“You say you wish to be tested, Mikhail. How? By pain?”
“Pain? Pain is my friend. It’s pleasure I don’t know anything about.”
She folded one of his hands between hers. His skin was freezing. “You truly desire this?”
“I want it. Yes.” His eyes glittered in the low lights. “I feel like I did when I met my first formal challenge.”
Alya knew that feeling well, how the adrenaline that made the heart pound, the nausea that rose but was soon forgotten, the narrowing of her focus until she could see nothing but her enemy.
He said, “I’m ready.”
Mikhail Faustin was a submissive.
Her whole world had just turned upside down and inside out.
A little dazed, she went to her treasure chest, thinking about how best to challenge him. This first encounter should be more about her learning about his mind rather than him being impressed with her equipment. If he was faking it, or simply confused, she wanted to know that, too.
She bypassed all the whips and paddles, clamps and plugs, choosing only two coils of rope, one white and thick, the other black and slender like the bride rope, and, after some consideration, a black leather half mask, the sort a bandit would wear. But instead of having eyeholes, the leather was molded into the shape of closed eyelids. It was a blindfold.
He stood where she left him, rapt, taking in the rope and mask. She walked slowly, making each movement deliberate and provocative. By the time she stopped in front of him, the air between them buzzed.
She showed him the mask. His jaw clenched in response. Blindfolding threatened him, definitely.
Laying it aside, she uncoiled a length of the white rope. “Take off your trousers.”
He obeyed and stood naked in front of her, semi-erect. She looped the rope around his neck.
“What is that for?”
She put her fingers to his lips. “No questions. You may only speak when spoken to, unless you’re telling me to stop. I have no safe words. If you tell me to stop, it’s over.”
As she spoke, his gaze flicked rapidly from side to side, reading her, memorizing the details of the room, perhaps planning an escape. He’d gone hyper-vigilant. She could almost taste the adrenaline coursing through him. As for his thoughts, he had a tight seal on those––for the moment.
Resisting the impulse to kiss his worries away, she tucked his hair behind his ears and tied the mask at the back of his head. The cord cut into his heavy, silver blond hair. The black leather, buttery as it was, appeared coarse against his alabaster skin. Beneath the mask’s tranquil sleeping eyelids, Mikhail’s lips tightened into a thin line.
Mikhail clamped down on the urge to rip off the mask. He often dreamed of going blind in the middle of a fight, at the worst possible moment. This was no time to be blind, either.
“You’re inconveniently tall.” Her breath stirred the hair at his nape and warmed his skin. She was the tallest woman he knew. The only one he’d not have to stoop to kiss.
Kiss. His lips parted at the thought, his chest swelled. She heard his wish. He heard the echoing desire in her. Using this sonar, he realized they could please one another perfectly. But she didn’t listen to it. She was still afraid to listen.
He was following the spider web path. It led to the truth between them, but it was a hard path to follow. As in his nightmares, he had to fumble along in the dark.
Letting her blindfold him was part of it.
Accepting this truth about himself was part of it.
The hope that lit her face when he made his confession was part of it.
This dungeon version of Alya surprised him. She wasn’t nervous or sarcastic anymore. Instead, she radiated serenity. He’d expected whips and chains, but her hands were gentle and her throaty voice buoyed him in the darkness.
She wrapped his torso in heavy rope. He tried to picture what she was doing. She asked him to raise and lower his arms, tied knots here and there, passed the rope between his legs and over his shoulders. Every so often she slipped her fingers beneath the rope and let them rest against his skin.
He liked the rope’s soft texture, the pressure of it as it tightened, Most of all, he enjoyed Alya’s light, deft touch. His breathing slowed. He forgot to be vigilant.
“Lovely,” she breathed, passing her hands over his shoulders, and then down, outlining her work with her hands. Only his torso was wrapped. She tugged on points across his chest and back, testing their strength. It was a body harness of some sort.
“Put your hands behind your back.” She ran her hands down his arms, straightening them. “Roll your shoulders back. Open your chest. Good.”
Something warm slithered around his elbows.
“It’s your friend, the bride rope,” she said. “You know you can’t escape this one.”
She crisscrossed the rope up and down his arms, pulling his shoulders back until his shoulder blades met. The binding extended from his elbows to his wrists. Again, his body welcomed the process and his mind drifted. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was…comforting. It reminded him of an embrace.
“Mikhail? Are you there?”
Had he been sleeping? He fished around for words, trying to remember how to speak. “I’m here.”
She pushed his chin back with one finger. His head lolled back. Heavy. She drew her hand down his exposed throat. “I like this side of you.”
Next she bound his ankles together.
When she was done, she led him by the harness to a new position about five paces distant, but it took a while to get there, because he was hobbled. On the way he realized he didn’t have the faintest idea where he was in the room. Ordinarily he could orient himself anywhere, but he’d lost all his bearings.
At their destination, she said, “Kneel.”
With his ankles and arms bound, he could not kneel without falling, but he did as she asked, without hesitation. He’d gone too far to turn back. He folded his knees.
Her strong hand caught hold of his harness and lowered him to the ground.
He was beginning to understand this game. She was putting herself on the line, too. Earning his trust. Tilting his head forward, he rested his brow against her belly. After a moment, her hands settled lightly on his head.
At that contact, a brilliant flash of emotion escaped from her, so strong, and so fast, he couldn’t name it. He pricked his ears and listened to her fight to bring her breath under control.
“Alya?” He wasn’t supposed to talk, he knew, but he was worried about her. She ignored his silent query and began to connect the ropes dangling from his wrists to the ones binding his feet.
When she finished, he heard the squeal of a pulley. She snapped something cold to the web of rope covering his sternum. Another screech came from above, and she clipped a second something to his harness at the level of his navel.
What was she going to do? She wasn’t going to hang him, was she?
“Mikhail. Breathe.” Her palm caressed his cheek. “Everything to this point has been prep. This is the test you asked for. Are you ready?”
He nodded.
“Don’t fight it.”
That little piece of advice didn’t make him any less nervous.
The pulleys clicked and strained, and he lifted off the ground, his body rotating until he hung from those two points on his chest. Hung like a piece of meat. Helpless to defend himself.
“Do you trust me?” she’d asked him three nights ago.
And he’d answered, “Do you think I’m crazy?”
He’d gone crazy.
Alya walked around him, testing connections. Everything hurt. Nothing she did helped. This wasn’t good. This was the worst idea he’d ever had. She tightened the rope connecting his hands and feet until they crossed, stretching muscles not accustomed to being stretched.