Two
I can’t believe I called him.
Texted him, whatever. At the sound of my doorbell, nervous energy grows throughout my limbs. I shake my hands as if to dispel the sensation, but I expect the tingling will only get more pronounced in a moment.
I can’t believe he came.
What mythically sexy guy wants to meet for a hookup at nine in the morning?
Is this a hookup?
No. This is a paid for service where I’m going to get off and Slate is going to help me.
I think.
Maybe instead of using Slate’s phone number last night, I should have called Harley and gotten a full rundown of what they actually do in their dungeon. I’ve only ever speculated. And googled. And watched a few YouTube videos.
Now, I’m about to get firsthand experience.
“Hi,” I say, while opening my front door. Then words vacate my brain, and I just stare.
Slate during the day is an entirely different creature than Slate getting off work at the dungeon.
The sun lights up his blue hair, and glints off his piercings like he’s some kind of solar fairy.
He’s lost his blatantly naughty clothes, opting for a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved button up, every piece of clothing fitting tight to his body, tempting in a new way.
“Terra.” He breathes sensuality into my name, and I wonder if the slim padding of my bra hides the tightening of my nipples.
“Slate.” His name croaks from my throat, and I try to suppress a blush as I keep talking. “Or should I call you Master Slate?”
His lips part in the sexiest smile I’ve seen to date. “Slate works. For now.”
“Alrighty-o.” Fucking hell, what is my brain doing to my mouth? Hoping I don’t combust from embarrassment, I step aside and gesture for him to come in.
Why do I have to lose every ounce of self-assurance when I’m around this man? Normally, I pride myself on being a badass bitch.
“I like your place.” He taps the sill of a large window that spills light into my front room.
The bright glow makes the army of candles I lit redundant.
But I burn the cedar-scented wax more for the ambiance than illumination.
Besides, the sun will disappear earlier today than any other day of the year.
During the summer months, I have to cover the glass with blackout curtains so the Arizona sun doesn’t turn my house into a pressure cooker.
But winter in the desert means I get to soak in as much natural light as I want.
And so do my plants.
“Thanks. I know it’s a jungle in here.” I gesture to my massive collection of greenery.
Pots line shelves and fill up corners. Sturdy hooks hold hanging bowls filled with different growing things.
Then there’s the pine. Small trees newly interspersed between my everyday plants as if I’m building a miniature forest across all surfaces.
My house is white walls and bright green leaves.
“I could claim it’s for the holiday, but really I have a habit of buying a new plant every time I leave the house.
Some people might call it an issue. I say it’s a lifestyle. ”
Slate watches me with a hint of a smile. “I’m not surprised. You’re a Petal Pusher.”
He uses that title as if everyone who meets me would know right away, that it’s common knowledge I’m a Petal Pusher, the slang term for an earth elemental.
As if it’s not my most closely guarded secret.
“H-how?” I stutter the question as my eyes frantically dart around the room.
Is this some kind of trap? Are a battalion of scientists going to burst in, planning to cart me away to a secret government lab?
That’s every elemental’s worst fear; discovery. We know what would happen if the general human population learned about our kind.
Slate’s brows dip as he watches my body vibrate with growing panic. “Harley told me.”
“Seriously?” Is Harley just going around telling people about elementals? I know she’s not a rule follower in a lot of situations, but she’s a fire elemental herself. I thought at least in this, where our safety comes into play, she’d keep her mouth shut.
Meanwhile, Slate stands unfazed that he’s in the presence of a mythical being.
The man holds his hands up as if surrendering or calming me down.
Despite my stress, the glint of his titanium rings catches my attention.
The pieces of metal are thick and imposing on his hands, their shape almost liquid.
Even now they appear to flow over his knuckles.
And that’s when I realize they are.
The jewelry melts off his fingers, silver trailing over skin as the material moves with purpose toward his palms. There, two pools form, looking like mercury.
“I’m a Stoner,” he explains.
The nickname for iron elementals, just like Petal Pushers applies to earth. There’s also Squids for water, Pyros for fire, and Air Heads for air. Not the most flattering, but we’ve all accepted them.
And Slate is part of our number.
“I didn’t know,” I sigh out my relief, fascinated with the liquid metal in his hands. “Are all the people who work in the dungeon elementals?” My redheaded friend matches perfectly with her Pyro status.
“No.” He steps closer. “Just Harley and me and one other. No clients. At least none of mine. Which means I have to keep this—”Suddenly the titanium forms into two perfect spheres.
“—to myself. Disappointing really.” His voice holds a tinge of regret.
“I can do so much more with my powers than a human Dom can. But…” At his pause, I glance up to meet smoldering eyes.
“But what?”
Slate palms the metallic orbs, swirling them around each other. “But I can try with you, if you’re willing.”
Excited sweat forms a sheen on my skin.
“I’m not sure what I’m willing to do.” I admit.
