Twisted Strands by Lilia Moon

Author:Lilia Moon [Moon, Lilia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lilia Moon

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Liane

I’m not a leaf on the water. I don’t want to be. I’m a dandelion and an orchid, and while one of those has far tougher roots than the other, they both have roots. I can feel hot, tearful resistance rising in me like the salt-water oceans of my childhood.

He takes my hands, the ones tied to my thighs that are flapping awkwardly in the wind, ripped out of soils they know. “You asked why I do this, sweetheart. I do this because it’s beautiful. Because you’re beautiful. Because the energy living inside you is spectacular, and it’s such an honor to have all of you here inside my ropes.”

All of me.

I can feel the tears brimming. I feel utterly seen—and I feel ridiculous. This is either the hottest or the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but it shouldn’t be sad. I blink, trying to take myself back to the place where this was just some really amazing foreplay. He reaches for my face, touching his thumb to the corner of my eye. Touching tears that haven’t quite yet fallen. “I’m not scared of tears. They’re welcome here. Please let them stay.”

I swallow. He doesn’t even want to know why I’m crying. He just accepts, and my orchid is busy growing another blossom for him to touch even though I think she’s totally nuts. “I’m not sure I want the same things you want.”

His hands move to the ropes on my legs. “Do you want me to untie you?”

I feel the answer in my bones before I know it in my head. “No.” I swallow again, because I have more answer to give him and it’s really hard to say. “Your gentleness is harder to handle than your lightning.”

He blinks, and the pleasure that dawns in his eyes takes away what little breath I’ve managed to find. “I want to touch all of you. The soft parts too.”

I close my eyes. I can’t look at him and say this out loud. “It’s not a leaf. My soft parts. They’re an orchid.”

His hands go absolutely still on my body, like all of him stopped just so he could listen to my words. And then, very slowly, his finger moves. Just one.

Tracing a single line.

Drawing loops over my heart.

My breath hitches.

Not loops.

Petals.

Petals, and then a long, spindly stem that bends and winds down the valley between my breasts and ends in a tangly mass over my solar plexus that says he’s seen orchid roots before.

A man, asking, without a single word, to touch those petals today.

I hear the condom wrapper, but his fingers never leave the orchid he’s drawn, not even when he slides into me, rocking a wave of emotion with his entry that could capsize a small cedar-strip canoe in a heartbeat.

But it doesn’t.

Because he tied us to safety before he paddled us into the storm.

Because he can be lightning—and he can be this.

And because he drew the lines of the tattoo I’ve never been brave enough to get.

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