When his class had read
Wuthering Heights
senior year in high school, he was the only boy in the class who got why Heathcliff wanted to be buried next to Cathy and have the sides smashed out of their coffins so their dust could mingle as their bodies decomposed. "Yuck," the girls had all cried, but Stephen thought it was romantic.
He'd been careful to hide these thoughts from his friends. Never had he let on that every time he started up with a new girl in school and college—whether it was just a hookup or an actual series of dates in a developing relationship—he would hang in suspended anticipation, waiting for the bolt of revelation that would tell him that he had finally found his true love.
It never worked out that way. The delicious madness of a new romance was heady and fun, but those feelings rarely seemed to last for more than a few weeks, or, at the outside, months. Not only did he want something more romantic, but he also wanted sex that was more varied and creative. Long before he had begun writing novels, Stephen had lived mostly in his head, in his imagination, and his imagination was capable of inventing complex erotic scenarios that had a lot more in common with Anne Rice's erotica than with the Brothers Grimm.
He'd had a couple of happy and satisfying long-term relationships, but something was always missing. He had grown jaded enough now that he considered his youthful fantasies of romance to have been immature and silly.
Still.
There had been one woman—one girl, actually, since she had been so young—whom he had thought might actually be The One. That girl had been Viola Quentin. Whom he had lost because he hadn’t had the guts to stand up to her dad.
While he was glad that she seemed to have forgiven his incomprehensible fuckup in failing to recognize her, he wasn’t sure that she’d absolved him yet for abandoning her. He couldn’t really blame her if she hadn’t. It had been a real betrayal, a betrayal of his heart.
Could the past be mended? Could they pick right up again where they had left off? He wasn’t certain. Although they both seemed to have slipped back into their old easy intimacy—they had, after all, been good friends before falling into that maelstrom of erotic passion—he sensed that they had changed over the years. They were no longer the same carefree, openhearted kids they had been at 17 and 21.
Besides, she might not realize it yet, but there was something wrong with him. Well, not
wrong
, exactly, although some people might see it that way.
"Well?" she challenged, grinning at him. "What deep dark secret are you hiding, and are you brave enough to confess it?"
He grinned back. "The real question is, if I confess my darkest secrets, are you going to be brave enough to stick with me?"
"Ooh, ominous. Try me."
"Well," he said slowly, "There are a few things you should know. Like, sometimes I break the law by exceeding the speed limit on the highway."
She giggled. "Shame on you! What else?"
"I hate to do laundry, so there are days when I just gather up the jeans and T shirt that I threw on the floor the night before and put them right back on again."
She glanced at the spot beside her bed where he had tossed his clothes. "Guess you won't have much choice about that tomorrow morning. C'mon, you'll have to get darker than that to impress me."
"Ha. It's your turn to confess something."
"Hmmm, let's see. Got one—despite my dentist's lectures and threats, I don't always floss my teeth. In fact, I usually only do it for a week or two before seeing the dentist."
"Evil, definitely evil. Give me another—I gave you two."
"You hate laundry, I hate doing dishes. I have a deep sink in my kitchen, so sometimes I just rinse the plates and glasses and let them pile up for a couple days before washing them."
"I do that, too. Uh-oh. I foresee fights over whose turn it is wash the dishes."
"Well, if that's the worst thing we fight over, it doesn't sound too bad. But you must be darker than that. Give me something really wicked."
"Really wicked, huh? Right." Stephen hesitated for a moment, remembering a couple of instances in his past where the confession he was about to make had not gone well. Unless all his instincts were wrong, though, Viola was not going to be horrified. Or even surprised.
"Okay. There is something. Usually this would be out in the open before we even made it to the bedroom, but you're kind of a special case."
He must have said it in a much more sober tone than he had been using, because her expression changed. She’d been joking around, he realized, and not expecting a serious answer.
"Meaning what?" she asked, scooting down in the bed so she could lie on her side and see his face.
"Meaning—as you've probably already figured out—I’m not exactly in the middle of the bell curve when it comes to sex."
