Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 303(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
I laugh. “True. Very true. I liked when he spanked me,” I say in a very small voice.
“Impact play is the number one kink. Ninety-six percent of women fantasize about some aspect of BDSM. Again, go you. It’s hard to find a partner who just happens to nail it for you without a lot of discussion, so you got lucky.”
Lucky.
I think about all the events that transpired. The odd chance Joey showed up at my place of business. That he was there when my car was being towed. That he had the ability to make my body combust every time he touched me.
I’d been feeling like his attention was unfortunate. Something to be warded off. A temptation I had to resist.
But what if I have it all backward? Maybe this all happened for a reason.
I’m reminded again of my father’s funeral. His kindness to a gangly, grieving teen left a permanent mark on me. Does it make sense that the same man might circle back to my life and mean something?
“I say explore the hell out of it with him. Open the lines of communication. Tell him what you liked, what you didn’t like. Ask for more. We all deserve to be fulfilled, and if you just figured out what does it for you, you’re way ahead of the game. Some people never figure it out.”
I draw in a breath and let it out, both relieved and excited at the same time. “Thank you. I knew you’d have all the right words for me.”
“You know how much I love to talk about sex.”
“I do.” We catch up a little more on her life before we say goodbye.
I Google “impact play” while I ought to be cleaning my townhouse and spend two hours poring over sites, discovering an entire world of BDSM kinksters out there. By the time I finish reading, I’m grinding over the seat of my chair, more turned on than I’ve ever become without anyone touching me.
Sereva was right. On the forums, I find many, many people requesting advice on how to get their partners to act more dominant.
I snort at the thought of coaching Joey. The man was born dominant. He took me in hand probably without even knowing it’s a thing. The thought of him giving me a real punishment, the memory of the way he spun me around and delivered his form of justice, makes my fingers seek my aching sex, my eyes rolling back in my head.
* * *
I end up ordering some implements, following the recommendations and reviews of other kinksters, including a wooden paddle, wrist cuffs, and a stainless steel butt plug.
I chew on a fingernail thinking about talking to Joey about my desires. How I want more. Technically, tonight’s our final date. But now that he opened that door for me sexually, I’m not so willing to send him packing.
Joey
When I show up at Sophie’s townhouse for dinner, I hear the music from a musical–I don’t know which one–blasting inside. I tap on the door, but I’m guessing she can’t hear me, so I try the handle and find it open.
I don’t like that. Her neighborhood sucks, and the idea of someone walking in on her makes me angry as fuck.
But I soon forget because Sophie’s in the kitchen, singing along to the music at the top of her lungs. I stop, transfixed. She sings like an angel. She looks like a goddess. She’s swaying to the music in another short skirt paired with a top that shows off her flat midriff, some of the pieces I sent her. What else can I send her? Her feet are bare.
Her eyes are closed, her head falling back, so her thick hair moves in waves down her back. She bounces on her feet wearing a look of pure joy on her face. I lean in the door frame, drinking in the show.
When her eyes flicker open and she sees me, she shrieks and laughs. “I didn’t hear you come in!” She lunges for the music and turns it down.
I hand her the bundle of orange roses I brought and set the bottle of wine on the counter. “Yeah, you need to keep your door locked when you’re here alone,” I say. “But don’t stop singing. Please—don’t stop.”
“Thank you for the flowers.” She offers her cheek for a kiss, but I catch her jaw and turn her face to claim her mouth. “I mean it,” I murmur. “Please don’t stop. I was enjoying the show.” I nudge her back into the kitchen, sidling up behind her to mold my body to hers and slow dance with my arm wrapped around her waist. She sways with me.
“Didn’t think you were the dancing type.”
“You like to dance?” I turn her around and back her up against the counter, pressing my body against hers. “Is that what you want to do for our third date? Go dancing?”