The heat between them took time to build. And Ronin dragged every bit of anticipation out of them both.
His hand gripping her ankle, his mouth licking and sucking on her skin. His c**k powering into her. Every stroke created friction on her clit. Every brush of her ni**les against his chest sent more tingles skittering across her flesh.
“Amery.”
“I know. Me too.” Her hand curled around the back of his neck. “Take us there.”
And he did, with the erotic precision he’d mastered. They came at the same time, which didn’t always happen. But when it did? Holy shit.
“Okay,” she panted. “You don’t suck at shower sex.”
Ronin chuckled against her throat. “Neither do you.” He slowly lowered her leg to the floor and eased out of her body. Those wonderfully rough hands skated up the curve of her hip, the bend in her waist, and over her breast. “Thank you, baby, for knowing what I needed and pushing me to take it.”
She traced the edge of his collarbone up to his throat and tipped his chin back to look into his face. Some of the tension had lessened, but not all. Not enough. “I know something else you need.”
He blinked in that measured way that let her know he was still thinking about sex. “What would that be?”
“You need to create something beautiful with these hands. And I need the connection with you and how you make me feel.”
“How’s that?”
“Like it’s more than just rope binding us.”
“It is more. A lot more. And yes, after all that’s gone on today, I could use the concentration and the focus entirely on you.” He twisted a section of her damp hair around his finger. “Would you give me that?”
“Of course. Should we make this a formal binding?”
His eyes searched hers. “You wouldn’t mind?”
“No. We haven’t done that in a while. Won’t it be more formal between us at the club?”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Okay.”
“Your robe is in the guest bedroom.” Ronin kissed her cheek. “Ten minutes.”
Amery quickly dried off. After slipping on her cherry blossom robe, she arranged her hair in a messy knot on the top of her head, securing it with a pair of ornamental chopsticks Shiori had given her.
Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply for ten breaths before she moved into the practice room.
Ronin had lit candles on the small altar in the corner. Rope work was a deeper kind of meditation for him even when he claimed it was all about her.
Amery was aware that Ronin meditated in his Zen garden as well as at the altar he’d installed in this room. Since she’d never dated a man who wasn’t Christian, she’d read up on Shintoism so she wasn’t so freakin’ clueless. It wasn’t an organized religion that expected followers to profess faith and adhere to strict rituals, but a spiritual way of life that celebrated Japanese traditions and history, as well as belief in kami—a sacred life force that dwells within all humans and nature.
Of all the people she’d met in her life who professed to live by the tenets of their belief system, Ronin Black actually did.
Waiting on her knees, facing the wall of ropes, was a form of meditation for her. She never felt subservient in this position. It allowed her anticipation to build, reminding her of the savasana pose at the end of yoga practice—where her mind floated and her body was still.
Ronin normally moved with such stealth, but he made a point of entering the practice room with enough noise to keep her from being startled. Usually their sessions or scenes were done in silence. She loved the auditory part of the connection before the binding. Hearing his ragged breathing. The thump of rope coils as they hit the floor. The rasping sound of the rope moving through his rough-skinned hands and the friction between two pieces when he crafted knots. Sometimes he pulled the rope back almost like a rubber band, so it made a resounding thud against her skin. Throughout the binding process, the whisper of his gi pants and the scratch of his callused hands on the satiny robe added to her already heightened sensations.
So today it surprised her when the soft, soothing sounds of music drifted from the corner.
“I’m glad you wore your hair up,” he murmured against her ear.
She said nothing.
“Aren’t you talking to me?”
“We don’t usually talk during a formal binding.”
“I thought we’d mix it up today.”
“Is that why there’s music?”
“Yes.”
The change in him made her nervous. “What is this music?”
“Ensemble pieces using a samisen, a koto, and a shakuhachi—traditional Japanese instruments.”
Very, very slowly, Ronin began to slip the robe off her shoulders.
“Is this in preparation for the club demo? Do you play music then?”
“No, it’s just background noise. Reminds me of the years I spent in the monastery.”
“Did you play an instrument?”
“I learned the basics of a shakuhachi—the bamboo flute.”
“Why that one?”
“Because it’s also a weapon.”
“Why—”
“Amery.” His hand on her lower back and his heated breath on her bared shoulder stopped the rapid-fire flow of words. “Why are you babbling?”
“Because this is so different from every other time we’ve been in this room, and I don’t know what to expect,” she blurted out.