Page 52 of The Good Girl Effect
He stands from the floor, letting his eyes rake over me. Leaning back on my hands, my knees are parted just enough that he has a filthy view of me bound like this. When he reaches into his pocket, I know exactly what he’s reaching for.
Pulling out the sleek black phone, he holds it up. “Can I take a picture? Just for myself. I mean…of the knots, of course.”
I bite my bottom lip tightly to keep from smiling. Staring up through my lashes, I nod. And as he holds it up, the camera pointed at me, my nipples pebble tighter and my panties grow wetter. The thought of him enjoying these photos later or wanting to capture this moment forever ignites a fire inside me.
With that, I stick my chest out and let my head hang. If he wants a sexy picture, I’ll give him a sexy picture.
He lets out a low growl as I let my knees fall away from each other.
“Stop it,” he barks, and I grin wickedly. “You know exactly what you’re doing.” As he leans over until his mouth is near my ear, he adds, “You promised, remember?”
Suddenly, I’m flooded with disappointment. I did promise. With a pout, I close my legs.
Of course, he’s referring to the promise I made in that letter to keep things strictly professional and show restraint. Tempting him with sexy, spread-leg photos is not showing restraint.
“You don’t play fair,” he says as he starts to untie my right leg.
There’s a part of me that loves the idea of being such a temptation to him, but there’s another part of me that hates disappointing him. I want to be his good girl, like I said I was.
But if being good means not getting what I want, is it even worth it?
Rule #17: Aftercare is essential.
Jack
“Feeling okay?” I ask.
Camille is sitting on the counter downstairs in the kitchen, wrapped in her short white robe and guzzling a glass of water like it’s medicine. Her feet glide slowly back and forth, her single braid resting over her shoulder.
She nods, watching me over the glass.
“Aftercare is important. Don’t let anyone try to skip it, understand?”
I’m an asshole for skipping it before, and if I’m going to be introducing her to the basics, then aftercare must be involved. I hate to think of Camille finding another partner at the club or somewhere else who doesn’t take the time to ensure she’s okay after a rope or submissive session. Although if I’m honest with myself, any vision of her at the club with someone else irritates me.
I cross my arms over my chest as I stare at her. I’ve come to love this silence between us. It’s as natural as speakingwith anyone else, this intense eye contact without any of the awkwardness.
But at the same time, I’m dying to know what is going on inside Camille’s head. I want to hear her thoughts and opinions on everything we’re doing. Even more…I want to hear her thoughts and opinions aboutme. Does she find me as intriguing as I find her? Does she think about me at night while lying in bed? Does she wantme, or is this all about the bondage to her?
This is dangerous. As fascinated as I am by Camille, I can’t let anything romantic happen between us. For my daughter’s sake, I need to keep it together.
“Before you go to sleep, I want you to write me a letter telling me how tonight felt. If you didn’t like anything, put it in the letter. Is that clear?”
I keep my tone flat and commanding, but it’s a cover. What I really want to do is settle between her legs, stroke her cheek softly, and ask her to spill every thought in her head.
Nodding, she takes another sip of the water. Then my eyes cascade down her body, landing on the rope marks written across her legs. They are fucking beautiful. It’s a shame they’ll fade away by morning.
My hands twitch, wanting to trace the lines on her skin.
Quickly, I snap out of it, focusing on her face instead of her bare legs.
After her glass is finished, I take it, setting it in the sink before returning to her. Stepping close, I lift one of her legs by the ankle and inspect her foot for any damage from the knots. It’s definitelynotan excuse just to get to touch her again.
She bites her bottom lip as she often does—driving me absolutely mad—while I gently run my fingers over her ankle. It’s more intimate than it should be, and I sense the tension filling the space between us.
In just a few short weeks, this woman has somehow found her way under my skin and into my brain. I’m supposed to be keeping things professional, but I can’t stop thinking about her nearly every moment of my day. I think about keeping her safe, keeping her here, keeping her content.
I think about her adorable button nose and the light freckles cluttered down the slope. I think about her beautiful, big blue eyes and the way she tends to tip her chin down so she’s often staring through her thick lashes. I think about her full pouty lips, often covered in pink or red lipstick, and the way she pinches the bottom one between her teeth while she concentrates.
