Authors: Erin Lark
I closed my eyes and tugged against the cuffs
again, but like last time, they didn't budge.
"How?"
I squinted at his face, which was still shrouded in darkness. "I don't
remem
—"
"You
didn't ask with words," he murmured, taking another step away from the far
side of my room. "Call it a dream or an alternate reality if you like, but
until you wake, you're with me."
A dream?
Turning my gaze, I studied the alarm
clock off to the side of my bed, stared at it. But after what felt like minutes
later, the time hadn't changed.
The muscles
in my arms complained as I started to relax. Closing my eyes, I inhaled the spicy
scent of cologne. The figure didn't move, possibly waiting for me to say
something. But what was there to say?
If he was
telling the truth and I was in some kind of dream, who was I to push him away?
You wanted this.
Or at least some part
of it. Hoping to be bound by a stranger or not, dreams were a lot safer than if
it were to happen in real life. This I could handle.
It sure beats the quickies and the bar hoppers I
usually get stuck with.
At least with my dreams, I had some control over
my partner. I could make him go as fast or slow as I’d like—or so I thought.
He took
another step toward me, and the grin I saw on his face was a challenging one, a
dare. And I was about to lose.
I averted my
gaze.
He made a
sound of approval as he stepped even closer.
Come on, Brianna. He doesn’t own you.
Yet.
He should be the one to look away. This is
your dream—your life.
I squirmed under the heavy comforter, struggling to
kick it away from my body.
The cuffs
rattled against the headboard as I turned one way, then the other. I released a
frustrated groan and settled back down when the blanket didn’t move.
He’s tucked it under the mattress.
And
if having my arms restrained wasn't bad enough, I couldn’t get out from under
the covers until he deemed it so.
Wetting my
lips, I looked right at him—
past
him—at
the door to my room which was shut. Then I looked toward the end table at my
side that held a small assortment of toys, lubes, and condoms for the few times
I’d entertained guests.
As if he
could read my mind, my very
Domlike
visitor said, "We’ll
get to those." He dipped his head at me. "But before we do, there are
a few rules we need to discuss."
I was about
to ask him what he meant when I realized I could’ve just as easily asked myself
and gotten the same answer. Seeing as he was a part of this dream and that I’d
somehow created him, I already knew what rules he'd implied.
I was bound. There
was a confident stranger in my room. He hadn’t touched me after binding me. And
all I could think about was that voice and the lips he used to speak. He wanted
me to—no, he
expected
me to submit.
God, how I longed
to do just that! In the past, I'd been the one asking the men in my
relationships to bind me—to make me submit. But every single request was met
with disappointment from both sides.
Their disappointment in
me for asking such a thing, and mine in them for refusing to give it a try.
So to have a
Dom in my room, even if this was just a
dream,
was
surreal. And the longer he stood there in silence, the more I wanted—needed to serve
him.
To see if his lips were as sexy as I thought.
How
smooth his tongue was when it passed over mine. Or how feather light his touch
might be once he closed the space between us.
I knew his
type.
A Dom.
An alpha male.
I’d read all about them, devoured every scrap of information I could find on
them, and yet I wasn’t the one who found him. He found me.
Now, if only this were real life, then you’d be set.
I’d be happy
with whatever I could get, even if it meant sleeping in on weekdays and running
late for work just to spend a little more time with him.
You do realize you’re obsessing over an image
created by your subconscious, right?
I didn’t care. He hadn’t
even touched me yet, and I was already starting to go out of my mind.
He might not have
been my Dom in the traditional sense, but try telling that to my throbbing clit
and pounding heart.
I shivered
when he sat at the foot of the bed. "Who are you?" I asked once I’d
found my voice. "I’m—"
"I know
who you are, Brianna." He shifted his weight to tuck an ankle under one of
his knees.
Of course you do.
But if that were true, I
should’ve known his name as well. Looking back, I tried to remember the names I
cherished as a child, or the ones that stuck with me from movies and books I
liked to read, but none of them felt right on him.
You have to call him something.
I couldn’t just leave him nameless,
especially if this was going to be a recurring dream.
Oh, God, I hope it is.
Saying goodbye to a strong face like that
wasn’t something I wanted to think about any time soon.
He turned to
me, and my breath caught.
A
suit.
I figured he just
had broad shoulders, but he was decked out in a dark suit. The buttons of his
pale dress shirt were open toward the top. If he’d been wearing a tie before
our meeting tonight, it was gone now.
He removed
his jacket, carefully folding it before setting it on the opposite side of the
bed. My vision jumped to his callused hands as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his
shirt, rolling up the sleeves to reveal a bit of ink underneath.
I couldn’t
make out the details in the little light we had, but it looked like one of them
went up most of his forearm, coiling around his lighter skin like a snake. My
mouth watered. In all my life, I’d never been with a man who had ink on his
skin, and that alone was enough to get my heart racing even more. Forget his
touch, his warmth, and those fucking lips. I wanted to touch him—to trace those
tattoos with my fingertips.
I flexed my
hands again, grabbed at the length of chain between the cuffs on my wrists to
where they were secured above my head. I considered pulling at them again, if
only to touch him, but destroying my furniture, even if this were a dream,
wasn't in my best interest. We still needed the bed, and I was sure he could do
a lot worse when compared to just cuffing my hands.
