Soul Rest

  "You already have gray hairs, Mike. I think she's doing a good job all on her own."

  Billy chuckled. "I like Magnum, P.I."

  "Who doesn't?" She stabbed a finger at him. "Okay, what street are we on? Nope, no looking. That's cheating."

  "Um..." He paused, then brightened. "Compton Court."

  "Yes." She gave him a fist bump, mildly amused when he flushed a little. Christ, he was young. District 1 officers all had to learn the maze of streets by memory, because the less savory elements would take down signs or switch them to screw up the police when they had to respond to calls. She'd gotten in the habit of testing the rookies because, in truth, she felt like a protective big sister toward them. Sometimes she couldn't stop that feeling from opening the part of her that missed her two younger brothers, a part that needed to remain tidily closed.

  "All right, Rook. Ass back in the car. You're lucky you got it right, or I would have made you buy our next meal." Mike shifted a similar reproving look to Celeste as Billy returned to the passenger side. "Are you about done here? We've got to keep doing our rounds, and I'm not leaving you out here by yourself."

  "Yes, sir, Officer." Giving him a little salute and a wink, she tucked the notebook back into her purse. "Getting back into my car right now."

  Despite the teasing, she was touched that they waited until she started her engine and pulled out before they left the cul-de-sac. When she was younger she'd had her run-ins with the police, typical for a teen with a chip on her shoulder toward authority figures. Toward anyone she perceived as trying to act like a father. Like criminal behavior, her personal shit wasn't rocket science. She didn't know why people paid a shrink to tell them the obvious.

  She sighed. Damn it. She did and didn't know why she'd blurted out that safe word, but did Leland have to be such a hard-ass about it? She should just say fuck it, to hell with it, and walk away. Except she wouldn't. The same thing that had pissed her off and scared her, his steady control of all of it, his composed reaction, kept that yearning for him unabated, especially since she couldn't stop thinking about it.

  Time to get her head out of her dysfunctional ass and reach out to her contact at social services. See if she could get a name on that "foster momma" of Dogboy's. As she pulled out her phone, it chirped, notifying her of a text. She received texts throughout the day from sources, editors, advertisers. Sometimes she heard from the only two women she counted as personal friends. Her siblings didn't reach out unless they needed something.

  So though she told herself not to expect it would be anything other than any of the above, she still checked. Her heart leaped in that very annoying, schoolgirlish way when she saw it was Leland.

  Come by my house at six if you can.

  He didn't ask for a response, and she didn't give one, not for forty-five minutes. But when she did, she responded with one word.

  Okay.

  SS

  He opened the door when she reached his porch. He'd showered after his shift, because he was dressed in jeans and T-shirt. He also had that shampoo, soap and faintly damp smell a person carried when he was fresh out of the shower. She wasn't sure how to process the wave of pleasure that swept over her, seeing him framed in the doorway. "Hey there," he said.

  "Hi." She didn't know what else to say, but she didn't have to say anything. He extended his hand and she placed hers in it. It was unsettling, how much that first touch did to settle her nerves. It had been that way the night at the convenience store as well. If Leland Keller had a spirit animal, it was the grizzly bear, the same animal to whom she'd compared him then. The bear's ponderous stride and the easy peace in the golden-brown eyes said that he didn't go looking for a fight. But he was calmly prepared for one, because he was the biggest and baddest of all the bears.

  She thought the polar bear might be bigger, but she liked her analogy, so she left it alone. In addition to those qualities, Leland possessed a devastating sensual warmth and tenderness, such a noticeable contrast to his obvious strength, it made a woman feel protected and guided...controlled, in all the best ways.

  Exercising all those traits now, he led her into the house, closing the door and taking her to the one room she hadn't yet seen, just beyond his bedroom and the one bathroom. The room was empty, no furniture, the two windows covered with thin paper shades that allowed in light but screened the view. A ceiling fan slowly turned, moving the air.

  The walls were painted a cloudy blue, except for a black mark on one of them that looked like a long ribbon falling out of the sky. A mat the size of a picnic blanket was spread in the center of the room. Next to it was a braided coil of cotton rope, a brown velvet scarf arranged in a figure eight, and a fleece throw in dark blue, folded in a precise square.

