Chapter Three: Safeword

Helaine

Once I was on my feet, his hand moved smoothly to the small of my back as he guided me around the room, pointing out all kinds of things I had mistaken for decor, but were apparently very much a part of his sex life.

“I hope you’re not overwhelmed,” he mused, slipping his fingers somewhat obscenely through a puddle of hot wax that had formed beneath one of his many candles, and I watched transfixed as the wax hardened against his skin.

“A little,” I confessed, and he eyed me with something akin to concern. “But not in a bad way, I’ve just never . . . ”

“Never been tied up, at someone else’s mercy, while they drip hot wax onto your skin?” He grinned devilishly, most certainly aware of the way my heart raced as he spoke.

The way he said the word mercy . . . on his tongue, it sounded like something between prayer and pornography.

“I can’t say that I have,” I answered honestly. “I never had a partner that I—”

“That you trusted enough?” He finished for me, and I nodded. “Helaine . . . do you trust me?”

“I trust that you know what you’re doing.” Touring his apartment, it seemed evident that he ought to, anyway, by the way he seemed devoted to this kind of lifestyle. “You’re also paying me, so I’m willing to take that risk.”

“You understand then. That’s exactly what I’m paying for.” His intense gaze trapped me in his eyes—it may never cease to amaze me the way he could shift from carefree to this at a moment’s notice. “As a rule, BDSM should only be performed with partners that have perfect trust in one another, but I don’t have any real desire to be that close to someone, emotionally speaking . . . ”

“So paying for it is the next best thing?” I asked, trying not to look too nervous.

“Exactly.”

I swallowed thickly, aware of every rise and fall of my chest as I watched him open a display case, with a set of ornate knives.

“This will get intense.” He pressed the handle of the knife into my hand, staring intently into my eyes before letting go, inviting me to inspect the knife for myself. “Everything from bondage to bloodplay is on the table—if you want to back out, I won’t hold it against you.”

My hands trembled around the knife—it was so sharp that one wrong move and I was sure I’d cut myself. The craftsmanship was gorgeous, and though a chill went down my spine at the idea of letting him use the blade on me, I couldn’t deny my excitement.

I could hide behind the excuse that I needed the money all I wanted, but the fact was that at this point, it had become more about sating curiosity than paying my rent.

“I’m staying,” I confirmed, and I watched as his eyes lit up. “I want to do this.”

“Good, good,” he sighed, his lip going between his teeth as he reached into his pocket for his wallet.

He took out two very beat up hundred dollar bills and presented them to me.

I gingerly accepted, confusion evident on my face. “Don’t . . . don’t people usually pay after?”

“This is for accepting.” He licked his lips as he watched me, damn near trembling with excitement. “You’ll get the rest if we make it through the night without needing to use the safeword.”

“The rest?” I raised an eyebrow. “My rent only went up by two hundred. I thought—”

“I told you I’d make sure your rent got paid,” he reminded me, taking the liberty to step closer, close enough that I could feel his breath against my face when he spoke. “Consider the two hundred I already paid you a deposit.”

Oh.

I supposed that it was my fault for not asking for clarification on how much he was planning to pay me, but I definitely wasn’t going to complain if he had the disposable income to throw at me—maybe I’d be able to get out of that shitty little overpriced apartment sooner than I thought.

“What’s the safeword?” I asked, and he smiled, sending my heart racing as he brought his hand up to cup my cheek.

“Smart girl.” His thumb traced my bottom lip, and it took all of my willpower to stop my tongue from slipping out to meet his touch. “The safeword is Sanguine. Can you remember that?”

I nodded, my eyes fixed on his, and he shook his head softly. “Say it for me, would you?”

“Sanguine.” All I could manage was a whisper.

It had felt a little silly, but fuck.

I was all in now. I wanted him, and the fact that he was paying me was only icing on the cake.

“Good,” he hissed, leaning in ever so slightly.

I thought he might kiss me, and my lips parted of their own accord, before he abruptly backed away from me, looking as though he’d suddenly remembered something.

“Have you eaten?” He asked, as though he hadn’t pushed a knife in my hands and made me recite his safeword. “Would you like some juice? Maybe some cookies?”

“No I . . . ” I stared at him in utter confusion.

“Sit, eat,” he ordered, grabbing a pack of shortbread cookies from the cabinet in what looked to be his kitchen area, before pouring me a glass of juice. “Please.”

“Really, I’m fine,” I tried to protest, even as I sat, but he wasn’t having it.

“If your blood sugar is too low, you could pass out,” he explained, taking the knife from me. “I don’t want that, and I doubt you do either.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage.

I suppose the juice and cookies did remind me of that time I gave blood in high school, but I hadn’t done it since, since I hadn’t gone more than a few months without a fresh tattoo in my adult life, and the red cross was pretty strict about that as far as I was aware.

He had mentioned bloodplay, but I couldn’t help but wonder exactly how much blood he planned on taking from me if it was really this much of a concern. Before I could ask though, he was already on the move again—I wondered if he ever sat still for more than a few minutes at a time.

“Before we begin, would you like me to put on some music?”

“That would be awesome, actually.” I followed him, kneeling on the floor beside him as I gasped when I noticed his massive record collection. “Holy shit.”

I couldn’t help myself when I saw it—what looked to be a true vintage record of E.V. Rose and the Dirtbags. “No way, this is my favorite old band!”

His muscles tensed, and the grin fell from his face as he scoffed. “They might have gone somewhere, if they hadn’t all died young.”

“Come on, if you’re a big enough fan to have the record, you have to have heard the theories.” I grinned at him, elbowing him playfully. “I mean, no one ever found the bodies—”

“Stop!” He snapped, his lips curled into a snarl. “It’s a stupid theory, and I know for damn sure that they’re fucking dead,” he hissed. “All of them.”

I shrank back away from him, my fingers curled nervously around the record.

I never did do very well with men yelling.

His eyes softened, and he let out a guilty sigh. “I . . . I’m sorry.” He put a hand on my knee. “I’ve got . . . old family ties to the band, and I’ve been hearing those rumors since they died.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” I clutched the record to my chest as I frowned. “I didn’t know.”

“There’s no way you could have.” His voice was quiet, more pensive than it had been before. “Look, if you want to leave after that, you can keep the two hundred, I shouldn’t have—”

Before he could finish that sentence, I pulled him into a kiss.

He was tense at first, but when I felt him relax I took the liberty to weave my arms around his neck, and I felt his hands on my hips.

I’d seen more emotion from him today than I had in the whole four years that I’d known him—between that, his willingness to apologize when he was a prick, and his repeated offers for me to back out, I had become much more comfortable with him, in spite of that nagging sensation of danger.

He had already proven himself to be a better person, at least at surface level, than a lot of the people I’d been with.

He looked at me, with his brow furrowed and his lips parted in a way that made him look like he was in deep consideration, before suddenly he kissed me again, harder this time, with more urgency as he held me against him.

“Fuck,” he hissed against my lips as he unwound himself from my arms. “Let me go put that record on.”