His Name Is Sir (The Power to Please #3) (29 page)

I got up on shaky legs and undressed quickly, then stood before him.

His eyes were shuttered as he watched me. “Go to the bedroom. Take all of the bedding off, only leave the bottom sheet. I want you to lie down in the middle of the bed, on your stomach, arms and legs spread, head turned away from the door. Then don’t move. Wait for me.”

I gulped, nodded, started to leave, but he added, “I require a more formal response and address from you this evening.”

I stopped. Looked at him. Said, “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.”

I headed to the bedroom, my mouth suddenly dry. The way he was just then, it reminded me of how he was when I first knew him, in particular, how he had been in that suite at the Frederick Hotel. I was nervous.

I knew that nothing which followed would be playful. The playful Gibson would not be present tonight.

I did everything the way he told me, and I lay on the bed feeling something like an offering. I waited. And waited. And waited.

My nerves were a jumbled mess. I might have been angry at the wait, if I weren’t aware that this was a test and a proof. A test of my obedience. Proof of my patience. A command designed to build suspense, desire.

Lying there imagining what he might be planning to do to me, with me, was most assuredly building my desire, combining with more than a little alarm. Anticipation had my heart fluttering. The scent of the fresh linen should have soothed me, yet did not. I closed my eyes and strove for calm.

It was so quiet, no music this time. Only the rush of my heartbeat and the occasional sound of movement in the living room.

Finally, I heard a sound within the bedroom itself. He had entered silently, and now he was opening a drawer in the dresser.

Soon, he climbed onto the bed behind me, ran a hand down my back, over my bare behind. He pushed an arm under my stomach and lifted, shoving a few of the stiff throw pillows under me, raising my ass higher off the bed, exposing more of me to him.

He spread my legs farther apart, touched me lightly, then climbed off the bed.

I held my breath, trying to hear whatever he was doing behind me. I couldn’t tell anything. Then he came around to where I could see him, and placed some items on the bed in front of me.

One was a pile of rope, several smaller, individual rolls jumbled together. White nylon, I thought, about the thickness of my index finger.

The other was a latex dildo. It was lengthy, but oddly narrow.

Gibson sat down on the bed, resting a large hand next to the dildo.

He studied the items for a few moments. I eyed him cautiously, fretting about his intentions.

After a few long moments, he turned his level gaze on me and said, “I had planned to offer you a choice tonight. One choice was the rope. I haven’t truly restrained you, bound you so you can’t move in any way. I thought it might be time for an introduction to bondage.”

He continued, “The second choice was the probe. It’s an anal probe. We’ve been working on stretching you, getting you accustomed to width. You have yet to experience depth. The anal probe would accomplish that.”

I took a deep breath. It was difficult to swallow.

He glanced down at his hand. “The third choice was my hand. I’ve been wanting to give you a thorough spanking since I first saw you.”

My butt instinctively clenched.

He said, “So you would have had three choices, forced to choose one. But now that I see you laid out like you are, now that I see the rope, the probe, my hand ... I realize I can’t let you choose after all.”

He reached over and gently pushed a wayward strand of hair off my cheek. “I can’t do just one of these things, beautiful girl. I have to do all three.”

A mixture of opposing sensations flooded me: anticipation and apprehension, excitement and dread, arousal and fear. My breath turned shallow.

Gibson began unrolling one of the coiled ropes. “What would you have chosen, had I given you the choice?”

I didn’t know what to say. I thought hard, weighing the pros and the serious cons of each option. Then I realized the answer was simple

 I said, “I would have asked you what you most wanted to do, and then I would have chosen that one.”

“A fine response. And now that you know I must have all three? What do you say to that?”

“That I’m a little afraid, but that I trust you. I want to please you.”

He lifted my arm and began winding the rope around my wrist and up my forearm. “I appreciate your dedication to my pleasure. Another fine response. However ...”

He secured the cord with a clever flat knot then stood up and began wrapping the other end of the rope around the corner post of the headboard. “I believe I told you that I require a formal address from you tonight.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up a finger, instantly silencing me.

He tugged on the rope, stretching my arm out tight and straight, flush to the mattress, then quickly tied it off. He picked up a second coil of rope as he leaned down toward me.

His voice was deadly fierce, low but clearly audible. He asked, “What’s my name?”

I shivered, goosebumps raised on my arms. “Sir. Your name is Sir.”

He bent down further, lightly kissed me on the lips, and it would have been tender and romantic, had it not been for the fire in his eyes, the restrained force behind the composure.

He said, “That’s right. And tonight, you don’t want to forget that again.”

More goosebumps rose. My breath caught in my throat.

I whispered in tremulous tone, “I won’t, Sir.”

And I didn’t.

I wouldn’t have dared.

I woke in the wee hours of the morning and sleepily looked around for Gibson. I had fallen asleep wrapped in his arms. Where was he now?

I found him in the living room, hunched over his computer, the glow of the screen the only light in the room. His face was washed colorless in that illumination, his gaze on the wall behind the laptop, his expression meditative but not serene.

I hesitated, not knowing if I should interrupt. He must have sensed my movement because his head suddenly snapped around toward me. He came to himself, smiled and held out a hand. I went to him and he pulled me onto his lap.

He nuzzled my hair. “You should be sleeping.”

“I woke up. Wondered where you were.”