  He dropped to his heels at one edge of the mat. "Come sit in front of me, Celeste."

  She hesitated. "Do you need me to...undress?"

  "No." He looked at her from head to toe. "You look nice."

  She thought she looked okay. She'd come straight from her talk with Dogboy's foster mom, so she was still wearing her street garb of jeans and cross-trainers, her shirt a fitted button-down over a thin tank. She had pulled off on the side of the road before she arrived here to freshen her makeup and fiddle with her hair, but what would have been a polite compliment from a stranger or family member had a different, more attentive feel when it came from him. Maybe he'd missed her, too. The way he emphasized the word nice, the way he looked at her, made her self-conscious in a pleasant way. Under his regard, she tried not to fidget, to remember to stay in control. On top of things.

  Imagining just the reverse, him on top of her, nearly locked up her mind. His body between her thighs, her heels crossed over his hips and flexing ass, his arms braced on either side of her like pillars to a building that would never fall, always sheltering her.

  So much for staying in control. She couldn't even control her own mind. "Do you want to talk about what happened last time?"

  He shook his head. "I know what happened last time. So do you. It's all part of this, Celeste. It's all right. You didn't do anything wrong or anything I didn't expect. You understand?"

  Talking was her defense, her way of drawing people closer or driving them away, depending on what was required, but he simply took away her need to talk.

  "Take off your shoes and come sit down with me," he said.

  Setting down her purse, she came.

  Protect, guide and control. Exercising all three of those traits now, he drew her down on the mat. He had her kneel facing away from him, and put his hands on her shoulders. He was kneeling as well, only on one knee, the other foot braced on the floor, that knee against her shoulder. He slid his hands down her arms and back up again. Up to her neck, taking a firm grip along either side of her collarbone. "Close your eyes."

  With that first stroke of his hands, they were already wanting to do that. She felt the velvet scarf feather along her neck, then her face. Her hand came up, uncertain, as he tied the scarf over her eyes.

  "It's all right." He settled his large hands over the area the scarf was covering, pressing against her closed eyes beneath it, her cheeks, her forehead and lips. His fingers glided down her face, her neck, back to her shoulders and down her arms once more. Shifting so he was sitting behind her, he stretched his legs out on either side of her. He kept doing that slow, easy stroke up and down, from face to fingertips and back again.

  "I missed you," she said before she could stop herself.

  "I never stopped thinking about you, either, darlin'. Which is why I'm glad you came."

  "I thought you said...not for a week."

  "Yeah, I did. This is sort of different from a session." He gave a half chuckle. "Or I'm just rationalizing, because Friday is too damn far away."

  A tiny sigh of relief spilled from her lips. Her hand curled into the denim over his thigh. "Yes."

  "So we're on the same page. Good. I want you to be quiet and just listen. There's a form of bondage called Ich
inawa, which means one rope. I'm sure you've done your research and seen all that fancy suspension and intricate knot work. Right? Just nod or shake your head."

  She nodded. It was a peculiar relief, being told not to talk. She could listen to his voice, focus on how he continued to touch her, knead her shoulders, caress her neck. Her whole body was purring under his touch.

  "Ichinawa is about the connection between Dom and sub using that one length of rope." Cradling her hand in his, he trailed the rope over her arm, across her breasts, over her shoulder, along her neck, down her spine. As he teased her with it, he kept talking in that murmuring tone. "I'll tie only one end of it to one part of you. Your wrist, your ankle, your thigh...wherever I'd like, and then wrap you up in it. Then I'll unwrap it and do it again. Different ways, the same way, over and over. Every time I wrap you in the rope and then unwrap you, it reinforces the choice. For me to take you, then let you go. For you to submit and then come back to me to submit again. It's as organic as breathing."

  He went quiet then, making her aware of her breath as he stroked the rope up her thigh, back along her arm. He put his other arm around her waist, so she became aware of how he was breathing with her. When he put his lips against her throat, her breath stuttered, then caught the rhythm of his as well. There was no rush to this, no fight, no urgency. Her mind was whirling in a slow chaos, not sure what to make of it.

