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Rich shades of orange and yellow flames flicker and crackle, their chaotic dance sending waves of soothing heat over my naked body. It?s a small comfort, but only just. I?m bound and blindfolded next to the fire, cold metallic cuffs locked loosely about my wrists, my slim arms stretched above my head to dangle helplessly, but not uncomfortably so. I can hear my heart in my ears, pattering hard against my ribs, much like it did during that hail of bullets punching through stone a foot above my head during an assignment in Fallujah. Fear. Powerlessness. And a strange fascination in not knowing what would happen to me. The feelings are cinched tightly together, humming like butterfly wings in the pit of my stomach, strangely similar to that day at the neighborhood pool as a kid, toes curling tightly over the edge of the springboard for the first time. And yet, oddly enough, the imagery winning out in my brain is something else entirely; an inexplicable desire to burrow deeper into the sheepskin rug beneath me, the flames reaching out with gentle warm hands until I?m consumed in hot primal energy, until I?m only a lick of flame, floating along a fever dream to something?more. Something different. But honestly, that?s probably just the copious amounts of wine talking. If Miranda were around, she?d probably agree, but add a longwinded caveat about how my id is suffering an existential crisis that my ego hasn?t realized yet. Smart girl. Makes absolutely no sense half the time. I smell her before I hear her and my mouth forms into a dopey kind of a smile. I can feel it stretch along my lips, tugging at the corners, barring the white teeth below. It?s the smile you get when you teeter on the edge of hug everyone tipsiness and fall over giggling drunkenness. Or, in my case, throwing your glass on the floor and proudly declaring you want another in a slurred and terribly over the top impersonation of Chris Hemsworth?s Thor. My breath hitches as she crosses between the fireplace and me before continuing on. She?s a shadowy blur beyond the blindfold, light on her feet, like a ballerina. She?d have to be, considering the work she used to do for National Geographic. There?s a loud squeak of a window being yanked open, followed by a rush of cold mountain wind that sweeps into the room. It isn?t powerful enough to snuff out the fire, but it?s plenty powerful to cast a chilly kaçak iddaa blanket of air over my flushed skin, leaving hardened nipples and raised hair in its wake. I pull instinctively at the cuffs around my wrists and try to pull my knees to my chest, to curl closer to the heat. I can?t of course. My back arches and I moan in protest, half of me shivering, the other half still warm, for now. I try to speak, form words on my tongue, but a delicate finger presses against my lips, stopping me. A soft voice whispers in my ear, the Spanish cadence relaxing me, reminding me, even if I can?t understand the language. Arabic was more my thing. Hence Fallujah. But my journalistic mind still works, at least. So does my memory. Rules, I deduce. Don?t forget the rules. I want to scream out, say, ?fuck the rules!? Fuck them indeed. Following rules aren?t what made me the youngest overseas correspondent. They didn?t lead to solar energy tycoon Max Gleason?s breakdown confession to yours truly about using government subsidies to payoff his eighteen-year-old floozy. Bending them did. Sometimes breaking them. You have to be cutthroat and proactive to get ahead. Or so said my socioeconomic journalism professor as he fucked me over his desk while changing an ugly little B- to an A. But I can?t. Or won?t. Who?s to say? I agreed to the rules after all, wrote them down in fact, while she illustrated them with dirty photographs and raunchy humor. I can?t really explain the why of it, which frustrates me to no end. It was during a Monday morning pitch meeting. Two highly recruited journalists, one investigative, and the other photographic. Two young, ambitious women salivating for the week?s lead story, both assigned to it to spare everyone else the headaches that would have followed if only one of us had gotten it. Maybe what started it all was sexual frustration. Or that tingling sensation when my finger brushed hers while reaching for the same pen. Or boredom. Or curiosity. Or a simple coping mechanism. Leverage to blackmail the other in the form of a glittering ring on her slender finger and the romantically themed photograph hanging in my cubicle. Or maybe it was to experience something so depravedly wrong, that it felt perfectly right. Maybe it?s none of those. Or maybe it?s all of them? hence the frustration. I don?t know. I don?t like not knowing. A silken cascade kaçak