“I had a few things to do, that’s all, for my trip. Go back to bed. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I slid off his lap and headed toward the bedroom, sneaking a last look at him before I turned the corner. He was staring at the wall behind the computer again.

True to his word, he rejoined me in the big bed within minutes. I held him tightly, laid my head on his chest, listened to his steady heartbeat, savored his warmth, breathed in his scent. A lump formed in my throat from the pure sweetness of his presence.

My last thought before I fell asleep ... mine.

I woke in late morning, spooned against Gibson, his hand trailing tingles down my side and thigh. I smiled, murmured, pushed back into him, not caring that I was still a little sore, a little stiff from the night before.

He was patient, gentle, making love to me for the first time. I had believed myself no longer capable of appreciating vanilla sex. I couldn’t have been more wrong. His every caress was sensual bliss, every slow stroke inside me a rhythmic delight.

Later, we showered and ate a sober breakfast, both of us mostly quiet, contemplative. I was sad that I would have to go home, and that Gibson was leaving the country. He was flying to Germany that afternoon and wouldn’t return until Wednesday.

I wanted to tell him to cancel the trip, but bit my tongue. It was too soon for those sorts of feelings, too soon for expectations and declarations. Too soon to be sure of anything.

He drove me home in his beautiful, copper-colored car and walked me to my door, entering my apartment and looking around, checking for any intruders that might have invaded my home during my long absence. A man sort of thing to do, ensuring my safety. It gave me the warm fuzzies.

We stood by the front door, me reluctant to let him go, and him reluctant to leave, I believed.

He said, “I’ll call you Wednesday when I get back. Do you have plans that night?”

If I had, I would have broken them. I answered, “No.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. Smiled. I thought he was going to say something else, but instead he leaned down and kissed me softly. I returned the kiss, suddenly feeling clumsy, a little awkward.

When he turned to leave I wanted to tell him that I’d miss him. But I didn’t. I said goodbye then watched him walk away down the hall, so straight and tall. I watched him until he reached the corner, where he stopped, looked back at me, and told me in a carrying voice to shut my door and lock it.

I gave a little wave, did as he bade me, and decided that as far as declarations went, his final one wasn’t a bad one.

It was a dull Sunday after that. I kept myself busy with housework, laundry, doing all of the things I normally did on weekends. Mostly, though, I daydreamed about Gibson. For once, I didn’t analyze everything we had done together, try to read into every conversation.

I let it be. My weekend with Gibson was spectacular. I felt no urge at all to figure out what it meant. I was happy simply remembering it as it was.

Monday was as boring as Sunday night, work becoming merely something to pass the time until Wednesday. More than one co-worker gave me funny looks at my apparent distraction, my inability to follow a conversation for long, the goofy smile on my face.

I didn’t care.

Everything was mundane without my lover. The passage of time the only balm for the wound of absence. Only the thought of him interested me.

How regrettable it was that I didn’t appreciate the monotony of Sunday, of Monday, the security of the uneventful.

Regrettable, because Tuesday would prove to be my undoing.

Chapter 16

I took an early lunch on Tuesday, meeting one of my girlfriends at a nearby cafe. I desperately wanted to gush about Gibson with her, but she had troubles of her own to share with me, so it wasn’t a good time for me to talk about my lover. What would I have said, anyway? How much could I have shared?

I returned to the office in a more sober mood than I had left it. When I stepped off the elevator, I wasn’t paying attention and walked straight into a suited man who bumped me backwards a few steps.

He said, “Be careful where you’re ...”

He stopped mid-sentence. I looked up. Of all people to run into, this man would have been low on my list. It was Frank Linton. Middle-aged, overly-tanned, dissipated and haughty, he was the eldest son of the founder of Linton Cosmetics, and current president of the company.

He sneered at me, his eyes giving me a full body once-over. “Pardon me, Miss Crawford.” He said my name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. I was surprised he remembered my name.

He pushed past me and I had no choice but to hop out of his way. Frank Linton was always unlikeable, and generally boorish, but he was extraordinarily rude today. He entered the elevator, mumbling something I couldn’t decipher.

I thought it best to say nothing, and headed off to the office. What was going on? Why was Linton in such a huff?

Maybe something had gone wrong with the sale of the company. Gibson hadn’t mentioned anything to me about the deal, and I hadn’t asked. As far as I knew, he was still debating the decision.

I would have stopped at the reception desk and asked Stephanie if she had heard any gossip, but she wasn’t at her post. Probably at lunch, I thought, along with most everyone else. I headed into my office.

I had hardly tucked my purse into its usual drawer when my phone rang. It was Isabel. She asked me to come to her office right away. She sounded strange. Having no doubt, now, that something was going on, I wasted no time in going to her.

If I had thought she looked upset and frazzled the day I learned the company was being put up for sale, she looked even worse today. Her face was taut, and worn looking. She was obviously on edge.

I closed the door behind me, sat down. “What’s going on? I saw Frank Linton in the ...”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “he just left my office.”

I sent her an “and?” expression.

Isabel gave me a long, searching look. She smoothed the paper on her desk blotter, an unusually fidgety action for the normally steely-nerved woman. “I’ve always taken a special interest in you, Nonnie. You know that. And I always thought you knew I’d be here to help if you ever needed anything.”

“Of course.”

“For instance, if you needed money, you could always come to me and we would have worked something out.”