  He shifted to kneel behind her again, his knees on either side of her hips. "Give me your hand, darlin'."

  She lifted it in the air, and the rope trailed through her fingers as he spread them with his own, stroking the sensitive digits before he looped the rope around her wrist, looped it again. She felt a tightening as he inserted a finger underneath the wrap, against her pulse, then he pulled the rope through, made a knot. But it wasn't overly snug on her wrist. More like a bracelet's hold, draped over the point of her wrist and thumb joint.

  "You just relax and let me play with you, darlin'. See where this takes you."

  He bent her elbow so her bound hand was clasping her shoulder, and then he'd pulled the rope over it so her arm was held there. He began to wrap her in the rope, under her breasts, back up over her shoulder, across her breastbone, around her rib cage. As he did that, he rocked her back against him, eased her forward, holding her with one arm so she was like a tree swayed by the wind. His breath touched her temple, but when she turned her head in that direction, seeking him, his hand cupped her forehead and she was held back against his chest, leaning against him fully as he stroked her body. He didn't linger on her breasts or between her legs, but it didn't matter. Her body became an erogenous zone in its entirety, aware of the hold of the rope in a dozen places, of the way he stroked the outside of her breasts, her hips, along her thighs, across her stomach, up her breastbone to her face and shoulders again.

  He doubled her over his arm as he unwrapped her. Once he reached that tied wrist point he began wrapping her again. A different way this time, boxing her arms behind her back and wrapping the rope around her thigh so she was held folded forward over her knees. He lifted her shirt in back, laid his lips along the delicate arch of her spine. Then she was tumbled into his arms as he unwrapped her again and eased her to her side on the mat. This time he bound her thigh to her elbow, wrapped the rope over her shoulder, under her neck, out beneath her elbow so she was in a fetal position, and he was trailing the rope over the line of her side, her hip, her thigh, down to her ankle.

  Just as he'd told her, he kept doing it. Wrap, unwrap. Untie, retie to a different anchor point. Never hurried, as gradual as the flow of water in the Mississippi. The other night, the darkness within her had surged up from her soul, compelling her to fight. This had the darkness confused. Like river water, Leland simply washed over her, around her, held her up, drew her under. She became ever more malleable under his strong hands.

  She was intensely aroused in a dreamlike way, no urgency to it, though moans started to break from her lips as he integrated more forceful actions into what he was doing. He brought her up on her knees again, wrapped both her hands behind her neck, the rope crisscrossed over her breasts and around her thighs. He held the two ends in his hand, which he rested with firm pressure just above her pubic mound as he curled his hand around her throat and pushed his body firmly against hers from behind. The two of them rocked and swayed together, him letting her feel how securely he held her.

  On his next unwrap, he unbuttoned the shirt she had over her tank, removed it. She welcomed the tension of the rope against her bare upper arms, the compression of it over her breasts, the hold as he wrapped it around her back. Then her head fell back against his shoulder as he wrapped the rope over her mouth, parting her lips so it fitted between her teeth. He kept wrapping the rope over the scarf, over her eyes, before he settled his hands on her face as he'd done before, over both rope and cloth.

  So much was surging through her. She wanted to say his name. Not Leland, but the name in her heart, poised on the cusp of all the need he was building inside her. She wanted it to be her safe word, but the literal meaning of "safe word," not the functional one. A safe word.

  "Master."

  She breathed it, barely a sound at all. He surrounded her, the focus of every sense she had--smell, touch, taste, sight and hearing. She thought he'd heard her, because his lips touched her ear.

  "There's my kitten. Good girl. Good girl."

  Did he realize the power of those two words? Maybe so. She thought he knew everything, understood everything. While a distant part of her mind rationalized he'd put her in some strange trance state and such unrealistic certainties wouldn't last, she'd take the respite. He unwrapped her slowly, his hand tracing the light rope marks. He left the rope knotted around her wrist, but eased her down to her side, and spread the throw over her. She was trembling. He'd left the blindfold on, and when he fitted himself behind her, holding her, she found his arms through the blanket, curled her fingers over them. The brush of his fingertips against her wrist and the tension on the rope told her he still held it, keeping her tethered to him. But it wasn't enough.

