"H've. . . you ever called someone else that?"
Another pause. "Yes. But I've never called anyone angel. "
"'S okay. " And then she was lost in those clouds, somehow knowing he was around her, watching over her so she didn't have to dream.
Chapter Nine
That sense of reassurance was the thought that first hit her when she woke. In the manner of coping she'd used for a long time, she turned it around. This whole weekend was about suspending her natural reality. She'd been reluctant to do so and yes, Tyler had masterfully, no pun intended, made her accept it. She'd known he was a powerful Master, capable of taking over a sub's will. Well, perhaps most women's wills, bringing them to higher pinnacles of pleasure than they otherwise ever would know. Kudos to him for that.
Why not enjoy the benefits of being his "play" sub for a weekend? When it was over, she would reflect on it as a truly enlightening experience that would help her achieve a deeper connection with her own submissives. As he'd said.
She was untied. Someone had cared for her, cleaned between her legs, cleaned the evidence of his desire off her back and buttocks at last. She'd been so exhausted she'd slept right through it. She, who was hyperaware of the casual brush of a passerby on the street, had slept through him intimately touching her. For she was certain Tyler would entrust her care to no one else.
She rose slowly, her muscles aching, and managed to get her feet angled toward the floor, her head in the upright position. Though sore, she felt alive, energized, aware of her surroundings and his scent. Not allowing herself to think about the compulsion, she leaned back, her hand finding his pillow. Hesitating only a moment, she brought it to her face and inhaled. He'd slept with her, she remembered. Waking up in the middle of the night, she'd felt his body against the side of hers, his arm on her waist, palm on her hip, idly stroking her buttock, his breathing even, deep.
Appalled at the fact she was lingering over memories of him, she dropped the pillow and noticed the chair set up near the bed. The robe she'd worn was draped over it. On the pool of silk in the seat were the nipple clamps, a brush and a note.
Leave your hair down. Put on the clamps and adjust them the way I had them, one turn before they're too tight. Wear the robe or not. Your choice.
And under those last two words he'd drawn a small likeness of a cartoon devil grinning at her.
Moving into the hallway a few minutes later wearing the robe, she took in some of the details she'd missed the previous night. The eclectic though sparse style of his home reflected that he chose only things that interested him. Intriguing, individualistic pieces lined the walls, drawing her attention as she made her way down the landing and out onto the open stairwell. A bronze sculpture of a dancer had been placed on a pedestal.
A landscape painting, showing a sailboat tacking off a rocky shore, was under a small spotlight mounted on the hallway wall. A trio of photographs showing her scenes of third-world children with simple pure smiles and mountain vistas in the background, was at the top of the stairs.
As she looked over the railing, she noted that the living room designed for male comfort with its sectional sofa and widescreen television had colorful area rugs that looked handwoven. Probably from some lovely South American village where the women who had made them couldn't imagine what a widescreen television was, let alone that their handiwork would soften a room with one in it.
But it was as she walked down the staircase that she found the pieces that gave her a more personal glimpse of the man. There was a black and white photograph of Leila, one of the submissives who frequented The Zone and who had been an item with Tyler at one time. In this photo, the woman was sitting at a vanity completely naked. Her back was to the camera, her hands bound behind her back, her eyes studying the photographer by reflection in the mirror. Though he had taken the photo at an angle, standing clear of the shot so as not to mar its perfection, it was obvious from the avid look in her eyes, mixed with a quiet joy and tranquility at being where she was, who it was who took the picture.
Down another few steps were the family shots. Tyler's parents probably, an old black and white of their wedding as they stepped out into a new life together, rice scattered over their head and shoulders. It was positioned diagonally with a more recent photo of the couple. She saw Tyler's bone structure and height in his father, his complexion and nose in his mother. Some of his implacability was in his mother's face, his tender side in his father's.
If she was right about the way he did his decorating, these photos all had significance, important memories or relationships stored behind each one. Nothing in this house had been randomly chosen. And that, she realized, included her.
When she heard the sound of a pot clanging into a sink, she drew in a breath. Her nipples tingled in the grip of the clamps, reacting to the evidence of his close presence.
Bemused, she continued down the stairs, though she trailed her fingers over the pictures as if she were absorbing his life through her touch.
Stepping into the kitchen, she found Sarah absent and Tyler her chef for the morning meal. He wore a pair of drawstring cotton pants, a natural undyed fabric that was long enough that the back cuffs were worn from his bare heels stepping on them.
He wasn't wearing a shirt and he'd not yet shaved. The muscles along his back shifted with smooth grace as he moved around the kitchen. Unlike most of her subs, Tyler had a light mat of silky dark hair over a powerful chest and sectioned stomach muscles. She liked the definition there, a man who kept himself in good shape.
Desire didn't rise, it roared up through her as if it had not been sated again and again less than a few hours before. She wasn't going to be the way she was yesterday, immature and embarrassingly intimidated in the face of their undeniable attraction.
She'd given herself permission to indulge it, contingent upon her belief that she could enjoy this reality without censure for two days. So she found herself moving into the kitchen, only one thought in her mind.
He turned at her approach. Whatever he had parted his lips to say never came forth as his gaze registered her expression. When she reached for his waistband, he caught her hands in a firm grip, causing her to stumble mentally.
"Do you want my cock, Marguerite?"
His eyes were vibrantly gold, filled with her, helping her find herself again.
Nodding, she shifted her gaze away, remembered and brought it back just before he brought his hand to her chin to make her meet his eyes. And then she did what her mind told her unbelievably that she wanted to do. Keeping her eyes on his, she sank to her knees, the silk pooling around her like a queen's mantle.
"Open your robe, Marguerite. Take it off your shoulders. " He would have her serve him naked, as a slave would.
Even knowing that, she slipped the belt free without protest and let the robe fall behind her. She moved her attention now to his hands as they went to his waistband.
Loosening the drawstring, he let the pants fall, showing her at close range a cock that was already becoming erect despite the fact she'd stepped into the kitchen less than a minute ago. She was actually salivating, and it wasn't for the breakfast he was cooking.