Chapter Twenty-Seven The Artisan
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Artisan
The house was so cluttered that it could probably compete with my studio.
Rugs, drapes, silverware, every home accessory you could think of. A barely used candelabra that was entirely too fancy for Petre’s current decor, drape ties, used cookware, and miscellaneous china with incomplete sets.
“I like the rug.” I smoothed a wrinkle out of the hallway runner with the heel of my shoe.
“I’m happy to hear.” She lifted a pile of linens to the table. “You can help me decide where the other five will go.”
“Where did this come from?” I shoved my hands in his pockets, inspecting the mess.
“Cosette.”
“Why?”
She shrugged, holding up some tasseled curtain cords. “Do you think this would be too much for the living room?”
I stepped forward, touching the velvet and smoothing it between my palm and thumb. “A little.”
“You don’t seem amused.”
“Have you been sorting through this all day?”
“Most of it.”
I poked through a bin, pulling out some metal contraption between bottles of arsenic pesticide. It looked like some sort of pump with a sharp spike at the end, then a needle and tube coming out the side. “Do you even know what this thing is?”
“For gardening. Aerating, I suppose.”
“We don’t have a garden. Or a yard.”
“Well, what if we do get one?”
“Unless you mean flower boxes in the windowsills, I’m not sure how that’s possible.”
She snagged the items from me.
“We don’t have room to keep it all.” I followed her aimlessly.
“I know, but I like nice things.” She crossed her arms. “It can’t hurt to sort through.”
“Would your friend take it?”
Petronille’s eyes widened, a flash of disgust settling before she waved her hand as if dismissing a thought. “No. She wouldn’t.”
“Did I strike a nerve?”
“We aren’t friends any longer.”
“Oh,” I mumbled. “Did something happen?”
Petronille pushed past me as if I hadn’t asked her a question.
“You seem a bit wound up.” I stepped behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders, pressing down gently. Her body leaned back when I did so, resting against my chest as her head sloped tiredly to the side. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to help?” I peered down at her.
“It would be like grounding a lightning bolt. I feel like I’m made of lead. If you threw me into the Hudson, I would sink.” She sighed.
“I think most things would sink if you threw them into the Hudson,” I teased, but she shot me a brief glare over her shoulder. “What are you stressing over now?”
She leaned back into my chest, and I could feel her breath hitch. Her shoulders slumped. “There are too many messes to clean.”
“Maybe if I tied you up and forced you to be still for once, you wouldn’t be so stressed.”
“At least I would have an excuse as to why I cannot fix everything.”
“Allow me, then.” I pulled away from her suddenly.
She nearly tipped backward, turning to watch me leave. “Allow you?”
I picked up the long drape cords and gardening shears. I turned to her, holding them up. “Trust me on this.”
She looked from the cords, a critical stare, to me once she realized I was sincere.
I raised a brow. “Let us call it therapy. You remember your word, correct?”
She nodded, the idea settling in. She crossed her arms again, tucking her hands under. She lost herself, retreating into her head as she focused entirely too hard on the new hallway runner.
Oh, don’t get shy on me now.
I stepped forward, tilting my head as I tipped her chin up.
Her lips parted, either to speak or out of surprise. I lowered my lips to hers, kissing her ever so gently, just a taste, an ask. In order for this to work, she had to get comfortable letting someone else take the reins, to trust me to help her.
She leaned in, a bit more hesitantly than expected, but did it nevertheless. I rewarded her with more contact, holding her face in my palm. I closed my eyes, enjoying the sweet scent of orange blossoms in her perfume.
I grasped both her hands in mine, lifting them to my lips to kiss along her knuckles, then I looped the rope around her wrist in a knotted cuff, the navy blue stark against her skin.
“Shibari has a very long history, you know.” I tied loops down her forearms. “It was originally used to contain criminals.”
Her eyes flicked to me, a critical look, but she didn’t give me any indication to stop.
I turned her around slowly, wrapping the rope around to the back and beginning to bind the torso.
“The knots used to symbolize the crime, a type of public shame when leading them through the streets,” I explained, my hands lingering by the back of her neck, whispering close to her ear.
“Some said the knots and colors of the rope were used to trap demons inside the so-called sinners.” My knee went into the back of her leg, making her kneel on the couch with her elbows propped on the camelback of the sofa.
In one hand, I held the rope, pulling slightly, allowing the strands around her to tighten. She made a small noise, more like a breath of relief. My free hand touched her leg, smoothing up to lift her skirt.
“Your ropes are blue,” I said, leaning forward to reach the front of her hips.
She flinched, her face hidden in her arms. Her legs trembled as I touched her, cupping between her legs roughly.
“Reserved for the most impactful crimes, taboo to the community, something unforgettable and heinous.” I pressed my hips into her, pulling the ropes a little tighter.
I rubbed her slowly, gently, with purpose.
She gasped, her breath hitching. I could feel every breath through her back pressed against my chest.
“Breath control is important.” I took her earlobe between my teeth, nipping her gently as I smoothed my fingers between her labia, wet with anticipation.
Just the visual of the ropes rubbing on her skin, turning it pink in its grasp . . . I had to take my own advice and breathe. This exercise wasn’t for me.
“Does it feel good to wear your shame?”
“I don’t . . . know what you mean,” she answered.
“Clearly you did something to find yourself bound like this,” I said against her neck. “What sort of sin did you commit to deserve this?”
“I don’t know—”
“Do the knots match the crimes?”
“No!” she sobbed.
I stopped, the tone of her voice concerning.
“Apricot! Stop!” she cried.
At the drop of the word, I pulled the last knot for a quick release, picking her up to gather her in my lap as I undid the ropes.
Her face was stained with tears, her eyes and nose pink from distress.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tossing the ropes to the ground.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, nearly choking me in her grip. She wouldn’t stop shaking. My heart beat hard, fast. I hesitantly wrapped my arms around her. I rubbed her back, holding her for as long as she needed.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, kissing the side of her head as I rubbed her hair. “You did so good. I’m so proud of you,” I whispered, tilting her chin up. “Look at me.”
She blinked away her tears, her breathing calming down, though the anxiety was still left over. “I’ll be ready next time. I can do it next time.”
“You don’t have to be if you don’t like it. We don’t have to do anything,” I assured her, wiping away some of the remaining wetness from her cheeks.
She shook her head quickly. “No, I did like it. I just . . . I just panicked. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. There is always next time, and even if you stop it again, I would assure you all the same.”
“I want to . . . try again. Not now, maybe another time?” she suggested.
“If that is what you want.”
I kissed her forehead before pulling her to my chest, enveloping her in my arms with my chin resting comfortably on her head, my fingers playing with the hem of her skirt and tracing delicately over her ankles.
“I am proud of you, you know.”
“For what?” She laughed, a small snort.
“You’re learning to set boundaries.”
“I said ‘apricot,’” she mumbled. “You are making it more than it is.”
“Whether you say the word ‘apricot’ or dictate a contract’s worth of things you will and will not do, it is something you’ve never done before. And for that, I am proud.”
She let out a small laugh, possibly too tired to argue. As long as she knew that I saw her, that was all that mattered.