If It Fornicates (Market Garden, #4)(7)
“The wine?”
Nick waved it off. “Neither of us had more than a glass. Nothing to preclude us from a little light playing. Just something to focus you.” And me. Hell, maybe I need it more than you do right now. But he didn’t have to tell Spencer that. Needy Dom, now there was a weird concept.
Spencer nodded. “Stay . . . stay with me over the weekend? I’d really like to spend more time with you. See . . . find out how it all works.”
A whole weekend. And Monday. Together like a normal couple. Intimidating. And thrilling. “All right. We’ll do that.”
Spencer’s posture relaxed. With that out of the way, he let Nick take the lead. As natural as exhaling.
“To the bedroom.” Nick gave a sharp nod in its direction. “Get ready. Kneel at the bed.”
Spencer smiled and left, while Nick remained standing in the kitchen just a little longer, examining whether he was ready to do this. But he was. Spencer wasn’t work, and that glass of wine hadn’t impaired his judgment or precision.
With Spencer, he didn’t feel pressure to perform. Had never felt it—he could trust his instincts and know he wouldn’t go wrong. They were natural together. He walked into the bedroom, smiled at a couple of large candles flickering in glasses, the only sources of light in the room. They were fake—just little LEDs buried deep in real wax—but the glow looked genuine, and it cast a cosy, romantic light over Spencer’s bedroom.
Spencer himself was kneeling at the foot of the bed, on the fluffy white rug there, fully naked, hands folded in front of his groin, eyes closed. He looked relaxed and peaceful, collected, quite possibly halfway to subspace already. Spencer could anticipate in the most beautiful ways. Unlike some subs, he didn’t get pushy or squirmy or demanding or restless. He just was and fully embraced waiting. And what a buzz that he was waiting for Nick.
Nick walked up to Spencer, studied the twitch of muscle that betrayed Spencer’s keen awareness of his steps, his movements. Then, in passing, he reached out and traced his fingernails along Spencer’s shoulders. Full-body shiver. Nick walked around Spencer and ran his nails along his front too, just below the collar bones.
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t make a sound. Just let Spencer take in the long, contemplative silence. Nick couldn’t help but think of clients who’d consider that much waiting a drain on their expensive time. And especially expensive time with Nick.
“You obeyed perfectly.” Nick ran fingertips along the side of Spencer’s face. “Thank you.” He meant it. That was something he rarely said, but it seemed like Spencer needed to hear it, and besides, this was now their game, rather than one for money. No more real, but a whole lot more personal.
“Turn around. Hands on the bed. Lean forward.”
Spencer obeyed, displaying his whole upper body and arms, sightless gaze on the floor. Nick traced a tense muscle with a fingernail, hard enough to leave a scratch mark on Spencer’s beautiful dark skin, and enjoyed the shudder and the slight groan when he returned to the sensitive area between Spencer’s shoulder blades and traced it again. It was idle, felt a little like finger-painting, playful and yet not. Before long, Spencer would be aware of every square inch of skin, every muscle in his back, and that awareness would serve as a first course for the crop. He’d be aware of and appreciative of Nick’s precision, tuned in completely to every harsh slap and gentle pat.
Spencer held his position, hands pressed flat against the wood of the bedframe. He sucked in a sharp breath, goose bumps springing up all around a lazy circle Nick drew on the back of his shoulder.
“Tell me, Spencer,” Nick said quietly, moving his finger along the underside of Spencer’s arm. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” The word came out quickly, sharply, almost like he’d coughed. “I do. Yes.”
Nick smiled. His finger reached the inside of Spencer’s forearm, which was trembling now. Hell, most of his body was. As Nick wrapped his fingers around—most of the way around, since they were only so long—Spencer’s wrist, he leaned closer. He kissed the back of Spencer’s shoulder, lips curving into a grin as Spencer groaned like Nick had struck him.
Nick let go of Spencer’s wrist and stood. He looked the man’s exposed back up and down, his mind superimposing all the welts he intended to leave across Spencer’s skin.
The scenes he’d done earlier today seemed far away, existing on the other side of some huge expanse of time, but as he debated the crop versus the flogger versus those evil sticks Spencer loved to hate so much, fatigue crept into his muscles. Not unpleasant, just a reminder that he only had so much left tonight. Pity; if there was one sub he’d gladly reserve all his energy for, regardless of the monetary cost, it was Spencer. Sweet, gorgeous Spencer, kneeling at the foot of his bed and waiting, waiting, waiting for anything Nick saw fit to give him.
Which meant Nick owed him one hundred percent. Not a half-arsed flogging. Don’t swing the cat-o’-nine-tails if the muscles are too tired to follow through and make it count.
At his feet, Spencer shifted on his knees. He grasped the top of the footboard, and loosened-tightened-loosened his grip. Not impatience. Just getting comfortable. Anticipating, perhaps. Nick had never had much trouble making this man squirm.
In the end, he went for the crop from the basic assortment he kept at Spencer’s, exactly for the precision. The first impact released some of the tension that had been building, and that first shock pushed Spencer physically forward as if he’d been punched.