One Night in a Storm: Savage Kinksters Book 1 Page 4

  “I thought that was a trait of men in general.” Kas rolls her eyes.

  “Well, like any group of people, there are good and bad.”

  Kas stares down at the rope, running her fingers over it again. I wonder what she’s thinking. I wonder if she really thinks all guys are asshole or if it was just a flippant remark. If she does think that, who hurt her?

  My fingers clench as I think about this speculative man who hurt her so badly, she thought all men were jerks. Instinctively, I think about finding him and teaching him a little about punishment.

  Pain may not be my thing, but I’m very protective of people I care about.

  “So, you like that…Japanese rope stuff? What was the word?”

  “Shibari. To simplify it a lot, Shibari and rope bondage in general is a kink for people who like the feeling of being constricted. Most of the people I play with feel a sense of security when they’re tied up.”

  “That doesn’t seem like it would make a person feel secure,” Kas says. “It seems more terrifying.”

  “For some people, it would be,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t tie those people up. For others, it can be a wonderful experience. I have a friend with a lot of…problems. He suffers from pretty severe PTSD. I started working with him a couple of years ago, and he says being tied up helps him relax and let go of the anxiety he’s feeling.”

  “Wait…so you’re gay? I didn’t know you were gay.”

  “I’m not gay. Neither is he. Rope is very intimate, but that doesn’t automatically mean it’s sexual. In this case, it’s more like an alternative form of therapy. Sometimes it’s the only way he can make it through the week.”

  “But you said it was a kink thing. Isn’t kink inherently sexual?”

  This is good. She’s processing the information and drawing conclusions, which means she isn’t focused on the water below. My strategy appears to be working. Maybe if I can prolong her curiosity, she’ll relax more and see me in a positive light.

  I really want her to like me, and it’s not a feeling I usually have. I certainly find myself attracted to various women, but I’m used to being approached by people who already know my skills with rope and are clear about what they want. Kas is a whole other story.

  “That’s a common misunderstanding. Yes, a lot of kink is sexual. Yes, that’s why a lot of people are attracted to it in the first place, but not all aspects of kink are about sex. Like any relationship, there are a lot of parts. Sex is one of them. Rope is always intimate between the rigger and the bottom.”

  “Bottom?”

  “The person being tied up is called the rope bottom. A woman is sometimes called a rope bunny. I suppose some guys would also consider themselves rope bunnies—I’m not one to judge.”

  “And the rigger is the person tying up the bunny?”

  “Right.”

  “And you’re always the rigger, not the bunny?”

  “I’ve been a rope bottom many times,” I tell her, “but it’s not my preference. It’s important to know what it feels like to the person I’m tying so I understand the feeling, but being tied up isn’t really my thing. I like to be the one with the rope in my hands.”

  “You want to be in control.”

  “I do.” I realize as I say it that it paints the wrong picture. “What’s difficult for some people to understand is that the person on the bottom really has all the power.”

  “How is that?”

  Our conversation and concentration are interrupted by another loud crack of thunder and a crash. I’m not sure if it’s from another window or a bookcase, but it was definitely something big. I stand and go to the railing with Kas right behind me. Though there isn’t much light, there is enough to see that the whole bottom floor is completely flooded with at least six feet of water, possibly more, and several bookshelves are toppled over. Two of the massive windows are broken for sure, but I can’t see the others very well due to the lack of light and the bookshelves blocking the view. The ceiling is open to the second level and must be at least twenty feet high. It will take a lot more water to reach the upper level.

  I see sparks fly out below us, leaving no doubt that the water flooding the first level of the library is dangerously electrified. We won’t be escaping this any time soon.

  “We’re still fine up here,” I say.

  “Yeah, maybe. That’s a lot of water, though, and the sparks…”

  “We won’t be able to go down there until someone comes and helps us.”

  “No one is coming until the storm stops,” Kas says. “I remember seeing news broadcasts about major floods, and it always takes time to reach everyone who’s trapped.”

  “We’ll be fine here.” I look around, wondering where we should set up camp for the night. “Let’s find ourselves the safest, most comfortable spot, okay? We might be here a while, and I’d rather be comfortable.”

  “There should be some towels in the bathroom,” Kas says. “We could put them on the floor to sit on.”

  “There’s a bathroom up here?”

  “Through the door, down the hall,” Kas says, pointing. “It’s tiny but functional.”

  I follow her to the small, half bath. Though I haven’t felt the urge yet, having plumbing will be a major bonus if we’re stuck here for a while. Kas opens up a thin cabinet door and pulls out a stack of hand towels.

  “They aren’t big, but we can lay them end to end.”

  “It’s a plan.”

  Chapter 4—Kas

  Towels don’t make the very best seats, but they’re better than sitting on the bare floor. We pick out a spot near the back wall under one of the white emergency lights. It’s not bright, but at least it’s enough to see each other and a bit of our surroundings. To the right I can see the stained-glass window with the Eden scene. At the very bottom is a slender rectangle of clear glass that looks like it might have been added later in the chapel’s history, but it’s too dark outside to see anything through it.

