory, but it basically means you like to push until someone pushes back.”
Unable to argue with that based on…well… any of my behavior in the two years I’ve known Sam, I fold my arms and try not to look like I’m pouting. It’s a struggle. Cautiously, watching my tone if for no other reason than to avoid proving Sam so utterly right, I mutter, “So you never did tell me exactly what you’re into… on the scene .” Is it just me or did that emphasis come out sounding a tad snotty?
He rubs his hand over his mouth, almost certainly to hide a smile and muffle a chuckle. After a moment, Sam grows still again and watches my face. “I’m dominant, if that’s what you’d like to know. Nothing very extreme, no blood or knife play, no flat-out sadism.”
“How did you get interested in it?” Please don’t say it was your girlfriend, unless there’s an ex- in front of the word.
“A client,” he admits with a grin bordering on bashful. “You’ve worked with me, Rina. You know I push. Some women like that. Some women like being pushed hard . After a workout session that went, well, about the same way ours do, it became pretty clear that resisting me was arousing my client. As inadvisable as it is to mix business with pleasure, I let her introduce me to BDSM and resistance play.”
“Resistance play?” The word resistance rolling off Sam’s tongue tightens the back of my neck with anticipation. The mention of play , however, leaves me uneasy, my fingers fidgeting and twisting the hem of my dress.
Sam nods as I repeat the term. “It’s also called force play.” There is a heartbeat’s worth of pause. “Or rape play, if it gets a little more hardcore.”
My voice doesn’t sound like my own—distant, guttural, hungry—as I ask, “Can we try that? You and I?”
Sam’s reaction confuses me. He swallows hard, like the thought leaves his mouth as dry as mine is right now, but he uncoils and sits back on the couch. A very calm, controlled demeanor passes over his face like a cloud over the sun, and sweet, playful Sam is suddenly completely unreadable to me.
“That’s an advanced form of play, Rina. It usually involves partners who have been intimate for a long time, a lot of conversation beforehand, even a contract setting limits. Because once the play starts, nothing stops it. The adrenaline is pumping, and blood is pounding in your skull, and safe words are just a whisper in the distance.” Sam shakes his head at some private thought. “And if I knew better,” he starts to say. Then he mutters under his breath. “And I obviously do, goddamnit.” After a rough-edged breath he continues. “We shouldn’t even be considering something so dangerous this late at night after a long party with just enough alcohol and flirtation to warp our better judgment.”
The urge to argue with Sam wars with the desire to plead with him to force me, to take me, to play with me, if that’s what he must call it. I don’t have play acting in mind so much as I want to be the prey this predator plays with before pouncing. “Are we?” I finally find the breath to ask. “Are we considering it?”
I watch enrapt as Sam thoughtfully sucks on the sinfully plump bow of his lower lip for a moment, before he slides
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