She did an exaggerated double take, still joking around a bit. "You’re curved?"
"I’m twisted. I like it rough."
Her expression shifted slightly and a tiny line appeared in the middle of her forehead. "Rough, as in kinky?"
"Yep. That doesn't freak you out, does it?"
"Wow." She didn’t answer the question. Her expression had gone distant, as if she were withdrawing and turning inward. That surprised him. He had been sure he was picking up like-minded signals from her. She had responded ardently to the edge he had given their lovemaking tonight.
"I’m not talking about anything harmful. Just sweet, sharp, twisted fun."
Her gaze came back to his. She didn’t look particularly freaked out. "Tell me more."
"Well, you have this big brass bed, which has been giving me all sorts of ideas ever since I laid eyes on it. You really don't have any restraints?"
A beat while she considered this. "You mean handcuffs?"
"Not those metal things that amateurs fool around with, no. I only use handcrafted leather cuffs. They’re superior to metal handcuffs because they're safer and more comfortable when you struggle. And you
will
struggle. That I guarantee."
Viola’s breath caught. A dark pleasure rippled through her. She felt a little dizzy as she struggled to process what he was telling her. When she’d jokingly asked him what was wrong with him, she hadn’t expected a serious answer. And yet, what he was saying wasn't really a surprise.
It had been there in his lovemaking. And it had excited her.
"Nylon rope is good," he went on. "Soft, not too thin. Do you have anything like that?"
"Um, no, just maybe some old clothesline?"
"Nope. Old clothesline isn't safe enough. We don't want anything that could score your wrists or leave rope burns. Most of the natural fiber ropes are too harsh." He quirked a brow at her in a manner that was positively devilish. "Unless one is specifically seeking a harsh binding."
Oh dear. Her heart had begun to scamper again. Could sexual excitement damage the circulatory system? Surely not. Wasn't it supposed to be good for you?
Stephen leaned up on one elbow and grinned down at her. "I guess you don't have a chest filled with bondage gear stashed under your bed?"
"Sorry, no." After a moment she added, not wanting to seem like a complete neophyte, "I do have a vibrator. A girl’s gotta have one of those."
He laughed softly. "Absolutely." As usual, his lighthearted approach to things stripped the subject of whatever embarrassing qualities it might otherwise have held. "I suspect I could drive you wild with a pair of leather cuffs, some rope, and a variety of sex toys, vibrators included."
She fanned herself. "Is it hot in here?"
He studied her. "Am I scaring you?"
"No. I love to try new things."
"Would it scare you if I told you that my place on the Cape is well-stocked with BDSM gear?"
"Do you have a brass bed too?"
"I think the bedposts are cherry. Or maybe mahogany. I can never tell the difference. They’re sturdy, though."
The better to tie you to, my dear, she thought. She imagined herself, bound spread eagle while he did whatever he wanted to her in his big sturdy bed. Thinking about it made her slick, and she was having difficulty keeping herself from pouncing on him, but there was still a piece of her mind issuing faint alarm calls.
She forced herself to examine how she really felt about this. Her body might be aroused—she had always been sexually adventuresome, in her fantasies at least—but she suspected that her mind and her body might not be entirely in accord.
Before Derek had hurt her, she’d frequently indulged in daydreams about being swept off into the arms of an irresistibly sexy rogue who would make rough love to her. Ropes and bindings had figured in these fantasies, as did spankings and other forms of erotic discipline. Some of her imaginings had been really wild.
But after Derek, her rough sex fantasies had scaled way back. When you’ve actually been hurt by a man, it messes with your mind and heart and imagination. Could she even endure being tied up now? Would she ever be able to trust a lover to such an extent?
"How kinky are we talking?"
"One hundred percent safe, sane and consensual. The goal is mutual delight and pleasure." He was watching her closely, and caressing her at the same time. "It's not a requirement. If you’re turned off by the idea, we don’t have to go there."
"Not. Turned. Off," she said, taking his hand and squeezing it hard. "On. Definitely on. I just...I’m not sure how I might react."