  Maybe it was the blindfold making her as impetuous as a child, but she turned in his arms, following the rope past his hold by touch. It took some fumbling, and she had to sit up, splay her hands over his chest to figure out how he was lying next to her. He was lying on his hip and one elbow, propped up and probably watching her. Imagining those golden-brown eyes focused on her, she ran the rope around his back, underneath his arm. She wanted to wrap the rest around her back as well, make a full circle, but her coordination was off. She couldn't manage that without toppling over, unbalanced by the pull on her bound wrist her movements were causing. He took over, doing a second wrap around both of them as she laid her head on his chest, her bound hand against his side. She felt the pull as he tucked the end of the rope somewhere that kept their upper torsos wrapped together. He closed both arms around her and held her, spoke in a quiet voice, the bass increased by emotions the scarf allowed her to absorb without worry or question.

  "All right, darlin'. All right."

  He allowed them to lie together like that for a while, tugging the blanket back over her until her shaking stopped. When one of those large hands descended to cup her ass, slide his hand into her jeans pocket to stroke and knead, she moved against him. The desire that had been flowing through her like a river immediately surged up. If the ropes hadn't been holding her, she would have tried to push him to his back, open his jeans and impale herself on his thick cock. She shuddered, imagining how it would send sensation spearing through her, catapulting her toward a climax.

  "Easy. Move with me."

  He was loosening the wrap from around the both of them, putting her on her back on the mat. His fingers slid over the knot on her wrist, underneath the wrap, soothing abraded flesh. But he didn't untie it. Instead, he inflated the throbbing need inside her by taking the rope over her shoulder, behind her neck and across her mouth again, fitting it between her teeth
, around her scarf blindfold, then down over the other shoulder and across, wrapping the rope above and below her breasts, tucking it in so her elbows were held against her sides. Then he slipped the button of her jeans. Bending, he lifted up the tank and brought his mouth to her navel.

  Her panties were the same thin cotton fabric as the tank. When he removed the jeans, he left them in place, kissing her pubic mound with that barrier between them. As he moved to the top of her thighs, she bit back a whimper. She could speak around the rope, but she understood she shouldn't. She didn't need to speak.

  He'd secured the rope so it was now a binding, not just a wrap, which coaxed some of her darkness to the forefront. But he anticipated that, dispelled it. His hands returned to her waist, her arms, stroking, and then they were spread out along the sides of her face as he straddled her hips, bent and kissed her open mouth. The top lip, the bottom one. His mouth moved over her cheeks, over to her ear and the tender skin of her neck between the bands of the rope. She moved restlessly, needing him, her legs pushing against his knees, braced on the outside of her thighs.

  He shifted off of her. She wanted to see him get undressed, but she didn't as well. In the darkness, her darkness stayed dormant, as if light was what pissed it off, like cancer being disturbed by a biopsy to explode, metastasize into something far worse.

  She must have made a distressed noise, because he slid an arm around her, scooped her upper body against him, one knee planted between her thighs, the other foot now braced outside her hip. He was still wearing the jeans but, blissfully, he wasn't wearing a shirt. She pressed her cheek hard against bare flesh. She could feel his erection against her shoulder. She opened her mouth, tasted the ridges of muscle across his stomach, tried to wiggle lower. She wanted to wrap her lips around him.

  "No. You're not ready for that yet, darlin'. But you're burning, aren't you?"

  She wanted him inside her. He was right, it would probably break her like a boot stepping on glass. He was good at using his mouth or hands on her, but that wasn't what she needed, what had her aching. Which, perversely, was why everything in her was afraid again. She hated this about herself. Hated it more now than ever before. Why couldn't she just get past it? If he'd just let her go and they fucked, they'd both come and that darkness wouldn't be disturbed at all. Except she'd go home feeling hollow.