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Chapter 3

Grif hoped she hadn’t been able to see how frustrated and disappointed he’d been when it seemed they’d have to stop the scene. He didn’t think she had, but, oddly, he was having a hard time reading her. Normally he knew what she wanted, what she could take, based on her non-verbals.

Right now he couldn’t tell. Couldn’t read her the way he should be able to.

It was probably more accurate to say he was mis-reading her, because her non-verbals were distinctly not Davina-ish.

When he’d finished tethering her collar to the chair, she’d closed her eyes, lowered her chin, and turned her hands palms out. It was the most submissive posture he’d ever seen her take without a direct order to do so. He could have dismissed the lowered eyes and down-tilted chin as her doing some of her yoga breathing to center herself, but the hands…

That had been something new, something different.

Seeing her like that, so quietly submissive, had given him a raging hard on so fast that it physically hurt.

His strong, guarded minx had gone soft and quiet and that triggered some primal Dom urges deep in his brain.

It wasn’t just the posture that had gotten his dick diamond hard, so fast. It was that she was the one doing it. He’d been with high-protocol or more classically submissive subs before her. They would have done more than simply turn their hands palms out to show him how submissive and willing they were.

Such a small thing, easily overlooked, to turn the hands, exposing the soft skin of her palms and thin, pale skin of her wrists.

When Davina did it…

The impact of that small gesture was profound.

Then she’d snapped back, said she would take care of herself—watch out for her own comfort as far as the jewelry cuffs went. It had been like a splash of cold water. It cooled this conflagration within, and he’d realized the things he was thinking and planning were too much. He’d had to rein himself in, fight the urge to push.

Then everything had changed again.

I don’t want you to stop.

Something about the way she’d said it—each syllable laced with raw need—told him as much as her words did that she wanted to keep going. He hadn’t been reading her wrong.

She was reacting, submitting, in a way she hadn’t ever before.

Two years together, and it seemed he still had a lot to learn about his sub.

His sub.

He normally didn’t think of her like that. The verbiage they normally used was “partner.” She was the “submissive partner” not the sub. His sub.

She’s mine.

Grif was still painfully aroused, and holding on to his control with a metaphorical chain as delicate as the ones he was using on her.

The jewelry was forcing them to adapt to a totally different kind of play than they’d ever engaged in before. Back in the Den, perusing the selection of delicate jewelry, he thought he’d understood why the overseers had referred to it as a “challenge.”

Jewelry was a symbol, not a functioning BDSM toy.

Delicate chain wasn’t a viable option to physically restrain someone. What he was using had the tensile strength to support the weight of her slender arms when she was at rest and relatively still, but one good yank and it would snap.

That meant that they were both going to have to exercise the kind of restraint they normally didn’t employ.

The collar, cuffs, and basic restraints were only the first, and simplest, pieces of jewelry. He wouldn’t be happy until she was dripping with delicate chains, her body desperate with need, her mind fully and firmly in subspace.

Subspace. Davina, his minx, soft and open. Not worrying or thinking, but letting go in that most vulnerable way.

He’d never been able to get her into subspace without inversion bondage, impact play, or some combination of both. They’d talked about it, and neither one of them had been particularly worried. She wasn’t really looking for peace the way some people in the lifestyle did.

For Davina, BDSM was an outlet for her emotions. When they were together, she let loose her rage, worry, and pain. He could handle it, handle her when she needed to let go. Tie her down, bind her so she was still and had something to fight against.

Only rarely did her emotional well run dry enough—or the physical sensations become strong enough—for her to sink into subspace.

But here she was, seeming to move and react on instinct, her motions and body soft.

A challenge. This game was all about the challenge.

He would set a second, secret challenge for himself. Use nothing but the jewelry, his hands, and his words, to get her into subspace.

Given the historical record of how they worked, that idea was absurd. Doomed to failure. But some part of him had suspected—no, more than that, was sure—he could do it.

Instinct born of familiarity?

There would be time later to explore that idea—that he knew her so well that he’d be able to predict her reaction to unknown stimuli both physical and mental. Now was the time to act. To touch.

He needed to get her out of those clothes.

He’d considered taking them off before doing anything else, but he had to admit he liked cutting or ripping her clothing off her. She’d gotten in the habit of pointing out when he was about to bind or position her in such a way that the clothes would have to be cut. Sometimes she just stripped on her own.

He knew how to take a hint—she didn’t want him wrecking any more of her clothes. He wished he could just buy her a bunch of cheap lingerie and then destroy it to his heart’s content, but choosing clothing was a power exchange activity, and not really something they did.

But tonight…tonight he was going to cut those clothes off her one inch at a time.

“I’m going to remove your clothing now.” He stroked the delicate line of her neck, fingering the collar. He liked how tight it was, how close to her skin it fit.

Taking the safety scissors he’d grabbed from the tack room, he slid the blunt tip under the neckline of the mesh tank top. The metal must have been cold because she shivered.

He cut through the band of fabric that edged the neckline. The quiet snick of fabric was only barely audible over the sound of her slightly ragged breathing.

