One Night in a Storm: Savage Kinksters Book 1 Page 3

  The desk starts to move as the first bookshelf falls, toppling into the next and the next like they’re all trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for largest falling dominoes.

  I scream as the desk starts to float and move with the water. I grab the edge of the desk with one hand, still clutching my purse with the other. I scream again as water splashes my ankles. The desk starts to tilt, and before I can be thrown into the water, I grab for a fallen bookshelf and pull myself on top of it.

  The desk flows out of sight.

  “You gotta get back to the staircase!” Cree calls out. “I know it’s dark, but it’s not that far. I can help direct you from here!”

  I look up at the sound of Cree’s voice and realize I’ve ended up almost directly below the edge of the balcony. The sudden rush of water seems to have stopped for the moment. From my vantage point at the top of the fallen stack of shelves, all I can do is stare at the water all around and try to keep myself from hyperventilating.

  “Come on, Kas! Get moving!”

  “But…the water! It’s all around me!” I grasp the edge of a bookcase as my knuckles go white.

  “It’s not that deep! You can do it!”

  “I can’t!”

  “You can!”

  “I can’t, Cree!” Tears well up in my eyes. “I can’t swim!”

  “Shit.” Cree disappears from above, returning shortly. “Give me a second!”

  Another wave of water rushes from the back door, splashing my legs. The tears begin to run down my face, and I curse myself for being too afraid of the water to continue with swim lessons when I was a kid and being too embarrassed and frightened to force myself to learn as an adult. I hold my purse to my chest, thinking of the pictures inside. I’m sure I’m going to meet the same fate.

  Something hits my shoulder, and I let out a cry.

  Dangling in front of my face is a rope. The end of it is looped with a pair of fancy, twisted knots.

  “Kas, grab on!”

  I stare at the dangling end for a moment before slipping the handle of my purse up my arm and grabbing the ropes right above the knot. The ropes are dry, but my hands still slip a little as I grasp them.

  “Put your wrists through the loops,” Cree says, “and then hold the top of the knot with both hands.

  “It won’t hold me!” I yell up at him.

  “Yes, it will,” he says calmly. “I promise it will.”

  I look up at him. I’m not sure how far the railing is from where I’m standing, but it seems so very high up. What if I can’t hold on?

  “You can hold on,” Cree says as if he’s reading my thoughts. “It’s not that far.”

  I slip one hand through the loop and then fiddle with my purse to make sure it’s secured before I put my other hand through the second loop. I grasp right above the knots with both hands.

  “Ready?” he calls out.

  “I think so.”

  “There’s going to be a lot of pressure on your shoulders,” he says. “It will be a little uncomfortable at first, but it won’t be more than you can handle. When I start pulling you up, you start counting slowly. It will help.”

  “Okay.” Counting I can do.

  “Take a deep breath.” He pulls on the rope until the slack is gone, pauses, and then pulls again.

  My shoulders burn, but it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. The rope bites into my wrists, which is uncomfortable but not painful. As my feet leave the top of the desk, I close my eyes and begin to count as Cree continues to pull.

  I brace myself, expecting to be jerked around with every yank of the rope, but it’s not like that. In fact, the journey upward is surprisingly smooth. Still, I keep my eyes closed. If I’m going to fall and drown, I don’t want to see it coming.

  “Hold on,” Cree says again, his voice still calm and reassuring. “You’re almost there.”

  A moment later, I feel his fingers around one of my wrists and finally open my eyes. I’m already at the second floor, and Cree quickly hauls me over the railing. I drop to the floor with an unceremonious thump.

  “See?” he says. “You’re fine.”

  Cree kneels in front of me and carefully removes the loops from my wrists.

  “Where did you find the rope?” I ask as he gathers it up and starts to twist it back and forth into a neatly folded bundle.

  “I had it with me.” He clears his throat as he tosses the bundled rope to the floor. “It was, uh, in my backpack.”

  I narrow my eyes at him and then take a better look at exactly what he had done to pull me up. My mouth drops open as I take in the scene in front of me.

  It isn’t just one rope; it’s several. They’re all tied together and attached with a carabiner to another rope, which is wrapped around the bannister near the top of the stairs.

  He created a pulley system to get me up. That’s why it was such a smooth ride. Multiple ropes, carabiners, hand-holds…it was as if he knew exactly what was going to happen.

  “How…how did you do all this? Why do you have all this stuff?”

  Cree’s eyes darken, and he glances away. He doesn’t say anything as he slowly crouches near the banister and collects the rest of the rope and carabiners.

  Clearly, I’ve hit on something he doesn’t want to discuss. My face heats up, and I’m about to apologize for even asking when my hypothalamus suddenly activates, and adrenaline pumps through my body as questions race through my mind.

  Who carries multiple pieces of rope and carabiners in their backpack when they head off to the library to study? If he has rope in his backpack, and he’s not a Boy Scout, what else does he have in there? Duct tape? Plastic garbage bags?

  Oh my God. What if my high school crush is actually a serial killer?

  Chapter 3—Cree

  Kas is clearly shaken, and I’m not exactly sure what to say next.