Slate nods, making a fist and with a flick of a wrist, he’s suddenly wearing two metal bracelets.
“Can I have your hand?” He holds out his, and from the intensity of his stare, I hear another question below his first.
Can I have your trust?
I slide my palm into his.
“Take me where you are most comfortable.”
My attention immediately traces to the door that leads out to my yard, to my greenhouse. That little structure is my sanctum. That’s what he’s asking for.
In those glass walls I’m comfortable.
I’m also vulnerable.
Instead, I lead him to the place I exert the most control; my kitchen.
“What’s all this?” Slate uses his free hand to wave at the squares of cloth covering my counter.
Reaching out, I lift a corner to reveal the raw, rising dough. “Bread. I’ll put these in the oven later so they’re ready by tonight when my family gets into town. For the solstice.”
Slate runs his thumb over the pulse at the base of my wrist. “Sounds like we have a limited amount of time.”
A dry laugh sneaks from my chest. “My time is always limited. Feels like I’ve been going nonstop since I got my truck.
This is the first day I’m taking off in a while.
The only time I really have.” I meet Slate’s dark eyes.
“But, I don’t want it to sound like I’m rushing through this.
Their flights don’t get in ‘till the evening. We have time.”
The man lets his gaze linger on mine before a sensual smile overtakes his lips. “Good. Let’s sit. Get you comfortable.”
We settle side by side at my kitchen table, and I half expect him to pull out a waiver form, although I don’t know where he’d have stashed it this whole time.
“Do I need to sign something?”
An emotion flicks across Slate’s face, but he shakes his head before I can identify it. “We’re not at the dungeon. This is just you and me. Having a conversation about what I can do for you.” His fingers take another slow glide across my pulse. “What do you like, Terra?”
What do I like? I struggle for an answer. That’s so broad. Maybe I should start small.
“My clit,” I blurt. Realizing what I said, I let my head fall to the thick wooden slab of my kitchen table. Maybe I can resurrect this dead tree and have the thing surround me with roots so I can die of embarrassment in privacy.
“Look at me.” The command hooks into my bones. I can’t deny him.
Straightening up, I meet Slate’s eyes to find them digging into me. “That was a perfect answer. Tell me more.”
Oh goddess. Suddenly, I want to tell him every detail about my sexual history, give him all the information so he can decipher my body with ease. Instead, I take a moment to think, exploring those past sexual experiences myself to pick out which parts I liked best.
One memory rises above all others.
A few years ago I dated a guy. A kind man, nice eyes, decent personality. I was disappointed when he relocated across the country for work, but never considered going with him. Still, I liked him enough to experiment in bed.
One thing guaranteed my orgasm every time we were together.
And if I can tell any man about this, it’s Slate.
With a bracing breath, I face him head-on. “I like to be bound. My wrists. And my ankles.”
The Dom’s pupils dilate as he watches me, but he merely nods. “We can do that. Is there anything you’re not comfortable with?”
Plenty. The word sprouts in my head, and I try not to cringe at the knowledge that even my bondage kink is probably boring compared to Slate’s regulars. But he said this is about me, so I want to be honest.
“Punishment.” I try to say the word firmly, but it curves up on the end like a question.
Slate strokes my pulse again. “What does that word bring to mind, for you?”
I mull over his question, some of my tension easing that he didn’t laugh or scoff.
“Pain. I like the idea of being restrained, but I don’t want to be in pain.”
Slate nods. I imagine him with a filing cabinet in his head of clients, and he’s pulled my manilla folder out to make notes.
“What about punishment that doesn’t hurt? Like making you wait. Making you beg.”
A pulse of heat rolls through my body, which is answer enough.
“Those are fine,” I say with a surprisingly steady voice.
He gives my hand a slight squeeze. “We’ll use a stop light system, all right?
Green if you’re all good. You say yellow if you’re uncomfortable but think you want to keep going.
Red if you want me to stop what I’m doing immediately.
Do you trust me to stop?” Slate makes sure to meet my eyes as he asks.
“I do.” There’s the fact that he’s a professional.
And, Harley set this up, and I trust my friend implicitly.
But there’s also this force in my chest, underneath all the lust that pulls me toward Slate.
Telling me there’s something important about him, that this man will mean something big to me.
The connection formed within moments of meeting him and deepened every time we interacted.
Even if all we did was exchange a handful of words.
I was so drawn to Slate, I briefly considered visiting the dungeon.
But every time I picked up my phone to make an appointment, something held me back.
A sense that taking on the role of one of his customers wouldn’t be enough.
Isn’t that what I am today? A customer?
For some reason, this seems different.
I don’t dig into that feeling, but I do trust it.
“Good.” His voice is gravel, rough against my ears and nerve endings. I clench my thighs together as I pulse with the pleasure of the sensation.
Slate reaches out to take hold of my other hand, cupping both between us.
“Are you ready?”
I nod.
“Then let’s begin.”