Rock Bottom (Tristan & Danika #2)(46)

“Good. I’d have done more to you, but there are some things I’d like to try in private with you first. And yes, I’d very much like to become exclusive. I’ve wanted you to myself from the start, Estella.” I meant it, and I realized that I didn’t really have a choice but to try with her, even at the risk of being hurt. I was already in too deep.

She was suddenly plastered to my side, nearly making me swerve off the road. She kissed my cheek, again and again, saying something fast in Portuguese and then in English, “I love you. I’m in love with you.”

I pulled over, unbuckling my seatbelt and climbing over her, until we were face to face. “Well, now you’ve done it, my sweet. We can’t go back now. I’m keeping you.” I kissed her, feeling happier than I could remember.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DANIKA

“A surprise?” I asked him as he led me to his bedroom. We’d been apart for five days, but as always with our separations, it felt like longer.

I gasped in delight as I saw the picture hanging above his bed.

It had been taken on our wedding day. I was clutching my bouquet of white roses, wearing my little yellow dress. Tristan had his arm around me, and we were both grinning like fools.

He’d blown it up and had it framed. He could be so sweet. The sweetest.

“What a wonderful surprise!” I exclaimed.

“That wasn’t the surprise,” he said into my ear. His tone alone made me shiver in delighted anticipation.

I didn’t have to ask, as he was fitting a blindfold over my eyes. It had been a while since we’d played like this, and I’d found myself fixating on it when we were apart, fantasizing about it more than any of the other things we did.

I held perfectly still as he stripped me down to nothing and took control.

He pulled me to the bed, pushing me down onto my back. His hands were gentle but firm as he pulled my legs wide apart and began to tie both ankles to his bedposts. He kissed the arch of each foot when he was done, and moved on to my hands. He bound my wrists, then kissed the tip of every finger, making me shiver, my br**sts tightening.

He moved away and even through my blindfold, I could see the slight change when the light in the room was dimmed.

I heard him light a match. Almost immediately, the sweet scent of almonds filled the air.

The bed dipped as I felt him sit beside my hip, his hand going to my stomach, rubbing, kneading. I couldn’t help myself; I moaned.

He fondled me. He stroked my thighs, rubbing close but staying just shy of my sex. He used his magic hands to play with my body, but only to tease, until I was gasping and begging him in short little breaths for more.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his voice thick with some emotion that’s root eluded me.

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. Like this, under his hands, Tristan had taught me that he would always take care of me, pleasure me, satisfy me.

Under his hands, I felt healed of all of the fear for this act that had once defined me. So when tied to his bed, yes, I trusted him implicitly.

“Good,” he said, and moved away.

He was gone for a few minutes, and the sweet almond scent became stronger, permeating the room in a delicious, invasive way.

He came back, the bed dipping with his weight again, and he set something warm and metal onto my stomach.

I gasped.

He chuckled.

“What is that?” I asked.

“I’m not going to tell you. I’m going to show you.”

The blindfold was secure, but I could see dancing light just bleeding through the bottom. He’d brought the candle close.

I sucked in another hard gasp as I felt hot liquid dribble onto my collarbone. It didn’t hurt, but it was shocking.

“What is that?” I asked.

“It’s hot wax.”

I was trembling as I waited for him to do it again.

It landed on my stomach that time, and I writhed, pulling against the restraints. It still wasn’t painful, just so intense I could hardly stand it.

I moaned as he poured a few drops onto my inner thigh, my upper arm, the inside of my knee, alternating to the sensitive spots on my body, but avoiding all of the blatantly sexual ones.

He trickled more wax onto my neck, my wrists, my open palms, and the tops of my feet.

I panted, in a state.

He dripped tiny amounts onto my fingers, my ankles, my hips, my ribs.

I was close to begging for just one touch of his fingers.

He drizzled just drops onto my knees, the bend of my arms, the valley between my br**sts.

“Please,” I uttered, wanting, needing anything beyond this delicious teasing game of his.

His answer was to drip a generous amount onto my quivering br**sts. I cried out. It still wasn’t a cry of pain, but one of want.

He splashed some directly onto my pelvis, making my hips jerk, then circle in a plea.

Finally, mercifully, he put his hands on me, rubbing the soft wax into my skin, massaging, caressing, squeezing, working.

His hands were reverent, worshipful, devoted, loving; magic.

When he finally moved on top of me, and pushed his hips between my thighs, I was primed.

He buried himself to the hilt with one deep thrust. I’d already been on the edge, and I came, crying out, with a few heavy thrusts.

He pulled out of me, and I moaned a protest, but he returned to me quickly.