  My instinct is to carefully coil my ropes, reveling in the texture of the jute as I gather everything together with precision and an element of ceremony. However, I’m pretty sure Kas has just decided I’m a murderer or a rapist, and she’s been traumatized enough for one night. Watching me lovingly pore over rope isn’t going to reassure her, so I quickly grab the ropes from the floor, untie them from the bannister, and then shove them into my backpack.

  I shouldn’t feel embarrassed. I have nothing to be embarrassed about, but I suddenly wish the emergency lighting wasn’t working so I wouldn’t have to look her in the eye. I hadn’t considered her reaction to finding out I walk around campus with a half-dozen coils of rope, carabiners, and metal loops designed to attach to hard points sitting next to my abnormal psych book.

  I finally glance back at Kas, who now has her back pressed against the railing as if that offers her protection from me. She’s eyeing me with distrust, and she jumps every time the water sloshes around below. Her eyes are wide, she’s breathing fast, and I feel terrible.

  I know a thing or two about fear, and the last thing I want is for anyone to be fearful of me, especially considering our circumstances. I’m supposed to be the person people trust, not someone to dread. I’m also used to people knowing this about me, given my position, and I don’t know exactly what I should say to this young woman who is obviously afraid.

  I think about Rocco and his abundance of fears. It took a while for him to learn to trust me and allow me to help him. Sometimes his agoraphobia is so bad, he can’t even manage to leave his dorm room without a serious amount of coaxing and almost always a little rope to entice him.

  As familiar as I am on the subject of phobias, I’m mostly attuned to Rocco’s, and I’m not sure what to do about Kas and her obvious fear of the water.

  Aquaphobia.

  As soon as she told me she couldn’t swim, I understood her previous actions a little better. Though she had a point about the electric lines being down, it’s clear she shies away from water altogether. The windows weren’t high, and we could have climbed out of them and jumped into the water
outside, but she wasn’t going to chance it. Now that I know more, I start with the basics.

  “Relax, Kas,” I say quietly. “The rope was just the best way to get you away from the water. You’re up here now and safe. The storm can’t last forever, and we’re a good ten feet over the water now.”

  “But…but why do you even have all that?” She waves her hand toward my backpack.

  I stare at my feet as I try to think of the right words. I don’t want to scare her more than she already is. I need to say something calming and relaxing, but no suitable words form in my head. I don’t bring rope out until I’m at Gym or participating in private play somewhere, and I’m not used to having to explain myself.

  I also don’t want to lie to her.

  “It’s just a hobby,” I finally say.

  “Rope is a hobby?” She clearly doesn’t believe me.

  “Sure,” I say with a smile, “there are lots of hobbies involving rope. Sailing, macramé, weaving hammocks—the possibilities are limitless.”

  “What the hell is macramé?”

  “It’s an art form,” I say. “You make things out of knotted rope.”

  “And that’s what you use the rope for?”

  “Uh…no.”

  She narrows her eyes at me, and I wonder if she’s getting marks on her back from the railing. She has herself pushed so hard against it, it might just break.

  “Do you sail?”

  “I have but not regularly.”

  “So why do you have all that?”

  I take a deep breath. Maybe just being completely open is the right way to go. I know plenty of people who are very open about their lifestyle, but I’ve always been a little more private. Given the circumstances, maybe I just need to let go and spit it out.

  However, there’s a little more to it than just telling her.

  As I glance over at her, I can’t deny that I feel attracted to her. I also feel like a complete heel for never really noticing her in high school, and recognizing that I never paid attention to her, at least partially because of her looks, makes me feel even worse. I don’t like to consider myself that shallow.

  But it was also high school, and we’re both different now.

  I take a mental step back and try to forgive myself for being superficial in the past. Holding on to those thoughts won’t get me anywhere. Right now, I have to figure out a way to tell her about my rather personal hobby in a way that doesn’t frighten her and doesn’t make me sound like a freak.

  Is that even possible?

  I ask her to sit, and when she reluctantly does, I sit down on the floor close enough that she can see me but not so close as to make her nervous. I fold my legs under me and lean forward with my elbows on my knees before taking a deep breath.

  “My hobby is rope,” I say. “I like the feel of it in my hands, and I like the sense of control it gives me. I like to meet up with like-minded, consenting adults and tie them up. Having the rope with me at all times gives me a sense of security and power, and it’s also handy when I’m in a flooded library and need to pull someone up out of the water before a tornado brings in a frenzy of sharks.”

  I smile, hoping it looks friendly and reassuring.

  Kas’s eyes widen again, and she pushes her back against the railing again.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I say. “That railing has to be a hundred years old, and I’m not sure about it’s stability. That’s why I used the banister to pull you up.”

  Kas glances behind her before shifting her body a couple of inches away from the rail.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Kas. I swear. The rope is just a hobby I enjoy, and I only used it to help you.”

  “You like to tie people up?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Is it like…is it a sex thing? Like, BSDM?”

  “BDSM.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “It can be, but that’s not all of it.”

  “So, you tie people up and whip them?”

  “No!” I shake my head rapidly. “Not at all. I don’t do pain. I don’t give it, and I don’t like receiving it.”

