The lamp on the nightstand threw a low gold wash across Tessa’s bedroom, and the shadows of the curtain moved slow against the wall. The air in Tessa’s bedroom was warm, close, carrying the faint scent of her shampoo and the clean linen smell of the sheets she’d pulled back an hour ago.
The small canvas bag sat beside Bryce on the mattress.
Tessa looked at it.
“You brought them.”
“You asked me to.”
“I know.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Still feels different now they’re here.”
She opened the bag.
The brown leather collar lay on top, the matching cuffs beneath it. She picked up one of the cuffs and turned it over in her hands.
“These are the ones you made?”
“Yeah.”
She held out her wrist.
Bryce took the cuff and fastened it around her.
Then she gave him the other.
He buckled the second into place.
Tessa turned her hands over, studying the brown leather around her wrists.
“And the collar.”
Bryce picked it up.
She turned away from him and lifted her hair.
He fastened it around her neck.
Tessa let her hair fall and touched the leather with her fingertips.
“Well?”
Bryce looked at her.
“Well what?”
“Does it suit me?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled.
“Good answer.”
Tessa stood and crossed to the chair where she’d dropped some of her riding gear earlier.
She came back with her dressage whip.
Bryce looked at it.
Tessa handed it to him.
He rolled the handle once in his palm, the long shaft flexing slightly with the movement.
Then he let the tip trail down the outside of her jeans.
Tessa looked down.
The first flick caught her lightly across the thigh.
“Oh, fuck you.”
Bryce laughed. “That hard?”
“No.” She rubbed the spot anyway. “Wasn’t expecting it.”
“That’s becoming obvious.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
She turned away from him.
The whip traced slowly down the back of her thigh.
Tessa waited.
Nothing.
She glanced over her shoulder.
The flick caught her across the denim.
She jumped.
“You bastard.”
Bryce grinned.
Tessa did too.
By the time they reached the bed again, her jeans and shirt had joined his on the floor.
She sat back on her haunches, naked except for the brown leather at her wrists and throat.
Bryce clipped the cuffs to the ring on the collar.
Tessa pulled against the short connection once.
“Oh.”
“What?”
She tried it again.
“Different.”
Bryce picked up the whip.
Tessa watched him over her shoulder.
He drew it slowly across one shoulder, then down beside her spine.
She shivered.
The tip reached the small of her back.
Stopped.
Tessa waited.
“You’re doing that deliberately.”
Bryce started drawing it back up.
“Doing what?”
“Making me wait.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Tessa narrowed her eyes.
“Arsehole.”
His hand came around her, palm spreading across her chest.
The whip travelled down her back again.
At her shoulder blades, Bryce pressed lightly with it.
Tessa understood.
She leaned forward.
His hand stayed against her chest as he guided her down, controlling the movement while her restrained hands came with her.
Her knees stayed beneath her. Her shoulders and forearms settled against the mattress, her hands tucked close beneath her chin.
Her arse remained raised behind her.
For a moment Bryce did nothing.
Tessa shifted.
“Well?”
The first proper strike cracked across her arse.
“Fuck.”
The sting came first.
Then the heat.
Before she had completely decided what she thought of it, the second landed.
Tessa’s fingers curled against the collar.
“Oh.”
Bryce watched her.
Another strike.
Harder.
The sharp sting spread into a hot line across her skin.
Tessa breathed through it.
Again.
Her body tensed at the sound before the whip even reached her.
The next strike landed harder again.
She flinched and squirmed sideways.
“Too much?”
“A little.”
Bryce immediately backed it off.
The next touch wasn’t a strike.
The whip travelled slowly up her back instead.
Tessa exhaled into the mattress.
His free hand moved over the warmth he’d left on her arse, then lower between her thighs.
Her breath caught.
The whip traced down her spine.
Bryce’s fingers found her clit.
“Fuck.”
He rubbed her slowly while the whip wandered over her back.
Tessa pushed back against his hand.
The tip flicked lightly across her shoulder.
She twitched.
Then his hand was moving again.
Pleasure building.
The whip trailing.
Waiting.
Tessa’s hips began moving against his fingers.
The next flick came just as she found the rhythm she wanted.
“You arsehole.”
“What?”
“You—” Her breath caught. “Know what.”
Bryce could feel her tightening against his hand.
He slipped his thumb into her from behind.
Tessa groaned, pushing back onto it.
The whip cracked lightly across her back.
A long moan spilled into the mattress.
“Not yet.”
Tessa turned her face enough to glare back at him.
