Later, he is on top of me, with my hands immobilized over my head and my legs trapped under him. He demands submission, moving too slowly, too shallowly, working my body in the most delicious way. I squeeze him in answer, hard, demanding, and am rewarded with a darkening of his skin. The beast is close to the surface tonight, and I answer his call. He watches me through not quite dark, not quite red eyes and when I squeeze him again, he drops his head in my neck, panting, not quite giving up yet. I got better at this special game too. I had a lot of practice.

We're having a wordless conversation, but this time, not the civilized kind through our eyes, but a bestial one through pants and growls and moans.

His don't say „you better submit woman or I'll punish you all night long"

and mine don't say „just bring it on"

and his growl doesn't warn „don't bait the beast little girl"

and my answering moan doesn't proclaim that I left the realms of little girls long ago.

I am no little girl. I am an animal too.

When I train with him, he asks me over and over who I am, a tough, deep question. The longer I learn, the more complex it gets.

Here in bed, his question is different, simpler. What are you?

He's sliding slowly in and out, torturing me with his dick so deep inside me that anything other than his tight, controlled movements would hurt. I try to rise my hips to his, seeking the friction to get off, but it's like being trapped under a rock. I can't move an inch.

What are you?

His nibbling on my neck teases me to give up, and quite frankly, I'm about ready to do so. I try to squeeze my internal muscles to encourage him to go faster, but he just pinches my nipples in retaliation.

What are you?

It's torture, but of the sweetest kind. When he attacks my neck, I can't help but howl.

I'm his, his to play with, to torture, to dominate. His in any sense of the word. He is my world.

He hears the answer he was looking for in my feral noises. The beast is pleased with me.

The next morning, I wince when I I get up and try to walk, and the daisy eating grin on Barrons face all male pride and testosteron. He lies relaxed in the middle of the giant bed, arms crossed leisurely behind his head and looks at me like he had his cake and ate it too. In fact, he did. Several times.

His eyes correct me mockingly, telling me that he's the lion, I the gazelle.

I throw a wet towel at him while I hobble to the shower, but his lightning quick reflexes he catches it in time. Of course. His grin says „nice try" and I grumble.

Hot water pounding down on me loosens my tight muscles while I stand under the spray. I sigh... what I would give for a hot bath to soak in right now. Then the air behind me satures, and the shower is cramped full with masculine presence. He's crowding me in. Without turning around, I close my eyes and lean back, luxuriate at the feel of his strong hands massaging my back.

„You know, it's a pitty you don't have a bathtub down here."

„And why is that, Ms. Lane?"

His voice is light, teasing. Ms. Lane my petunia.

I snort.

„Because... Barrons... it would be pretty convenient not climbing four or five stories up each time I want to take a bath."

„Encourage me."

I perk up. It was meant as just a throwaway comment, not a real suggestion. After all, I can hardly picture him letting plumbers or for that matter, anyone down here in his lair. Once I asked him who built all the rooms underground, but as usual, I got no answer. Barrons's place is well, his. All masculine dark colors and hard materials and practicality, although I discover more and more of my stuff from the upstairs bedroom showing up here. A pink towel one day, stacks of my favorite snacks the next. My collection of nailpolishes turned up neatly lined in his bathroom without a comment. It's hard to guess where our boundaries are sometimes. Barrons is not the talking, much less the explaining kind. If he had it his way, we'd rarely talk at all. I took his hints though and started to move some of my clothes downstairs too. Not all of them. Having your own room still has its perks, especially with a connected bathroom not only decorated to my taste, with a tub too.

But Barrons dangling this treat before my eyes must mean he's in a very good mood.

I send him a mental, graphic reminder of last night, reminding him of the possibilities. Something rattles in his throat.

„Ah my dear Ms. Lane... you learn. Consider myself thouroughly encouraged."

And low and behold, after two weeks a giant tub suddenly graces his bathroom, sleek, modern and utterly ridiculous with tons of gleaming high tec appliances. Of course, Barrons doesn't do things half-assed. It has to be the biggest, baddest tub possible. I briefly wonder who installed it. A thought of Barrons on his knees doing tile work cracks me up, but he'd never tell me how he managed to get it done.

He's leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed casually over his chest, acting all non-challant while watching me fondling all the knobs and levers excitedly. There's even a row of bathsalts lined up on shelf above. I study them, all herbal and spicy. No strawberry for me, but I'm hardly complaining. It means he plans on joining me.

„Happy Ms. Lane?"

I turn around and beam at him. His face is partly in shadow, watching me intently.

„Thank you... Jericho. Thank you so much for this."

I step up and kiss him lightly. His cool facade doesn't slip, but his arms sneak around my waist and the glittering in his eyes turns a shade warmer. In them, I see a truth he doesn't admit to very often. I am his world, too.