  “Oh.”

  I’m reminded of Casey’s disparaging remarks about “vanilla people” and how they always jump to the wrong conclusions about the kink lifestyle. It makes me wonder if I shouldn’t just shut my mouth and let Kas focus on the water below her. The fear alone should keep her distracted enough, but that just sounds mean.

  I don’t want her to be afraid. People usually fear the unknown, and telling her all about rope could spark more curiosity than fear. If that could get her mind off being afraid, it would be a distraction I could live with.

  “I swear, Kas, you have nothing to worry about. I only use rope on people who want it and always in a safe way. I’ve never hurt anyone.”

  I’m not sure if she looks relieved or not, but she does appear slightly calmer. The storm outside rages on with rain pounding on the roof of the library and flood waters sloshing around books below, causing her to startle again. I decide rope talk is the way to go. By keeping her focus on the topic at hand—something she might find curious but not frightening if I can explain it well—she won’t be as scared of the water.

  It might help me as well because the logical part of my head knows this storm is far from over, and we are in legitimate danger. I’m starting to think we’re going to need a helicopter to get us out of the area, and I wonder how long it might be before someone even realizes we’re stuck here.

  We might very well be here all night or even well into the next day. I’m not sure what we’ll do if the water rises high enough to flood the second story of the old chapel or how we might get from where we are to the roof if it does.

  And Kas can’t swim. If the water rises too high, will I be able to support a person who is obviously afraid of the water without drowning myself? The very idea of not being able to hold her above water is more terrifying than the electrified water.

  Going into a deep discussion about kink with a vanilla chick from my high school might be the best thing to keep both our minds off our current predicament.

  I take another deep breath and try to remember some of the words said to me when I first started looking into alternative lifestyles and hobbies.

  “There are a lot of kinks,” I say. “Some people do like to give or receive pain, but that’s far from the majority of people who like a little spice in their sex lives. Some people just like to be blindfolded to get that added bit of adrenaline rushing through their systems. Others like to pretend they’re someone else—either someone with power or someone without. Some people like the idea of their partner doing anything and everything they ask them to do. Others like being told what to do, how, and when. Some people like to be chained to a pole and whipped. There are lots of different kinks, and no one likes all of them.”

  Kas stares at me with her mouth slightly open.

  I might have said too much.

  At least her breathing has slowed; she isn’t pressed up against the rails, and she doesn’t appear to be as freaked out as she had been a couple of minutes ago. That’s a plus, but now we’re just sitting here staring at each other, and I’m not sure what else to say.

  “Rope is a specific subset of kink that I happen to enjoy.” I shrug and look away from her, trying to reel in my own embarrassment. I have nothing to feel embarrassed about, but I don’t often have to explain such things to those who aren’t already somewhat aware of the larger world out there, and she clearly qualifies as a newbie.

  “Why?”

  I glance back at her face to find genuine curiosity, not abhorrence.

  “Lot’s of reasons.” I lean back against the pillar and lace my fingers around my knee. “One, I really do just like the feel of jute in my hands.”

  “What’s jute?”

  “Jute is the material used to make the rope I use,” I tell her. “Would you like to feel it?”

  “Feel it?”

  “Yeah.” Slowly, I reac
h into my backpack and grab the first rope my fingers touch. It’s not one I used to pull her up, so it’s still in a neat coil with a loop around the center to keep it together. I toss it to the floor right in front of her. “Touch it.”

  Tentatively, she reaches out and runs her fingers over the edge of the rope before picking it up.

  “It’s not soft,” she says.

  “No, it isn’t.” I sit up a bit and lean toward her. “Jute is a rough fiber made from plants. It’s similar to hemp, which can also be used. Some people use nylon rope or even rope made from coconuts.”

  “Coconut rope?”

  “It is a thing,” I say, shaking my head slowly, “but I don’t use it. It’s too rough on the skin. Jute has the perfect texture, not too rough and not too soft. Nylon rope is smooth, and it’s easy for the knots to slip. Jute is better for tight knots. It’s made the same way they make linen from flax, and it’s spun just like cotton can be. It’s a very popular textile for making clothing and other items in South Asia and Japan and the traditional material used for Shibari.”

  “Shibari?”

  “A specific form of Japanese rope bondage. It’s very intricate with certain knots having different meanings. I mostly like it because it’s pretty.”

  “Pretty?” Kas lets out a short laugh.

  “It is,” I say. “If my phone was working, I’d show you some pictures on the Web. I don’t keep pics on my phone of people in rope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because although there is nothing wrong with it, it’s private. If my phone were stolen, people’s privacy would be at stake. As a Dom and a rigger, I’m very protective of people I tie. That includes being protective of their images.”

  “So…you are a Dom? I thought Doms were all about beating people.”

  “Some like to punish their subs with pain, yes, but that’s not the definition of a Dominant. I like control and power, but that can be achieved in other ways. My primary function as a Dom is to make my sub feel safe and protected. Not all Doms agree, but that’s how I roll. Some people who call themselves Dominants don’t understand that there’s a difference between being a Dom and being an asshole.”