“Fuck you.”
Bryce smiled.
He kept working her.
His fingers moved over her clit while his thumb pressed deeper, her body tightening around him whenever he changed the pressure.
The whip followed the line of her spine again.
This time there was no strike.
Tessa waited for one anyway.
“Bryce.”
“What?”
She let out a frustrated sound.
He laughed.
The whip flicked lightly across her back.
Her body jerked, then immediately pushed harder against his hand.
“There you go,” she breathed.
Bryce put the whip aside.
His palm moved over the heat on her arse.
Then his mouth touched one cheek.
Tessa went still.
The kiss was soft.
Almost sweet.
“You’re not funny.”
Bryce kissed her again.
Then his teeth caught her.
Tessa yelped.
“You bastard!”
He laughed against her skin.
She was laughing too, breathless now, pleasure already wound tight enough that her words were falling apart.
Bryce’s hand returned between her thighs.
Tessa pushed back against him.
“Bryce—”
“Come for me.”
This time he didn’t interrupt her.
Her body tightened, the release breaking through her in a rush. She buried her face against the sheets until the intensity began to ebb.
For a moment she stayed exactly where she was.
Then she laughed.
“You really are an arsehole.”
Bryce unclipped the cuffs from her collar.
Tessa rolled onto her back, rubbing her wrists together even though the leather cuffs were still around them.
Bryce knelt beside her on the mattress, still in his jeans, shirt off. His hands moved slow over her hip, over the curve of her thigh, and she watched him watch her.
The lube bottle clicked open, and the smell of it filled the warm air between them, faintly sweet, faintly chemical. He poured a little into his palm, worked it between his fingers, and the sound of it, the slick quiet noise, made her breath catch.
His hand moved lower, and she felt the first touch of his finger against her, not inside, just tracing the edge, letting her get used to the idea. She gasped, her hips shifting on the sheet.
“Alright?”
“Yeah. Just—” She blew out a breath. “Different.”
“Good different?”
“Ask me in a minute.”
His laugh was low, and she felt it against her thigh where he leaned in. His finger circled her, slow, patient, spreading the oil, and she felt herself relax into it, the unfamiliar pressure becoming something she could breathe through.
“I’m going to use one finger,” he said. “Just the tip. You tell me when you want more.”
“Okay.”
His finger pressed, and she felt the resistance, the tightness, and then the slow give as he pushed past the rim. She gasped, her back arching off the bed.
“Breathe,” he said. “Let it settle.”
She forced herself to exhale, and the pressure eased, became something she could hold. His finger stayed still, letting her adjust, and she felt the warmth of his other hand on her hip, steady, anchoring.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Move.”
He did, slow, barely a shift, and she felt the strange fullness of it, the way it pressed against her from a different angle than she was used to. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she focused on the sensation, on the way his finger moved inside her, patient and deliberate.
“That’s good,” she said, her voice rough. “That’s—yeah.”
He worked her open, one finger, then a second, the stretch building until she felt the burn of it, sharp and sweet. She gasped, and he stopped, waiting.
“More,” she said. “Keep going.”
He did, and she felt herself open to him, the tightness giving way inch by inch. His fingers moved inside her, slow and deep, and she felt the heat building low in her belly, the unfamiliar pressure becoming something she craved.
“Bryce—”
“Yeah?”
“That’s—” She lost the thought, her hips rolling against his hand. “Fuck.”
He laughed, low and pleased. “Good nervous or bad nervous?”
“Shut up.”
He didn’t shut up. He pushed deeper, and she felt the stretch, the burn, the impossible fullness of it, and she heard herself moan, low and helpless.
“More,” she said. “Please.”
He added a third finger, and she cried out, her body arching off the bed, the stretch overwhelming. He held still, letting her adjust, and she felt the tears prick at her eyes, not from pain, from the sheer intensity of it.
“Too much?”
“No.” She shook her head, breathless. “Just—give me a second.”
He waited, his fingers still inside her, and she felt herself relax around him, the tightness giving way. She looked up at him, at the concentration on his face, the way his jaw was set.
“Okay,” she said. “Move.”
He did, slow and deep, and she felt herself open to him completely, the pleasure building until she was gasping, her hips rolling against his hand, chasing it.
“Bryce—”
The orgasm built, a wave gathering in her belly, and she let it come, let it crash over her, her body shuddering around his fingers. She heard herself cry out, his name, a word, something broken, and then she was floating, the pleasure receding in slow waves.
