Page 102 of Not Safe For Work

“Wherever is comfortable.”

He stepped up to the side and, as ordered, leaned over it.

“Good,” I said. “Now stretch your arms out in front of you.”

He obeyed, and I leaned across the mattress from the other side and snapped the cuffs around his wrists. I guided his thumb to the safety catch. “You remember how to work these?”

He pressed the catch, and the cuff released.

“Good.” I closed it again. Then I picked up the spreader bar. The chains attached to the leather cuffs clinked, and Rick pulled in a deep breath.

Without speaking, I came around the bed to where he was standing. “Once this is on, do not try to stand up or take a step. Understood?”

He nodded, his chin hissing against the comforter. “Understood.”

I knelt and positioned the spreader bar between his feet and fastened it to each of his ankles, all the while keeping a close eye on him in case of even the faintest hint of panic. He stayed still and calm, though. His breathing was steady. Even. I gave him another thirty seconds or so to get used to the bar, to panic if he was going to, and he remained perfectly composed.

I rose, biting back a grunt. Stupid knee. “How do you feel?”

He glanced at the cuffs. Shifted his hips a little. Tested the spreader bar with one foot, then the other. “Like I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”

“What a coincidence.” I slapped his ass. “You’re not.”

He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut. He might’ve cursed, but I couldn’t be sure. Not that it mattered—he’d be doing plenty of that in a moment.

I absently flipped the Wartenberg wheel’s handle between my fingers. Where to start, where to start? Last time we’d played with the wheel, he’d been on his back. This time, a whole new canvas was exposed—his back, his shoulders, his ass. So many sensitive places. So many places he wouldn’t be expecting it.

Finally, I touched it to the middle of his thigh, just below his ass cheek.

And just as I’d hoped, he almost jumped out of his skin.

“Fuck!” Cuffs clinked. The bed creaked. He took a few sharp breaths. “Shit…”

I chuckled softly. As he started to settle again, I rolled the wheel downward. He grunted, his hamstrings visibly tensing and his toes pressing into the carpet.

I lifted it off his skin and didn’t move or make a sound until he’d started relaxing again. Then I rolled it across the back of his knee.

He cursed again. Grinning, I ran the wheel up his other thigh. Then, as slowly as humanly possible, I rolled the wheel along the crack of his ass. Then across the small of his back. Then all…the way…up…his spine.

The wheel crested the base of his neck, and he swore into the comforter.

“Doing all right?” I asked.

He grumbled something, but quickly added, “I’m good.”

Lightly trailing the wheel along his armpit, I asked, “Not being a smartass, are you?”

“No!” He flinched away from the wheel but couldn’t really go anywhere, especially since I followed. “Thought…you weren’t a sadist.”

“I’m not.” I ran my fingertip along the path I’d just traced. “I don’t get off on causing you pain. I get off on fucking with your senses. Sometimes that means pain. Sometimes”—I ran my fingertip along the path I’d just traced, making him gasp—“it doesn’t.”

I ran it lightly down the back of his thigh. “This doesn’t hurt, though, does it?”

“No. Not…not really.”

“Then I’m not causing you pain, therefore…not a sadist.”

“Semantics.”