Three
At a cool touch against my skin, I glance down and realize the metal Slate wore a moment ago has flowed from his wrists to mine. The heavy material surrounds them, caging them, not like handcuffs, but like bracelets.
“Stand up,” the iron elemental directs, releasing his hold on me.
With my blood pounding through my veins, I rise from my seat, proud when my knees don’t wobble. Slate stays sitting, turning so his legs are on the outside of the bench seat and he can lounge back against the table.
“Stand in front of me and undress,” he commands.
At those words, wetness gathers between my legs.
I’m not a seductress, so I don’t even try to make my disrobing sensual. Instead, I shuck off my shirt, tossing it to the side, quickly followed by my pants.
“Underwear, too?” Do people get completely naked in the dungeon? Maybe just the customers? Is this supposed to be the same as a normal session?
“Yes.” Slate rubs a hand up and down the top of his thigh, the movement slow and suggestive.
As I unhook my bra, I realize I am completely fine with this falling more on the side of a hook up as opposed to a dungeon visit. The thought of Slate revealing the body hidden under those fitted clothes has me panting.
And if he pressed that body against mine? Into mine?
Every muscle clenches in response.
When I slide my panties off and push them to the side with my toe, I enjoy the freedom of nudity.
Like most women, I went through a time when I hated my body, nitpicking every part of myself.
But now—most days—I love my form. The strength in my arms and legs, the figure that speaks to my adoration of food, the warm cast of my skin against the dark cascade of my hair.
Today, I undid the braids I normally use to keep my black curls away from my face and the food I’m making.
This moment with this man is about untamed pleasure. Not work.
At least for me.
“You are delicious,” Slate growls, raking his dark gaze over me. Some might call him starved. The Dom stands in one lithe movement, but he steps away, rather than toward me. “Lie on the table. Your back to the wood.”
Even as lust threatens to wreck me with each of his commands, I follow them.
Note to self: sanitize kitchen table before family arrives.
The thought pops into my head when I boost my bare ass onto the butcher block of wood, but almost immediately disappears as I recline on the surface.
When my arms move without my direction, I glance over at Slate and realize he’s gesturing with his fingers, guiding the metal shackles with his powers.
Without laying a finger on me, the Stoner arranges my wrists above my head, arms in a V, magically anchored to the corners of the table.
A cool sensation around my ankles makes me glance down in time to watch two more mythical manacles form and draw my legs apart.
Naked and fully on display, I’m now my table’s centerpiece.
Goddess, I never knew how much I wanted this.
“I’m going to take care of you, little chef.” Slate’s voice strokes deep inside me, as if he’s reached past my skin to caress my bones until they liquify, pliant to his will. The nickname should be silly. Instead, the words are intimate, caring. It is as if I’m special to this sexual master.
“Please,” I whisper.
In any other situation—every other situation—I’m the person who takes charge; starting my business, buying a house, making my own way in the world.
The urge to control my surroundings always presses on me. The need is exhausting.
But here, that weight disappears. All trussed up, I can’t take the leadership position. Yes, we both know I’m not truly helpless. But the illusion is powerful enough for me to relax and enjoy myself.
“I’m going to do something new to you.” Slate's face comes into view, staring down at me from his spot at the head of the table. “Something only you and I can do.” He braces his fists on either side of my head, caging me in even more. Tension eases in muscles I didn’t even know were stressed. “Would you like that?”
“Yes. I trust you.” Already my body thrums.
“That’s a good little chef,” he murmurs. I half expect him to stroke my hair or trail a touch over my bare skin.
But he doesn’t touch me.
Metal does.
Slate places two titanium balls on my skin, one on each shoulder. The spheres are only slightly larger than ping pong balls, and they stay in place when his fingers let go. Poised on my collarbones.
Then, under guidance of a force I cannot detect, the metallic orbs begin to slide across my flesh, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
The course slows once they reach my chest, then both objects settle directly on top of my nipples.
The metal grows to the same warmth as my skin, and I want to press against the weight of them, force some movement.
