He tenses, and I know I’ve upset him. He sits up to lean against the headboard before running a hand through his hair, struggling with some battle he’s not ready to share.
Finally, he speaks. “I can want to be with you genuinely, and still want to capture it. You get that, right? We’ve talked about this before, and I thought you understood.”
I sit up too, ignoring the impulse to pull the sheet up over my breasts. That would be hiding, and I want desperately to be open with him, which is part of the reason I was so eager not to have an audience this morning. “I do understand, Logan. I really do. It means so much to me that you are so into us that you want to share it with the whole world. I’m flattered, and I support it.
“But sometimes I want to be completely unguarded with you. I want to be able to bring down all my walls and let you into all the secret parts of me—granted, I don’t have many because I’m an open book—but there are things I’d prefer to share only with you.” I lower my voice and my eyes. “There are parts of you I wish you’d only share with me.”
“There are parts of me I only share with you. I talk to you about movies and art. I slept with you in a sleeping bag. I’ve never done that with another person. I share things with only you. Things not related to sex.”
“Sometimes I need them to be sex too.” I swallow then raise my gaze to his, tentatively. “Can you understand that?”
He holds my stare for several seconds. Then he scratches the back of his neck. “I wasn’t reaching for the camera.” He says it in a way that says he does understand, says he feels exactly the same.
“I know that. Now. I’m sorry I assumed otherwise.” I’m especially sorry that I’ve ruined the good mood he was in. And that he’s no longer touching me. I crawl toward him. “Are you mad?”
He raises his brow and starts to say something, but, after catching the view of me on all fours, seems to change his mind. His eyes narrow. “Yes. Very mad.” He uses a tone I’ve only heard him use in his movies—his dominant tone—and I know he’s playing with me in a different way. “Maybe I need to punish you.”
I sit back on my knees and bite my lip coyly. “Do you? I’m not sure if I’d like that.”
In a flash, he has me on my back, pinned underneath him. “You aren’t supposed to like it. I’m supposed to like it.”
His eyes are dark, his lids hooded, but he’s thinking. Assessing.
I’m certain I know what he’s trying to figure out. We haven’t ventured into kink on or off camera. While I’d marked a willingness to try some kinkier things on the limits section of my contract for Star-Crossed, I’d also specified that I preferred not to until later in the show’s timeline. It was a comfort issue for me. I’m not new to the more base forms of kink—bondage and spanking and the like—but I’ve certainly never done anything like that with an expert.
And Logan’s an expert. I’ve seen all of his work—trust me, I know.
So it makes sense that he’s cautious now. Because the list of things I’d do for the show doesn’t necessarily match the list of things I’d do for Logan. He just doesn’t know that.
“You can do it for real,” I tell him, giving him permission to play how I think he wants to. “You can punish me.”
He raises one brow. “Oh, can I?” but I can see he’s finally taking me seriously. He’s no longer just deciding if but how.
The anticipation makes me twitchy and eager and my head bobs when I mean for it to simply nod. I want him so fiercely, want him to take me, to unleash on me, unbridled and tumultuous.
He rocks over me, his expression on fire with lust and I re-utter my consent, giving it even more surely. “You can. I want you to. My safe word is Donald Trump.”
Logan freezes. “What?”
I smile, trying not to giggle. “It’s a really good safe word, isn’t it? I’m proud of it.”
“It definitely puts a damper on any thoughts of sex.”
And I can see how it’s put a damper on his thoughts because the mask of pure desire he’d worn a moment ago is now laced with horror.
I wiggle beneath him, purposefully rubbing against his pelvis in an attempt to raise his cock from half-mast to full-mast. “Did I kill your mojo? Bad, Devi. Bad. Maybe I need to be punished for that too.”
“Are you taunting me?” Once more, he’s asking if I’m sure. And I am. This is one of the things I’d like to explore with him, but I couldn’t do it if the camera were on. I’m too new to it. I need the freedom to make mistakes without an audience. And I need to be taken care of as we go. I need to know I’ve got all of Logan’s focus.
I meet his eyes and think he understands me when I say, “I’m not taunting. I’m being very serious.”
Then he’s decided, and he’s climbing off of me, pulling my torso up by my wrists. “You were taunting. You’ve been taunting me all fucking morning. You’ve been fucking taunting me since we met, and you definitely need to be punished.” He’s rowdy and rough as he drags me to the edge of the bed. Shifting to hold my hands with one of his, he bends to open the bottom drawer of his nightstand with the other. There, he retrieves a red silk scarf, which he uses to tie my wrists together—securely, but not so securely that it will cut off blood flow.
I love the way the red looks against my olive skin.
I love that my boyfriend is the type of guy who has sex paraphernalia in his nightstand.