  I don’t want to look anyway.

  Cree and I sit with our backs to the wall, legs stretched straight out. We’re close, but not close enough to touch. Cree places his backpack full of rope on the other side of him, out of my sight. I stare toward the railing, trying to ignore the sound of water sloshing around below, and try to process what Cree has been telling me.

  My crush is a sexual deviant. He ties people up for fun and even carries his rope around with him just in case someone stops him on the street and asks to be tied up.

  I’m not sure I really get it.

  Coming from a family that doesn’t talk about sex of any kind, I really don’t know what to think. My initial reaction was abhorrence at the very idea, but when Cree began to explain, it really didn’t seem all that awful—weird, but not awful.

  He keeps telling me it’s not all about sex, but every time he opens his mouth to give me another tidbit of information, thoughts of him wrapping rope around my body flood my brain, and my thighs clench.

  It certainly isn’t the first time I’ve thought about being with Credence, but my previous fantasies have always been centered on the usual, boring, missionary type. Something this extreme has never crossed my mind before. Now it’s crossing my mind in the same way a song gets stuck in someone’s head—relentlessly.

  “So, what’s life been like for you since leaving high school?” he asks, and I quickly end my line of thinking.

  “Um…different, certainly.” I run my fingers through my hair nervously. “I took a year off between high school and freshman year to figure out just what I wanted to do. I guess I needed it, but now I feel like I’m going to be in school for the rest of my life.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “I’m a biology major,” I say. “Pre-med.”

  “Really? That’s awesome! What sort of medicine?”

  “I’d really like to be a brain surgeon.” I snicker. “Sounds crazy, right? At least a neurologist of some kind, but that’s going to take forever. I g
uess I’m still figuring out my options.”

  “I don’t think that sounds crazy at all,” Cree says. “I can’t even say that I’m surprised. You were always the smartest one in class.”

  “Ha!” I shake my head. “Like you really remember.”

  “I do remember.” He narrows his eyes. “You busted the curve in Modern Euro. Screwed up my A.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “I’m just teasing,” he says. “I remember a few classmates being ticked off at the time, but it’s hardly the sort of thing anyone thinks about now.”

  “I got more than one hate message after that.”

  “Who sent you hate messages?”

  “A few people.” I sigh and look away. This is not the sort of thing I like to remember about high school. In fact, there isn’t much of anything about high school I care to reminisce about. “Like you said, it doesn’t bother me now, but at the time, it was pretty stressful. I worked hard on that material.”

  “I’m sure you did. Anyone who gave you shit for it is an asshole.”

  “Well, there were a few assholes in that class.”

  “No doubt!” Cree nods and laughs. “So, what did you do for your off year?”

  “Well, I worked.” I look down and start twisting my fingers together. I’m not sure how much detail I really want to get into about that year, but he seems genuinely interested, and it’s not like I can make up some elaborate story. “I had a few things I needed to work out for myself before I was ready to go be a proper adult.”

  I glance over to see Cree staring at me intently. I can guess the question he wants to ask: “How much time did you spend at a fat farm?” Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything like that.

  I didn’t go to a fat farm, but I did find a nutritionist and joined a gym. I worked with a new therapist who helped me a lot more than the previous ones, and I disconnected from my poisonous friends. My parents were supportive in my efforts though I’m pretty sure they were just glad I wasn’t embarrassing them anymore.

  My fight has always been my own. By myself. Against myself.

  “I understand,” Cree says softly.

  I look into his eyes, trying to fight down the panic creeping into my gut. Just being this close to him is difficult. Having vague knowledge that my current physical state gets a lot more attention than my previous one doesn’t make me comfortable around guys. Regardless, his eyes are soft and kind, as if he really does understand.

  He doesn’t though. No one does.

  A splash from below diverts my attention. I can’t see much of the lower level from back here against the wall, but it sounds like another set of bookshelves toppling into the water.

  “All those books,” I whisper. “It’s heartbreaking.”

  “I hope at least some of them can be salvaged.”

  I doubt he really cares about the books, certainly not like I do, but it’s a nice thing for him to say anyway.

  “Any idea how long this storm is supposed to last?” I ask.

  “None,” Cree replies. “Like a proper member of our generation, I don’t check the weather. I just look at an app when it seems necessary, and of course, that isn’t working now.”

  “My dad always had one of those weather radios,” I say. “We had a place in the basement that served as a storm shelter. The radio was there along with gallons of water and flashlights.”

  “Your dad is a prepper?” Cree raises an eyebrow.

  “Nothing that extreme. He grew up in Kansas and knows a bit about tornadoes.”

  “Gotcha.”

  The crashing and splashing sounds from below have my heart racing again. I’d been distracted by Cree’s explanation of all things kinky, but now I’m hyper focused on the water again. I’d like to find a way to take an anxiety pill without being obvious about it. I could excuse myself and head to the restroom, but I really don’t want to be alone. With Cree so close, I don’t think I can reach into my purse and down a pill without sparking questions, and the whole predicament is making me more nervous.