But neither one shifts as I writhe, each staying adhered to my body as if a part of me.
“Please,” I groan when the stillness becomes too much to take.
“Please what?” Slate's deep voice drifts from a blind spot. He’s stepped out of my line of sight. Instead, I’m surrounded by his presence.
“Please touch me.” With the metal, with your hands.
Both. I want both.
The silver globes move. It is a slow roll at first, more a rock than anything, back and forth, pressing against my areola.
Small gasps sneak past my lips with each pass.
Then the toys circle, moving down in a spiral as if winding tracks descend from the peaks of my breasts.
I whimper as the weight retreats from the sensitive area, pulling against my bonds as if I can break free and place them back where I want them.
The metal halts.
“I need you to be a good little chef and stay still.” Slate gently reprimands me as he appears beside me, looming, but still not touching. “Can you behave?”
I nod vigorously, but he continues to scold me with his gaze.
“What was that?”
“Yes!” I moan the word out. “I can stay still. I promise.”
“Good.”
The orbs move again, traveling lower.
Rolling paths pave across my torso, each sphere taking a turn to dip into my belly button. My hips almost squirm when the metal reaches my mound, but I force myself to stay in place.
“Let’s see how wet my toys can make you.” Slate positions himself at the end of the table. With my legs spread wide, he has an unrestricted view of my vulva. He could probably sketch a detailed diagram of my intimate parts if he gets an artistic urge.
Warm titanium slides under my hood to my clit, and my brain short circuits.
The smooth surface torments me with the exact right amount of pressure, pushing me toward an edge I haven’t visited in some time. Slate guides me there with ease, with a single ball he’s not even touching.
Then the second ball slips between my legs, pushing through my folds. With a small pop, the orb dives inside me.
“Oh Goddess,” I whisper the prayer even as I gaze at Slate. He’s the one I want to worship. The man makes me blasphemous as I enshrine him in my head as a god.
And all that before he fiddles with the metal ring in his lip.
As if the piercing is a control button, the spheres start vibrating.
Nonsense words spill from my throat as my spine bows off the table.
Everything in me, nerves, muscles, flesh, brain matter, magnetizes around the titanium between my legs, trying to get closer to the magnificent pleasure.
But I’m locked tight to the table. All I can do is curl my neck toward my chest.
This doesn’t gain me any more control over the situation. Instead, I stare enraptured at the Stoner hovering near my feet. Other than the way he fiddles with his piercing, the man is completely composed, no sign of unbearable passion rocking through him.
He is utterly indifferent.
And with that observation I reach a devastating conclusion—Slate is going to make me come without touching me.
I should be impressed, turned on by his skill to bring me this pleasure with just the use of his powers.
Instead, a spike of loneliness digs into my stomach, eradicating the lust that previously pulsed strong. The dark emotion surprises me enough that I don’t have time to swallow back the rising tears. Water trickles from the corners of my eyes. I whip my head back so he won’t see.
I should’ve known better.
The vibration halts even as both balls stay in position.
“Little chef?”
I try to make a noise, but my throat betrays me, letting out a gasp that sounds more like a sob.
“Do you want to stop?”
Like this? The idea is worse than knowing he refuses to touch me. I shake my head and try to blink the tears from my eyes. But I can’t stop the flow, and without access to my hands, I have no option for wiping them away.
Slate sees my pathetic attempt for composure as the scam it is. “Tell me,” he says calmly with a firmness to his words, “why you are crying.”
That kind of vulnerability is not what I signed up for.
“It’s ridiculous.” My attempt to keep my voice steady fails. “Sorry. I’m sorry. We can start again.”
“Look at me.”
After blinking away as much of the wetness as I can, I tilt my chin to follow his command.
Slate runs his stare over my face, tracing each corner of my expression with intensity, as if he’ll be able to discern what’s in my mind if he applies enough focus. Just that, having him see me and search for more, has more tears leaking out.
Longing, this is all longing.
“I say when we start again.” His voice is gentle but unyielding.
