Page 57 of Please, Sir

He nods. “Some tools get hot when I’m working, since a lot of finish work requires or makes heat, so I don’t like to put them in a box together. I did that when I started, and some of my spare leather and other stuff got slightly discolored as the tools cooled.” Reaching out, I lose focus of the tools when his arm flexes, picking one off the rack. He takes my wrist, outstretching my arm as he presses the wheeled end to my flesh, slowly working it upward, following a light blue vein. Along my skin he leaves a temporary ornate pattern that disappears in a matter of seconds. “I use this on heated leather. It’s my wheel beveler. I swap the wheel depending on what look I’m going for. It’s the only tool I use that creates a pattern. The rest of the details I do by hand.”

Replacing the tool, he lifts a key off the single shelf, which had been nestled perfectly behind the bottles of leathercleaner. No peppering me with questions after my emotional moment on the porch–I give out a little whoosh of relief at that, and some of the tightness in my belly eases. He gave me just what I needed–a happy distraction.

“Hidden key,” I smirk, explicit images fill my mind, and my pulse spikes. There is fuzzy warmth blooming in my cunt. “I’m excited.”

The edge of his mouth curves into a slight smile, then he turns to the metal cabinet on the wall, unlocking it with his secret key. Sliding the door to the left, he exposes a pegboard full of custom whips and crops, and I even see a handful of modified quirts and… “Is that a gag?” I ask, nodding toward the black leather strap, on it a black hexagonal piece of leather, the edges burned and trimmed, stitched neatly. It looks like the perfect size to cover a mouth.

“You made all of these,” I note aloud, awkwardly, becauseobviously he did. But I’m in awe of how beautiful each of these pieces are, and find myself pressed against the cabinet, running my fingers down a particularly gorgeous flogger. I trail my fingertips over the downy leather, my skin igniting beneath my clothes as I envision the harsh snap of tails against my bare flesh. My cheeks heat.

Jake places his hand on my lower back from behind me, turning me to face him. “I’ve never played with these.” His eyes, chestnut and onyx in this light, move over me. “I’ve never played at all.”

“No?” I ask, practically breathless from how fast my heart is beating. My nipples are so hard, if they brushed against his chest at this exact moment, I might combust.

He moves his head to tell me no. “But something tells me that you want to play with me.”

I nod. The intense set of his eyes wears hot against my skin, making me achy and emotional as he reaches for, thenholds, the hem of my blouses. Bobbing my head helplessly, I wonder if I’ll ever say no to this man for anything. The cavity in my soul seems to disappear when I’m at his feet, dedicating myself to him. He’s so worth it, and I love earning him this way. In our special way, a way that we know spans beyond sex, digging far into our psyches, tapping into our trust. I would give myself to him and receive his dominance, trusting him to know my limits, and keep me safe.

Jake lifts my shirt over my head, placing it on his work bench. He bends at the waist, bringing his face near my bare belly, his eyes following his hand as he smooths it across the terrain of my core.

“Perfect canvas,” he rasps, his touch and his words bringing an eruption of goosebumps to the surface of my skin.

I nod, ignoring the burning sensation behind my eyes.

My belly buzzes in electrifying waves of pleasure, just from the weight of his hand on me. Jake hooks his other hand on my pants and rises, dragging me into his chest. “I can’t wait, but first, we are going to eat.”

“I love brisket,” I admit, lying down against his chest, in his arms. “But I don’t feel like eating. Not right now.”

His eyes sweep me, taking a layer of my shield with them as he inspects me. After a moment, his gaze idles on mine, and I let him look at me in that soul exposing way he’s doing. I feel naked, I feel seen, I feel like he knows that I want to serve him, that I’m nothing but his pliable, willing slut.

I can’t believe I’m admitting it, but that’s exactly how I feel. My heart races. He brings a hand to my face, and softly tucks hair behind my ear, his fingers chasing the strands to the end. He gives them a tug before letting go, his gaze drifting to my mouth for a boiling, scorching moment in time.My skin is slick from the heat of it all. He is unwavering, and gorgeous, and more muscle than I can comprehend.

“We’re going to eat, and you’ll be patient.”

His domineering words feather over me, a command and a warning, tickling my skin. His voice rumbles so quietly that I nearly combust. “Do you like wine?” He brings his other hand to my face, tucking my hair back there, too.

I nod. I don’t even know if I’m breathing. My panties are sticky against my skin. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he says, snagging my shirt on his work bench. I expose my palm, waiting for my shirt to be returned, but he tucks it into his back pocket, letting it hang. “I think I’ll hang onto it.” He sizes up my almost nude torso, and I really wish I wasn’t wearing my ugly, granny strapless bra. Jake groans, tracing the sweetheart neckline of the satin undergarment with his eyes, as if the bra is the sexiest thing he’s seen.

“Our first date, topless dinner,” I smile. His fingertips dust mine, then our knuckles slide past and our palms are kissing and – “oh,” I say softly, temporarily warped by the fiery explosion of sensations between my legs, tearing through my sternum, flooding my chest. He squeezes our joined hand, and warmth blooms in my limbs, exploding in wild curls in my belly. Everything between my hip bones aches endlessly, and when I spread my thighs, I actively ache for him.

The edges of his lips quirk before he guides us out of the meticulous garage back into the house.

“I didn’t plan that, but you look so good with your shirt off,” he says, holding the door for me to step past him. His garage is just off his kitchen, and with a flip of a switch, lighting lining the underside of the cabinets turns on, illuminating the space.

The counters are made of white marble, broad fissures of gold and black running haphazardly throughout. Hiscupboards are trimmed in thick slats of crown molding along all sides, painted a matte, rich black, with a large range hood and pot filler adding luxury to the already luxurious design. Jake moves, standing in front of the large, white porcelain apron sink, turning on the water.

“Thank you,” I flush, graciously accepting his compliment, but I can’t stop looking around the place, and it also serves to cool me down. I was losing my mind for him out there a little. Ready to pour myself at his feet. “Jake, your house is beautiful.” I take in the way the fridge is covered in a mock cabinet, and the custom shelves housing cookbooks and a small flower pot in the island centering the space.

He doesn’t reply, so I glance up at him, watching me. My cheeks flare with heat from knowing this. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, drying his hands on a dish rag before pulling two large, white plates from the cabinet. He plates food for us as I tiptoe through the adjoining living space, complete with a stone hearth, fur rugs over hardwood floors, overstuffed leather couches and gobs of pillows and blankets, gold accents contrasting the dark finished wood entertainment center. The house is just gorgeous.

“I love your house. I think it’s the prettiest house I’ve ever seen,” I tell him, eyeing an adorable photo of him and Jo Jo on a horse together. She looks young, maybe five, and I find myself smiling at the photo. “That’s a good photo of you guys,” I say, pointing to it when he glances up at me over a pan of roasted potatoes.

“She always loved riding,” he comments, a trace of sadness in his tone. “And thank you. I built it.”

Back at the table, he pulls my chair out and places a plate of food in front of me. “You built it?” I gawk, holding up the empty wine glass he set out as he lowers the bottle, filling it. He fills his glass next, and I like that he does a small amountin each, like he isn’t dependent upon the booze to loosen up. Michael needed booze, and blamed it.

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