Page 63 of Snow Bound

“Yes.”

She sighed with relief. “Good. Thanks.”

He shook his head. “I don’t mess around about safety. Condoms are standard issue.”

She yawned, wondering if she could convince her bladder to go back to sleep. But no such luck.

She let out a heavy sigh, and his stroking hand paused. “What’s wrong?”

“I gotta pee.”

“That’ll happen,” he said, laughter warming his voice.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to move.”

“You pee in the bed, you’re cleaning it up,” he warned.

“Fine.” Grumbling good naturedly, she shifted to sit up. Her thighs shifted slickly against each other, and she winced. “I need a shower.”

“Want company?”

“Okay.” She forced a frown. “But no funny business.”

“My business is anything but funny,” he informed her, and she was laughing when he pulled her out of bed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The days passed in a blur of sex, sleep and laughter.

He dragged her into the living room after lunch one day and dug out a deck of cards, telling her they were going to play poker for orgasms. He’d graciously explained the rules of five-card draw, and allowed a few practice hands, “until you get the rules straight”. His smug smile was so adorable, she almost hated to wipe it off his face.

Almost.

“You owe me an awful lot of orgasms, Sir,” she’d remarked an hour later, piling up the red poker chips they were using to keep score.

He’d sent her a wide, wicked grin, declared that he always paid his debts, and proceeded to make good on every single chip. He didn’t stop until she was limp with exhaustion, soaked with sweat, and begging for a reprieve.

Then he fucked her limp, exhausted body, came all over her tits, and insisted she leave it there until her nightly shower—where he fucked her again.

She’d slept really well that night. She was sleeping well every night, actually, and it was no wonder. The man couldn’t seem to get enough of her. And she liked it.

He’d called a friend in Chicago and had his toy bag overnighted. She didn’t look inside it—he made it clear it was off-limits, and there were some things she wasn’t willing to risk—but every night some new instrument of torture came out of it. She was convinced it was bottomless, like Mary Poppins’ carpetbag, only much kinkier. When she’d told him so, he’d laughed until tears ran down his face, and made her sing “A Spoonful of Sugar” while he flogged her.

They did a scene almost every day, though they varied in intensity and degree of kink. Sometimes he hauled out the ropes and floggers and worked her over until they were both sweaty and limp, and other times he just held her down while he fucked her brains out, grunting out the dirty talk she loved so much.

They did almost everything on her Yes list and several things on the Maybe. She discovered she did like face slapping, thank you very much, and shifted “clamped labia” firmly to the No side of the list. She’d been sore for two days after that, flinching whenever he touched her, so he’d had her masturbate for him while he jerked off, and that had been unexpectedly hot.

When they weren’t fucking or playing, Grant spent time working on his mother’s chore list. He’d tried to enlist her as an assistant, but she’d safeworded that quicker than Henry could snatch a slice of pizza. She read, did yoga, and took the dog for walks when the weather permitted. She finished the cross-stitch sampler for Lola and started another, and dug through the cookbooks in the kitchen for new recipe ideas.

She spoke to Lola nearly every day, her friend wanting constant updates not only to assure herself of Anna’s safety, but also to live vicariously through the dirty details.

“How’s the D/s going?” Lola asked one day.

“Not bad.” Anna was rolling out dough for a pie, her phone on speaker. “It feels pretty natural, actually.”

“Interesting. How much control has he taken there?”

“It’s really just the naked thing, which I thought would feel weird—and did, at first. But I hardly notice it anymore.”

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