“Wow, Roth. That’s…crazy.”

He didn’t respond. “Yes, I suppose it is, at that.” He sighed. “You know, what I just told you is more than I’ve ever told anyone.”

“I suspected as much. Thanks for telling me.”

“Good night, Kyrie.” I felt him back away, and then he was gone, the door clicking closed behind him.

And, for the second night, it took me a very long time to fall asleep.



I was a ridiculously sound sleeper. I always had been. My dad used to say that I could sleep through the end of the world. I’d sleep through thunderstorms that shook the whole house, through my alarm clock blaring in my ear. It would take a rough hand shaking me for several minutes before I’d finally wake up, and even then I’d be groggy, disoriented. I drooled when I slept. It was embarrassing. It was part of the reason I’d never lived with a guy, to be totally honest. By drool, I don’t mean a cute little bit at the corner of my mouth. I mean my pillow would be damp when I woke up. It was gross, but I couldn’t help it. And what guy would want to sleep next to a girl who drools a pool of spit all over him and the pillow?

I never woke up in the middle of the night, not ever, not for anything. Once I fell asleep, I was down until my body was ready to wake up.

Yet, two days after the visit to the opera, I jerked awake in the middle of the night. I hadn’t seen Roth since the opera, which had made for several very long and very boring days. I woke up, peering at the clock beside me: 2:39 a.m. Why was I awake? My heart was hammering, thudding in my ears. I peered around the room, but all I could see were shadows and vague shapes, faint reflections of deeper shadows from the mirrors in the bathroom.

My room was almost pitch-black, the only light coming from the clock beside my bed.


I wasn’t alone. Suddenly and completely, I knew this. “Hello? Roth?”

“Yes. It’s me. Close your eyes.” His voice came from the doorway leading to the living room.

“What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Close your eyes, Kyrie.”

I did as he instructed. “They’re closed. Not that it makes a difference, this room is so dark.”

“Keep them closed.” I heard his voice moving nearer, heard his feet on the carpeting.

I felt the bed dip under his weight. My heart began hammering even harder, pounding in my throat. His hand touched my leg, near the knee, moved upward, to my thigh, to my hip. Up my waist. I was covered only by the sheet, wearing a T-shirt and underwear. His hand slid over my breast, cupped it, and then kept moving. He found my face. His thumb brushed my chin, my cheekbone. And then I felt silk pressed to my eyes, and I lifted my head so he could tie the blindfold.

“I apologize for my absence these last few days, Kyrie. Business called me away. But I’m back now, and I’m going to make up for my departure.” He pulled the sheet down, tossed it aside. “Put your hands beneath the pillow, under your head.”

I slid my hands under the pillow as instructed, and kept my questions to myself. I had a feeling I knew what he was going to do, and I wasn’t about to argue.

His finger traced my cheekbone once more, brushed a tendril of hair away, then slid down the curve of my throat.

“Is this shirt important to you?”

I shook my head, then realized he might not be able to see the gesture. “No. The last one you ripped was, though.”

“My apologies, in that case.” He grasped the neck of my T-shirt in both hands, and I felt his knuckles against my breastbone, felt his hands tense, and then the cotton ripped open from top to bottom. I felt his presence leave the bed, heard a switch click. “That’s better. Now I can see your lovely body. You have such perfect br**sts, Kyrie.”

Cool air washed over my exposed torso, making my skin pebble and my ni**les harden. My hands clenched into fists under the pillow. I braced myself for his touch, but when it came, it wasn’t where I expected it. His finger touched the seam of my mouth, slid from corner to corner. I parted my lips, felt his finger slide into my mouth, and I tasted salty skin. I bit down gently, and I heard a hiss as he sucked in a breath. His finger left my mouth, carved a line down my chin, down my throat, between my br**sts, over my diaphragm and stomach. When he reached my underwear, his finger hooked under the elastic and continued its southward journey, bringing my panties with it. I lifted up, and his finger ran around to my hip, bringing the fabric down, and then across my pudendum to the other hip, and then the garment was gone, tossed away.

I was naked for him now, except for a ripped scrap of T-shirt around my arms. My ni**les were diamond-hard, my breath coming in long, deep pulls, lifting my boobs and letting them fall. My thighs were pressed together, and I felt his gaze on me, knew he was staring at me, memorizing my body. I let my legs fall apart, let him see me.

“Kyrie…you are so f**king beautiful.” His voice was low, reverent. “And you are mine.”

I flinched in surprise when I felt his palm graze my left nipple, and then relaxed into his touch as he cupped me. His hand moved to my other breast, and then slid down the curve of my waist, to the bell of my hip. Over my thigh, up the inside, and then his finger was tracing the dampening line of my cleft, sending a hissing breath out of my lips.

“No need to be quiet this time, Kyrie. You can make all the noise you want. Scream for me, if you want. Say my name. Right now, say my name.”


As the word left my mouth, his finger slid into my pu**y, and I said his name, drawing it out into a groan. He coated his finger in the slick juices of my folds, and then dragged it over my clit. He didn’t need to do that, though, because I was already wet, already throbbing for his touch. I knew how hard he could make me come, and from the moment I felt him rip my shirt open, I wanted it, needed it.

Giving into him was becoming easier.

“Spread your legs, Kyrie. Wide open.”

I obeyed, drawing my knees up and letting them fall apart. See? I didn’t even question him — I just did what he told me like a good girl.

“So perfect, Kyrie. Your pu**y is like a flower, pink and pretty and begging for me to open its petals.”

Who the hell talks like that? I wondered, but the thought was faint, because his words had a powerful effect on me. He thought my pu**y looked like a flower? Jesus, that was kind of hot. Weird, and unexpected, but hot.

His fingers traced over my opening, slid down one labia and up the other, dipped in to caress my clit, and back out. And then his weight shifted, and I felt his broad shoulders brushing the inside of my knees, and I felt his stubble on my inner thigh. Oh, god. Oh, god. He was about to go down on me. I wanted to tense, wanted to hook my knees over his shoulders and beg him to lick me senseless, wanted to beg him to take off the blindfold so I could see him, so I could watch his head between my legs. I did none of that. I held absolutely still, kept silent, and waited.