He inched up
the bed so he was sitting beside my hips. He was so close I could almost make
out his eye color. His light hair caught my attention again. It was possibly
bleached white. At the moment, it was ruffled and slightly spiked, which was
kind of an odd hairstyle for a Dom, but it fit him perfectly.
He leaned
forward and touched a hand to mine, paying close attention to my fingers. "Not
numb?" He squeezed them.
I shook my
head as heat brushed my cheeks.
He touched
me!
He'd actually touched me.
I didn't care
where his hand fell, so long as it was somewhere on my body.
I was so
engrossed with how young he looked that I'd almost forgotten about his name. "You
never told me what to call you." I wiggled my other fingers when he
directed me to do so.
Not numb.
Tingly
perhaps, but I still had feeling in them.
"My name
is Orion," he said smoothly, removing the cuff from one of my hands before
setting it in my lap. He lowered his voice,
then
said,
"but you can call me Master." He looked directly at me as he removed
the other cuff. "Sit up."
I did as he
asked, and he stood away from the bed.
He leaned
over to flick on the lamp before turning back to me.
I winced from
the sudden light and closed my eyes.
You
could've warned me!
For a brief moment, I wondered if it was better to open
my eyes and see that ink—to see those eyes—or if I should've kept mine shut and
remembered the way he looked when I first met him.
Dark.
Mysterious.
Enticing.
What if I open my eyes and he's some sort of
freak?
Granted,
I probably didn't look any better with my extremely short hair, but he'd
already seen me. He knew what I looked like before the lights went out.
He's in your dream, remember?
It's was
easy to forget I was still asleep when I heard him, smelled him—when I felt him
shift his weight along the side of the bed.
Once I was
sure my eyes wouldn't burn from the light, I opened them. Orion—
master, call him master—
master Orion had
his back turned toward me. From this angle, I could still see at least part of
the tattoo on his lower arm.
It was just
as dark as before, a long serpentine body coiled around his forearm. Its tail
rested just above his elbow, and I was sure the head was somewhere above his
hand.
I bit my
bottom lip, surprised when I could move my hands. I waited for him to turn
around, to look at me with the eyes I had yet to place, but he didn't move.
He took in a
breath, cleared his throat.
I rolled onto
my side so I could see around his broad shoulders.
Am I allowed to touch him?
He might've
just been a part of my dream...he might've even been under my control, but I
was the one who was supposed to submit.
I opened my
mouth and could feel the words on my tongue well before I was able to speak.
"M-master?
Can I...
may
I see your face?"
I need to see
your eyes.
Again he
looked at me, turning so I could also see the rest of the tattoo on his arm.
Greenish-grey eyes stared back at me as my vision swept from his face to a
serpent's head etched maybe two inches from his wrist. I studied the bit of
skin I could see peeking through his dress shirt, at his chest. Sadly, it
seemed as though the ink on his body was limited to his arm.
One and done,
I decided, having heard
friends and family say it before. One tattoo was usually their limit.
"Are you
ready to discuss your limits?" He raised an eyebrow at me. "We can
take this as fast or slow as you want."
If that's the case, cuff me to the bed again.
I bit my
tongue. "Yes, Master."
"Good.
What are the things you won't do under any circumstance? Things you would never
do?"
I gave his
question some thought. At first I tried to reason with myself about how this
was a dream and nothing bad could possibly happen to me.
If it does, you just have to wake up.
But thinking again, I was
sure he meant anything I'd never do—ever. Not when I was awake or asleep.
I sided with
the latter and took a deep breath. "No fire."
He nodded.
"Anything else?"
I furrowed my
brow. There were countless ways for a Dom to inflict pain on his sub. Breath
play, fire, ice, wax, floggers, canes, whips, feather ticklers, bondage...but
the only thing I couldn't see myself doing was fire.
"Pet
play," I added.
He rubbed his
chin. "I don't play with animals. I also refuse to involve blood, scat, or
any other bodily fluids. Those aren't my things, and if that's an issue, feel
free to dream up another Dom."
I smiled. "No,
I think that would be fine."
"So, if
you don't mind my asking, why not fire? Of all the limits, why does fire top
your list?"
"Because,
it can't be controlled."
Master Orion
combed his fingers through his hair. "Not necessarily. It can be
controlled by the right person. Do you not think I could control it?"
"It
isn't that, I just don't like fire. I've only ever lit a match once and ended
up burning my fingers because the flames moved too fast."
He bobbed his
head. "I understand now. Possible triggers. Okay then, no fire." His
weight on the bed lifted as he leaned against the nightstand beside my bed.
I sat up with
his help after he tugged the comforter from under my mattress. I held the
blanket over my breasts, which were still bare from my run-in with my vibrator
before I'd fallen asleep.
"Are you
familiar with safe words?" he asked.
Of course I
was!
"Tell
them to me." He caressed the side of my face.
I leaned in to
his soft touch,
then
said, "Yellow if something's
wrong, if we need to change positions, or I need you to slow down."
"And?"
"Red
to stop."
Yellow and
red were the universal safe words in the BDSM community. Yellow essentially
meant for the Dom to hold up, whereas red was a full stop kind of word. No
questions asked. No judgment.
"Good
girl." He rummaged through the top drawer of my nightstand. From its
depths, he removed lube, a condom, and a leather collar.
Where the hell did that come from?