There’s a tug at my wrists, and I jerk before realizing the pressure comes from the cuffs. The metal rings slowly slide across my table top, toward my hips as my ankle rings gravitate to each other and close my legs.
“Sit up,” Slate instructs me, and with my hands moving closer to my body, I find I’m able to follow his command, even as every nerve in me moans for relief, for a crest to the pleasure.
Instead, I sit in front of him, on edge, both physically and emotionally.
Why am I ruining this?
The metal on my ankles pulls me forward until my legs dangle over the edge, and I thank the Gods my table is sanded smooth or else I’d have splinters in my ass.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” The gorgeous man hovers close enough that his body heat caresses my skin.
But he doesn’t. He hasn’t this entire time.
I didn’t realize how much I needed to be touched, and not in general, but by him.
Goddess, I might as well be a schoolgirl with a crush on a rock star.
“Little chef. Tell me what you need. Now, before I get impatient.” Slate holds my eyes with his dark gaze, and the truth tumbles out of me.
“You. Your hands. Your touch. Your pleasure. You.” At least my business is mobile, so I can park far away from the dungeon if I just made things incredibly awkward.
And oh look, my mouth is still going. “I know this is your job. I’m sorry.
I’m expecting too much. I shouldn’t have agreed to the gift.
Not when I—” There, finally, I cut myself off.
But Slate doesn’t let the slip pass by.
He leans over me, inches separating us, his fists pressing into the table top just beside my bound hands.
Even as I smell the copper warmth of his skin he still doesn’t touch me.
“Not when you what?”
“Not when I like you.” I emphasize the word, hoping with his keen observation skills he’ll pick up on what I mean. Slate doesn’t fall into the friend category of my brain. He always ends up in the flirty, fantasy part, and this small taste only makes the unreality of my infatuation painful.
“When did you start liking me?” He growls the question, his gaze piercing past my skin.
“When you told me that you ripped your pants.”
Slate barks out a laugh. But it’s true. A few weeks ago when he came to order his crepe, I’d asked him how his night was going, and he turned around to show me a gaping tear down the ass of his leather pants, revealing briefs covered in tiny cacti.
Cacti.
That was the day my brain switched from ‘this guy is attractive’ to ‘I want this man.’
And now I have him, but not really.
“You know, little chef.” Slate’s voice has gone husky, coarse against my eardrums. “Normally, I touch my clients.”
Ouch. I try not to cringe away from his words, but I can’t help it.
Then strong, rough palms cup my face. “Look at me.”
I do and see a desperate hunger that matches mine.
“I knew if I touched you, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”
His mouth crashes into mine, as demanding and dominating as all of his words. Slate swallows my moan as if my pleasure is the best dessert he’s ever sampled.
Then he pulls back, panting along with me.
“Please,” I rasp, wanting the touches back. Needing his skin against mine.
“New rules,” Slate’s voice has an unsteady note as his chest rises and falls on heavy breaths. “You’re not a client. This isn’t business. Tell me now if that’s not what you want.”
“Green. I want real. I want us.” I strain toward him, but the cuffs keep me adhered to the table. Then I jerk at the rocking sensation of the titanium starting up again inside me.
His hand drops to the straining front of his pants. “You’ll get more than my metal inside you.”
Everything Slate says comes out as a definitive statement, but he pauses, waiting for my agreement, acknowledging the power I still have in this situation.
If he’s not careful, I’ll fall in love with him.
“I want everything from you,” I moan the words as the ball on my clit resumes vibrating.
He leans in close. “That’s a good little chef.
” Then I’m treated to another searing kiss as the metal toys speed up.
The taste of Slate on my tongue, hot and metallic, and the vigorous pressure on my clit and against my G-spot, spurn wildness in my veins until I’m a mess of random noises and writhing pleasure.
Slate grips my hips, dragging his hands up my waist until he cups my breasts.
The pinch on my nipples breaks me, unfurling ecstasy through my body like a flower meeting the sun after a long night.
He’s a master.
And he’s mine.