He pulled his fingers out slowly, and she felt the emptiness, the strange ache of being left open. She lay there, panting, the brown cuffs still around her wrists, and watched him reach for the nightstand.
There was a toy there, something she hadn’t noticed before. A curve of silicone, smooth and dark, lying on the wood like it had always belonged there. He picked it up, and she felt her breath catch.
He looked at her.
She met his gaze.
Held it.
And nodded.
She watched him pick it up, the curve of dark silicone catching the lamplight.
“You’ve done this before,” she said. Not a question.
“Yeah.”
She swallowed.
“I want to know what it feels like.”
He picked the toy up again, and she watched him pour a little more lube onto his fingers, working it over the smooth curve. The sound of it, that slick quiet noise, made her thighs shift on the sheet.
He leaned over her, one hand braced on the mattress beside her hip, the other bringing the toy down between her legs. She felt the tip of it press against her, cool and blunt, and she gasped at the unfamiliar sensation.
“Cold.”
He waited, letting it warm against her skin.
His hand moved, and the toy pressed forward, just the tip.
She blew out a breath. “That’s—”
“Different?”
She laughed. “Shut up.”
He pushed a little deeper, slow and patient, and she felt herself open around the smooth curve, the fullness of it strange and deep.
“More,” she said. “I can take more.”
He gave her more, inch by inch, until it was seated inside her, deep and full, and she lay there panting.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
“Good?”
“Yeah. Just—give me a second.”
He waited, his hand resting on her hip, thumb tracing a slow circle on her skin. She felt herself adjust, the fullness becoming something she could hold, something she could breathe around. And then he moved it, just a fraction, and she felt the curve press against her from the inside, and her whole body jolted.
“There,” she gasped. “Right there.”
He did it again, slow and deliberate, and she felt the pleasure spike, sharp and electric, radiating out from that one spot. Her hips rolled against his hand, chasing it.
“Bryce—”
The orgasm built again, faster this time, the pleasure coiling tight in her belly. She let it come, let it crash over her, her body shuddering around the toy, her cry swallowed by the warm dark of the room. He held still, letting her ride it out, and when she finally went limp, he pulled the toy out slow, and she felt the emptiness again, the strange ache of being left open.
He set the toy aside and leaned over her, his mouth finding hers, soft and unhurried. She kissed him back and felt the last tremors fade into something warm and heavy.
“You okay?” he asked, his forehead against hers.
“Yeah.” She laughed, breathless. “More than okay.”
She pushed at his chest, and he rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so she straddled his hips. She looked down at him, at the dark hair on his chest, the broad shoulders, the way his hands found her thighs.
“My turn,” she said.
His eyebrows rose, a flicker of surprise, then that slow smile again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She reached down, undid his jeans, pushed them down over his hips. He lifted his hips to help her.
She leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep.
“I want to feel you.”
She positioned herself over him and sank down slowly.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Tessa.”
She rode him slow, rolling her hips, finding a rhythm that made his breath hitch and his hands tighten on her.
“You like that?” she asked.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “Fuck, yeah.”
She leaned forward, braced her hands on his chest, and changed the angle.
“There,” she said. “Right there.”
He thrust up to meet her.
She rode him harder, faster, chasing the pleasure building again until it broke through her. She collapsed onto his chest afterward, panting, and he wrapped his arms around her.
They lay there, tangled together, the lamp still burning low, the shadows still moving slow against the wall.
“That was—” she started.
“Yeah.”
She smiled against his chest, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.
She lifted her head.
“What happens now?”
Bryce was quiet for a moment, his hand tracing slow circles on her back.
“I don’t know.”
Tessa studied him.
“Stay,” she said. “Tonight. Stay.”
He looked at her.
“I wasn’t planning on leaving.”
She smiled and settled back against him.
The lamp burned low, the shadows moved, and eventually the room went quiet.
She woke to the sound of Bryce moving around the kitchen and the smell of coffee.
Tessa rolled over in her own bed and looked toward the bedroom door.
The brown cuffs and collar lay on the nightstand beside the dressage whip.
She smiled.
She pulled on Bryce’s shirt, the one draped over the chair, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
He stood at the bench, shirtless, pouring coffee.
“Morning,” she said.
He turned. “Morning.”
He handed her a mug, and she wrapped her hands around it, the warmth seeping into her palms.
“I suppose eventually you’re going to have to go home.”
Bryce leaned against the counter with his own mug.
“Eventually.”
Tessa took a sip.
“Not yet.”
His mouth curved.
“No. Not yet.”