"You seemed to like it nine years ago. In the boathouse." He paused. "I know you remember the beach, but do you also remember the boathouse?"
"Of course I do. I just—" The boathouse. She felt her color rise as more memories flooded in. He had tied her hands together in the boathouse. She hadn’t exactly forgotten it. It wasn’t something one forgot, but she hadn’t thought about it for a while either. "It all seemed like such a dream to me afterwards. I mean, did that actually happen?"
He laughed. "I wondered that a few times myself. There was a dreamlike quality to the whole afternoon. But, yes, it did."
The memories came flooding back to her now.
After their first encounter on the beach, they had fumbled back into their bathing suits and gathered up their windsurfing equipment to return it to the boathouse shed where the aquatic equipment was stored. She and Stephen had slipped easily back into the offhand and friendly way they'd always dealt with each other.
The boat shed was snug, dimly lit and full of sporting equipment, much of which had been put to good use all summer. They had been together in there lots of times to get the canoe, the kayak, the fishing rods, diving equipment and snorkels. She had never thought anything about being there alone with him.
Suddenly it was all different. The windsurfing boards were stored overhead on the shed rafters, and she had to go up on tiptoe to help him wrestle them into place. The first one went up with relative ease, but by the time they got the second board up, Stephen’s expression had changed, his gaze moving hungrily over her body as she reached overhead to correct the position of the surfboard.
His look had sent heat shooting through her again, but the routine of securing the equipment—something she’d been doing every summer since her childhood—was deeply ingrained.
"Almost done," she’d told him. "We have to bind them with these, though, in case of a storm." And she’d tossed him one of the lengths of rope they used for tying down various pieces of sporting equipment.
He had stared at the rope as if he’d never seen it before, even though he had helped her stow sporting gear several times that summer. A speculative look came over his face, followed by that heavy-lidded flare of arousal.
"I want to try something," he’d said. "Will you trust me?"
"Yes.” As far as she was concerned, he’d proved on the beach that he could be trusted.
He stretched out the rope, one end in each of his hands. He looked at her, seeming to hesitate. Somehow she understood what he wanted. She took a deep breath, stepped closer and held out her hands, her wrists together. "Here," she said, offering herself up to him.
He had smiled at her, both rough and tender, as he’d looped the rope around her wrists and tightened it. "Don’t be frightened."
She wasn’t frightened. She was trembling with excitement.
He backed her up against one of the uprights and stretched her bound arms over her head. There must have been a peg or a hook in the beam, because he was able to secure the rope to something that she couldn’t actually see. "You look so sexy," he told her. "Are you okay?"
She had nodded, so dazzled by him that nothing surprised her anymore. He seemed infinitely older and more sexually experienced, wanting to do sophisticated things that she’d heard about, but had never thought would happen to her.
"If you feel scared or uncomfortable, tell me and I’ll untie you."
"I’m fine." The realization that he could do anything he wanted to her was thrilling. It felt dangerous, but in a good way. "I like it."
He had smiled then, that beautiful smile that melted her. His subsequent caresses had sent her into the heart of the fire. He had touched her all over. He had teased her. He had even spanked her, which seemed deliciously wicked.
She’d been new, then, to mutually shared sexual pleasure. She'd had a boyfriend that year in high school, but he hadn’t been knowledgeable or adept, and until her afternoon with Stephen she had never had an orgasm with a boy. He had already taught her that delight out on the beach; now he showed her that she could go beyond delight into a kind of tormented ecstasy that had never been duplicated in the nine years since.
She hadn’t forgotten it. Stephen had taught her many things, and she had put her faith in him, body and soul. But he abandoned her. And later, in a similarly dark space, another man she had trusted had betrayed her in a different way for a different reason, leaving her with injuries that had sent her to the hospital.
"I had no idea what I was doing then," he said. "Much less how to do it safely. It was brave of you to let me tie you up."
"I’d have done just about anything for you that day. Crazy young love." She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. Her mad love affair had lasted approximately eight hours. Sometime that night, Stephen had left. She had never seen him again until he'd walked into the lecture hall and slid into his seat at her side.