‘I love you, Maya,’ he whispers, his breathing ragged. ‘Stay with me.’
He withdraws to the edge, and confusion skitters through my brain. I have no idea why he’s saying this now.
‘Why would I leave?’
‘Because I don’t deserve you.’
He drives in again. The wave swells.
‘Don’t ever say that. Of course you do.’
I struggle against the bindings. Dear God, I want to hold him, I want to hold him so tight, I want to squeeze my love into him and reassure him I mean every word. I open my mouth to tell him I love him, but I get no chance. My breath’s knocked straight out of my lungs as he increases the power and the tempo. Again and again, he withdraws and thrusts, his left hand tightening at my back, the other moving beneath my shoulders and securing me in its grip. He pounds into me, slamming against the back of my vagina, relentlessly, holding me in his gaze as I groan and gasp with each punishing movement. Before long, the pressure builds inside. I’m on the verge of losing it when his pupils dilate and his breathing comes apart. He thrusts harder than ever, finally emptying himself inside me.
‘Fuck, Maya. Fuck!’
Flickers of pure pleasure fire through my groin. I come again, shaking violently in his grip while he collapses on top of me, pinning me down with his weight. Neither of us moves. He makes absolutely sure of that. Instead, we lie locked together, perfectly still, soaking up the after-shocks. He digs his head into my neck, his favourite place, taking time to regain control before he pulls out of me, raising himself to his knees and unfastening the stockings. I watch him move above me, captivated by the power of his body, his gorgeous face, those bright blue, copper-flecked eyes. Right now, I’m the luckiest woman on this planet, and I don’t care what all the other lucky women think. I’m right, and that’s that.
When he’s done, he rolls onto his back, beckoning for me to join him, and I cuddle against his chest, loving the feel of his arms around me. This is my own personal space, my sanctuary, and I know it so well: the smell, the contours, the warmth of his skin. Drifting off into post-coital haze, I smile to myself, happy in the knowledge that everything’s perfect, only half aware of something a little strange.
He’s shaking.
Chapter Eleven
When I wake up, he’s gone. Half-convinced it was all a dream, I roll over and smooth a hand across his side of the bed, reassured by the crumpled pillow next to mine, his scent lingering on the sheets. And then I see the chair, my stockings strewn across the back of it, more evidence that last night was no dream at all. Every moment was real. And true to his word, he made a meal of it. After resting for a while, he used the stockings again, tying my hands behind my back and ordering me onto my knees for an amuse bouche which I willingly delivered. And that was nowhere near the end of it. Back on the bed, he bound my wrists to my ankles and took me to the edge of insanity … over and over again.
I look out of the window. The sky’s threatening more snow. But what does it matter? I’m cocooned in this apartment with the man I love, and the outside world can’t touch me.
Utterly contented, I stretch out on the cotton sheets and yawn. And then I rest a palm on my stomach, remembering the risk I took last night, an idiotic risk. If Dan’s sperm are in as much of a rush as the rest of him, I could easily be pregnant by now. And seeing as I acted without his consent, I need to deal with the possible consequences as quickly as I can. But for the time being, I’m going to brush my worries under the super expensive rugs and enjoy every second of this reunion. Rising from the bed, I head into the bathroom, sort out my tousled hair, rinse my face and brush my teeth, using the only brush I can find, probably Dan’s. Back in the bedroom, I pull on his shirt from last night. And then I go in search of him.
As soon as I enter the sitting room, my senses are ambushed by a marauding army of roses. I blink, shake my head and scan the room. They’re everywhere, organised in a range of antique vases: a variety of colours – reds, pinks, white, yellow – filling the air with a sweet fragrance. And there’s music too, just loud enough for me to be able make out the song, and it’s one of my favourites.
I’d be swooning over his romantic gesture, if there weren’t currently a voice grumbling at the back of my head, demanding to know why he’s chosen roses. Deciding there must be a damn good reason, I focus in on him. Dressed in a black T-shirt and sweat pants, he’s standing by the window, his back to me, gazing out over Central Park. I cross the room. As soon as I’m within touching distance, he turns, smiles and opens his arms.
I step right into them.
‘About time you got up. I’ve had this song on repeat for the last half an hour. ‘New York Morning’.’
‘Elbow. My favourite. You remembered.’
‘Of course.’ Pulling back, he touches the end of my nose. ‘But just for the record, I still prefer arse.’
Holding each other, we spend a minute or two listening to the song. And while the words spiral through my