  “I kinda wish I had done that, too,” Cree says suddenly.

  “Done what?”

  “Taken a year off.” He leans back against the wall and draws one knee up to his chest. “I might not have had to take so many credit hours if I’d worked and saved up money. But I got a scholarship, and I was afraid I’d lose it if I didn’t take it right away.”

  “Oh, well, that’s good though, right?” I bite my lip.

  I’m fully aware that my family is privileged, as the media puts it. Paying for tuition and housing were never an issue for me, even without my plethora of academic scholarships and grants. I always had nice things, a good car, and extra money for whatever I wanted to do. In fact, my parents practically threw it at me. I can only assume it’s to alleviate their own guilt.

  “It’s good, yes. I still have to work part time, but my class load isn’t as bad this semester, and the end is in sight. I’d like to get a master’s degree at some point, but I’ll need to hit the work force and build up some reserves before then. I’ve tried to keep my student loans to a minimum, and I’d like my undergrad degree paid for before going back to grad school.”

  “What are you studying?” I ask, as if I hadn’t already noticed him in the psychology section.

  “Psychology,” he replies. “I’m really into why people do the things they do. Behavior studies, phobia studies—that kind of thing. I’d like to have my own practice someday to help people overcome their irrational fears.”

  “Irrational, huh?” I swallow hard and try to focus on anything but the water below me.

  “Yes, irrational,” Cree says definitively. “Rational fears help us. A fear of falling keeps us from walking to close to the edge of a cliff. We fear large carnivores because they could eat us. Those fears are protective. A fear of going outside because there is a slim chance you could be run over by a bus isn’t a rational fear.”

  “What about being afraid of water?”

  “Depends on the situation. I’m guessing you are afraid of water?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “And you said you don’t know how to swim.” Cree tilts his head and looks at me closely. “Your fear of the water is somewhat rational since deep water presents a danger to you. If you can’t swim, being afraid of deep water makes sense. If you are afraid of shallow water to the point of not being able to take a bath, that’s something else.”

  “I prefer showers.”

  “Because you’re afraid?

  “Shallow water makes me think about deep water. I don’t like any of it.” I look away, feeling judged and not wanting to continue this conversation at all.

  “Mostly, I’m just curious about how you became afraid of water,” Cree says.

  “Why?”

  “That’s what interests me,” Cree says with a shrug. “Not trying to pry or anything, I just like knowing what makes people tick. What people find enjoyable and what frightens them is why I got into psychology. So yeah, I’d like to know why you are afraid of water. Ultimately, I’d like to find a way to help you overcome that fear.”

  “That seems unlikely.”

  “You never know until you try.”

  “I live in a landlocked state,” I say. “I don’t go near lakes or rivers. I have enough to deal with already and don’t really need one more thing to work on. Water is easy to avoid.”

  “Until it isn’t.” Cree tilts his chin toward the railing and the water below.

  I glance over at his backpack and wonder about his friend with PTSD. How would being tied up help with that? It seems like the sort of thing that would make someone more afraid, not less.

  Then again, when I grabbed onto Cree’s rope so he could pull me out of the water, I did feel relieved. I don’t think that has anything to do with the rope, though. That was just about getting out of the water. I also wasn’t restricted at all; I only held the rope while he pulled me up. If I were tied up and unable to move, I’m not sur
e how I would feel.

  Again, the mental imagery makes my thighs tense up, and a shiver goes up my spine. I look toward the backpack again as I remember the rough texture of the rope in my hands.

  “Do you have a question?” Cree asks.

  “A question about what?”

  “You keep looking at my backpack,” he says. “I do admit it’s hard to tell for sure when there isn’t much light, but that’s what it looks like to me. I thought maybe you had a question about rope.”

  “Um…I don’t know.”

  “You can ask me anything you like,” he says. “Really. It’s fine.”

  “Well, where do you find people who want to be tied up?”

  “Can’t tell you that,” he says, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “If I did, I’d have to kill ya.”

  I shake my head, and he laughs.

  “There are places you can go to meet people who are into it,” he says. “Lots of online groups, of course. That’s the easiest way. At this point, people in the area know who I am and usually come to me.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess good riggers aren’t as common as people who want to be tied.”

  “So, people just…what? Walk up to you on the street and ask you to tie them up?”

  “No, not that. But there is a place in the area where people meet up pretty regularly. I usually get approached through a negotiator.”

  “Negotiator?”

  “Maybe I should back up a little.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “There are venues where people go to practice their kinks. It could be rope or whips or whatever. Usually people are looking for specific equipment that isn’t easily installed in a house or an apartment, especially if you have kids or something.”

  “These people have kids?”

  Cree snickers softly.

  “Yes, they do. They have kids and jobs and mortgages. Kinky people aren’t really any different from you high society types.”

  I narrow my eyes, but he doesn’t look away. Clearly he is aware of the economic divide between us, but I don’t feel comfortable having it brought up.