“I’ll buy you another one,” he murmured. It was what he always said if he destroyed something—a private joke.

Her normal response was, “This old thing?” said with that sexy smile he sometimes dreamed about.

Once again, today was different.

“Just get it off,” she begged. “I need…”

He waited, leaning forward, mindful of the scissors he held pressed against her sternum.

The maddening woman didn’t finish that thought.

“What do you need?”

Davina looked at him under her lashes and shook her head.

“Minx.”

He withdrew the scissors.

widened with

discovered instinct, he tugged gently on the chain tethering her collar to the chair. “When I ask you a question, you

don’t know… I don’t know

underside of her raised arm from elbow to

the strap of the tank top, lifted it

Davina’s eyes slid closed.

other strap. The stubborn fabric clung to her. Her nipple bars glinted in

Or…

hooked his pinky in one of the diamond-shaped openings just below her left nipple. For one delicious moment

mangled shirt, there was a nice-size opening that exposed her whole right

made an

the shirt before tucking the scissors into his back

to take out

in approval, then her chin came up. She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “You’re

his Davina—that smile. He would do

tone as much as the question itself. “Oh, don’t worry, there will be jewelry on these sweet things.” He reached out with both hands, cupping her breasts and

really turned on, she’d grimace or

whimper of need, and shivered, seeming to melt back into her quiet

His voice was rough, lower than he’d meant it to be. “Because when I finish cutting off this shirt

want that,” she breathed. “You. I want

“Are you wet?”

“Yes.”

I fucked

“Please do. Please.”

He snapped the denial and she shivered

tweaking her nipple. He was as gentle as he could be, but by the time he’d unscrewed the second bar her breathing had changed—shallow pants that kept her breasts still,

tucked her nipple jewelry into

she looked right now—shirt torn

safety scissors once again, he slid it under

Snip. Snip. Snip.

to her abdomen, the fabric clung to her, caught on the tips of her breasts the

of fabric. For a moment the shirt stayed on, held up by

but deep, and he could see the fabric

the fabric, he

her tits bounce. His

without the nipple bars. Not that he hadn’t ever taken them out before—they’d played with clamps, and for safety always took out her nipple jewelry before

slightly forward, but she was shifting her weight from knee to knee, her hips

that motion, recognized it for what it was.

palms up her sides, following the unhindered line of flesh from waist to ribcage, ribcage to armpit, then along her arms. He checked the cuffs at her wrists, sliding the tip of his thumb

your

“Fine.”

paying attention? Are you adjusting

him, eyes round with shock. “I’m not.

I will take care of you.” Grif wrapped his hands around her wrists, over the cuffs, so their arm positions were mirrored, then leaned

gently, then nipped her bottom lip. He rested his forehead against

do things to

“Yes, yes.”

“Don’t interrupt.”

“I’m sorry.”

going to say that I want to do things to you that should

“Why? I trust you.”

want to do

“I…know.”

ask. Do you realize you’re behaving differently? Are you doing it on purpose? Or are you, like me,

each hand with

don’t want you thinking about the cuffs, or adjusting your

do

He kept his voice mild as he interrupted her protest. “That’s not what

shoulders relaxed. “You’re

work. A quick trip to the tack room and he had what he needed—two padded leather cuffs

to her wrists, he placed the cuffs around her upper arms, at the elbow. Using the thinnest rope they had—more like twine than rope—he added to

bindings, he went straight up from each cuff to the lattice with a double length of rope. He adjusted the twine so it was tight enough that the cuffs were taking most of the weight of her arms,

only an inch higher than they had been, but they were pulled back, level with her ears rather than pointing forward. It elevated her naked

it a few

her right nipple. She gasped and then smiled. It was almost an expression of

it tucked in his back pocket when not in use—but

watching goosebumps appear on her skin. When he reached the waistband of her

his hand over her hip—it was actually latex or

the scissors

The material was stretched tight over her butt.

he tightened his hands into fists and

as her hips were yanked back. His biceps bunched, and for a moment the rubbery

of the skirt ripped down the center. With a satisfied grunt, he tossed the ruined garment to

“Whoa,” Davina breathed.

ass. Her skin was slightly powdery from

butt cheeks together, then separated

one hand, he grabbed a

put a nice jeweled plug in your ass.”

“You aren’t?”

have something

* * *

his pants, to see how she’d react to his cryptic statement that he had something better than

His patience was rewarded.

made an approving noise low in her throat. She walked her knees back a few inches, towards the front edge of the chair, and lowered her chest

positioned herself, offering her sweet bottom and

loved

her. He loved that he had a stable BDSM partner whose kinks lined

even know her last name,

her, because that would

and middle fingers of his gloved hand. He set

on the small of her back, he pressed down, forcing her into a deeper arch. The muscles in

the cheeks of her ass. Fingers together, he rubbed up and down, bumping the

happy, almost relaxed sound—though her body was still tense and straining to hold the

against

though for them an anal hook was more common than a

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