Thomas

This . . . was dangerous territory. Dangerous and I knew it because even though Daisy said it wasn't about sex, it sort of was. And she was absolutely right about the difference between physical and mental sex. In the best relationships both are in synch, making the whole experience sublime and transcendent and in my case, probably a lost cause. At the same time, I was genuinely curious. What did she get out of . . . this? How did it work?

"Sort of," I managed trying to sound more confident than I was. I realized right then that we were in a bed together and I felt my face heat up.

"I thought so. And stop looking at me like I'm going to bite you," Daisy shoved my shoulder a little with hers. It was weirdly reassuring, especially when she grinned.

"Sorry, it's just so far out of my, ah, realm of experience," I admitted.

"You're not alone," Daisy told me. "Okay. Here's the first step, before anything else happens. You need to choose a word that will tell me to stop everything."

"What?"

"A word," Daisy said quietly. "Something deliberate like a password, or a code. And it can't be 'no' or 'stop' because sometimes in the heat of things people say them and don't mean them. This has to be something completely unmistakable. Like 'Firefly' or 'Razorblade.'"

Part of me wanted to laugh; it seemed ridiculous, like something out of a kid's game but Daisy was giving me a wry smile. "I know, it sounds silly but this is where trust starts. You say that word, or I say my word, and everything. Stops. No hesitation, no second-guessing. I hear it from you, or you hear it from me and we stop."

I thought about that.

"Okay," I managed. "Stalag. That's . . . the word I choose."

"Stalag," Daisy repeated. "Okay." She didn't ask why, just nodded and it made me feel better. She shifted, turning to face me, sitting cross-legged and leaning forward to look me in the eyes. "Good. Mine is Rodeo."

"Rodeo," I repeated. "So . . . what happens now?"

Daisy looked at me for a moment. "Well, it sort of depends on whether you want to be in charge or not."

"Yes." It popped out before I could stop it. I'd been tied up more times in my life than I wanted to admit and none of them were fun experiences. If I was going to try this out, I definitely wanted to have control of the situation. On the other hand, it meant being the one tied up . . . and I wasn't sure how that worked. It must have showed on my face because Daisy held out her hands.

"Hold my wrists," she told me. I leaned forward and gripped them; slender but strong.

"Okay. You have me in your power," Daisy murmured. "Nothing too serious. Squeeze them. Ever so lightly."

"Like this?" I tightened my fingers, watching her.

She gave a little smile, closing her eyes. "Good. It's a firm grip but not overpowering. Do it again and tell me something about how it feels."

Very lightly I repeated the action, adding, "Your skin is cold."

She laughed. "True. If I struggled right now you wouldn't have much trouble stopping me. You're stronger and smell nice."

That imagery shook me a little and the compliment made me blush. "Ah, thank you."

"So. Tomcat, on one level I'm in your power but on another it's clear to us both that I'm in charge. You're holding me but I'm the one telling you what to do right now. Makes sense?"

It . . . did. I was about to let go of her but Daisy said, "Don't. Not yet. Pull my hands towards you. Slowly. Reel me in."

The way she used her voice got under my skin. Soft and bare, in a way. I pulled, watching Daisy roll her head back, eyes still closed and the look of her that way in the light of the lamp . . . suddenly I had a peek at exactly what she meant about intensity. We hadn't done anything more than hold hands but I felt more than the surface showed here.

Using some strength, I tugged, feeling her resistance in the flex of her fingers until Daisy raised her head and smiled at me, her gaze unfocused and gleaming.

"Ohhh, yes. If we were in a playful mood, oh I'd have you go rougher. Much rougher. But gently deliberate is very nice too. Now let my wrists go and take my hands, please."

I fumbled a little, aware that I was holding my breath, aware that I was responding in well, inappropriate ways as well. Her palms were warm, and the squeeze of her fingers on mine felt nice.

"Deep breath, slow . . . and yes," Daisy murmured. "And very gently let go . . . there you are, the five minute version."

Daisy

Ohhh, that was nice. I suspected Magnum would be good at taking directions—most military types were—but at the same time, his strength was a heck of a turn-on, and that natural desire of his to be in charge had some allure as well. Not many guests at Casa de Làtigos wanted to let me lead the dance, so having a moment here to indulge myself was sweet.

At the same time, I was encouraged that he wasn't freaking out—or if he was, he was masking it well. Magnum was watching me and I winked at him. "The floor is open to questions."

"So what else . . . happens?" Now I was getting the full blush, but that dogged curiosity was driving the question, and behind it was something else I couldn't quite name. Something a little sad.

"Touch," I replied, looking down at my hands. "Focused . . . sensation. If I was following someone's lead they might want me to rake my nails on their skin. Pinch them. Breathe a warm breath in their ear or even bite them. And talk. Praise mostly, and some challenge. When you give someone your full attention it's . . ."

"Intense," Magnum nodded. "Why?"

That was a harder question because I knew what he was really asking, so I took my time.

"Because some people need—crave—that connection. They need to be in control, or they need to give up control, if only for a little while. And they can't get it in whatever relationship they're in. Don't know what they need or don't trust their lover to provide it. As I said, it's all about trust."

He chewed on that for a moment, brows drawing together and I wondered who he was thinking of.

"Look, it's getting late and we're both tired, John," I teased. "Let's get some sleep and we can discuss it more tomorrow if you've still got questions."

"I probably will, Marsha," he muttered but his expression had lightened and I took that as a good sign. I climbed off the bed and moved to the other one, sliding under the covers and curling up, feeling a little tingly and pleased with myself if only because at least the man in the other bed was starting to understand.

Usually it would take a while for me to fall asleep, especially in a strange bed, but I dropped off easily and slept pretty well. When I finally woke up it was nearly seven and a rainy morning. After I used the bathroom and washed up I padded back into the room and fished the room service menu out of the nightstand between our beds. Magnum was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach and snoring a little, which amused me.

Men.

I ordered as quietly as I could, doubling everything and by the time I hung up, he was awake, rolling over to blink at me. Talk about bedhead; those curls of his were everywhere. "What time is it?"

"A little after seven. If you want the shower first it's yours. Room service is on the way."

That seemed to make him happy and after Magnum got up I slipped over and made the bed; didn't want the maids tattling to Sylvia. I turned on the local news and a while later was up to get the door when I heard him come out of the bathroom.

"Breakfast, John," I sang out.

"Good, I could use it," he replied, and the young man rolling the cart in grinned.

I turned; Magnum was wearing a towel low on his hips with another slung around his neck and ohgoodlord I had no idea how stunning that looked. I sort of goggled for a moment before catching myself and handed over the tip to the boy, who took it and nodded before stepping out again.

"Warn a girl before you do that!" I complained to cover up how red my face was. "Geez!"

"You're my wife; you're supposed to be used to it," he grinned.

"Looks to me like the wrong one of us posed for a magazine," I sniffed, turning my attention reluctantly to the cart and uncovering scrambled eggs.

He laughed at that. "Speaking of which, where is it?"

I looked up. "What?"

"Your . . . magazine. You collected it back from Sylvia, right?"

And that's when I felt panic set in.