Checklist J, K, L

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

that newly discovered instinct, he tugged gently on the chain tethering her collar to the

I’m sorry. I don’t know…

underside of her raised arm from elbow to her smooth armpit. She

of the tank top, lifted it from her skin, and

Davina’s eyes slid closed.

fabric clung to her. Her nipple bars glinted in the light. Once he had the shirt off, he would

Or…

diamond-shaped openings just below her left nipple. For one delicious moment he was touching the smooth, sweet

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

an

did the same to the other side of the shirt before

take out the nipple

and raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to take off

smile. He would do terrible, wonderful things to make this

don’t worry, there will be jewelry on these sweet things.” He reached out with both hands, cupping her breasts

her smile or moan. If she was really turned on, she’d grimace or grit

time she made a small sweet sound, almost like a whimper of need, and shivered, seeming to melt back

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

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

“Are you wet?”

“Yes.”

fucked

“Please do. Please.”

snapped the denial and she shivered once more. “Not

and 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, and betrayed how much she was

tucked her nipple jewelry into his pocket and examined her

way she looked right now—shirt torn

again,

Snip. Snip. Snip.

down to her

through the final bit of fabric. For a moment the shirt stayed on, held up

deep, and he could see the fabric sliding with each inhale—but he didn’t want

fabric, he peeled

little gasp that made her tits bounce.

he hadn’t ever taken them out before—they’d played with clamps, and for safety always

arms were relaxed, elbows slightly forward, but she was shifting her weight from knee

knew that motion, recognized it for what it was. A sign that she was aroused. Very

waist, he ran his 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

do your wrists

“Fine.”

Are you

blinked several times, then looked up at him, eyes round with shock.

around her wrists, over the cuffs, so their arm positions were mirrored, then leaned

back, her mouth soft and open. He kissed her gently, then nipped her bottom lip. He rested his

to do

“Yes, yes.”

“Don’t interrupt.”

“I’m sorry.”

to do things to you that should

“Why? I trust you.”

I want to

“I…know.”

to say, to ask. Do you realize you’re behaving differently?

of each hand with

want you thinking about the cuffs, or adjusting

do

mild as he interrupted her

relaxed.

anything that would work. A quick trip to the tack room and he had

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

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, but not so tight that her shoulders were stretched. Her wrists might still end up bearing the

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

a few times, watching her watch the blades

the flat of the scissors against her right nipple. She gasped and then smiled. It

that cold—he’d been keeping it tucked in his back pocket when not in use—but it must

the scissors down her stomach, watching goosebumps appear on her skin. When he

closer examination—and running his hand over her hip—it

put the scissors

stroked and massaged his way down her back from her shoulders to her ass. The material was stretched tight over her butt.

into fists and yanked his hands

hips were yanked back. His biceps

a pop, a one-inch tear appeared in the top. Another yank and the back of the skirt ripped down the center. With a satisfied grunt, he tossed the ruined garment to

“Whoa,” Davina breathed.

skin was slightly powdery from the talc she’d used to

cheeks together, then separated

other chair with one hand, he grabbed a glove and a small tear-open package of

your ass.”

“You aren’t?”

I have something better

* * *

dick painfully hard in his pants, to see how she’d react to his cryptic

His patience was rewarded.

noise low in her throat. She walked her knees back a few inches, towards the front edge of the chair, and lowered her chest as much as she could with her arms

offering her sweet bottom and tight

he loved this

spending time with her. Topping her. He loved

last name, so he didn’t

love her, because that would just be too damned

packet of lube open and squeezed some onto the index and middle fingers of his gloved hand. He set the packet, still

of her back, he pressed down, forcing her into a deeper arch. The muscles

firm on her back, he slid his lubed fingers between the cheeks of her ass. Fingers together, he rubbed up and down, bumping the rosette of her anus with each

sighed—a happy, almost relaxed sound—though her body was

against

for them an anal hook was more common than