bahis of hair tickles my toes, hot breath warming the small digits cooled off by that gust of winter wind. Warm lips press against each perfectly manicured toe, tongue flicking out in a delicate tease. My face starts to burn in embarrassed shame. I used to think feet and sex just didn?t mix. I?d grimace in disgust when some girlfriends would talk about it during Wine Wednesdays. Then I discovered just how erogenous that area could be in the most embarrassing of ways. I?ve never had the courage to bring it up with Grayson. I doubt he?d ever go for it anyway. But this woman? she seems to know exactly where to go. She moves up my body, hot mouth alternating kisses with long sweeps of a cat-like tongue. The heat flares inside me again and I feel wonderfully dizzy, drunk on wine, drunk on fire, drunk on sheepskin rugs, and drunk on the sensations she?s awakening inside me. Her lustrous hair tickles the expanse of my legs as she crawls upward with a titillating slowness that both frustrates and excites me. When her breasts finally flatten against mine, it?s like an electrical current sparking involuntary reactions. Salty tears of desperate need pool at the corners of my eyes and sticky cum starts drooling out of me like a busted wipe. I feel like one of those weak ass princesses in those Disney movies, beholden to man. Well, woman in this case. She makes me feel desperate. Weak. Dependent. And the cuffs certainly aren?t making it any easier. When she licks the tears away, I feel another flush of embarrassment burn my cheeks. Anger and lust burn hot. If I could, I?d break the cuffs, pin her down, and ride her face to a trembling orgasm. I settle for biting her lip when she leans in for a kiss and flash her a toothy grin when she reels back. An uncomfortably long pause hangs in the air as she perches astride my waist, hands cupping the small swell of my chest, fingers lazily tweaking my nipples. My throat tightens and I can?t help but think I just brought an end to it all. All I can hear is the fire and my heart beat. She doesn?t make a sound. And the damn blindfold hides all the finer details. I can make nothing of her out, just outlines and shadows. So when a loud, husky giggle pierces the silence, I let loose a strangled yelp, my heart feeling like it wants to jump out of my mouth and run through illegal bahis the snow until it escapes into the night. There?s a sharp click and the cuffs release their hold on my wrists. My arms, stiff and tight, start to fall limply to my sides. She catches them in surprisingly strong hands and plants a soft kiss on each sweaty palm, tongue lingering to taste the salty sweat. Then she?s pulling my arms around her and leaning close again. Her breath is spicy and she smells like wood smoke, clean sweat, and lemongrass. Once more, I try to break the rules, to get some kind of word in. But she captures my lips with hers and I go nuclear. The kiss is frantic and messy. The metallic taste of blood from her split lip fills my mouth and stokes my arousal to even greater heights. Strength returns to my arms and I crush her to me, my fingers threading in her soft tresses. Through the fog, an idea comes to me. The inner writer, the investigate reporter, always looking for an angle, always looking to get what she wants. Panting, breathless, the kisses slowing to soft, almost innocent pecks, I start to write. I trace the letters slowly across her back. I repeat each word a half dozen times until she catches on, realizes the stroking isn?t a simple massage. F. The kisses slow even more. U. Her slick forehead presses against mine. C. Her knee slips between my legs. K. Her pussy smears hot juices along my thigh. M. Her fingers tighten in my hair. E. Fuck me. Fuck me! I trace the letters over and over until her mouth curves against my chin, until her heart races in tune with mine. She shimmies down my body with cat-like graze until her breath is warm on my cunt, her hands pushing apart my now unbound legs. I lick my lips, uncertainty now flickering to life in my belly. I think back a mere two weeks, when we stole awkward kisses in the tenth floor lavatory, the button of my pants skittering across the tile floor, her needy fingers pressing against the damp fabric of my panties. That was a different kind of fear. Professional fear. The, ?pack your shit up? you two are fired,? kind of fear. This is different. I can feel the cold band of metal on her left ring finger as her hands clench tightly over my thighs, the only place on her body that isn?t superheated. There?s guilt there, a fleeting image of kind, sweet Grayson with his dimpled chin and easy smile. That image puffs away like smoke when her tongue starts to trace lazy circles around my vulva before any second thoughts can solidify. The pad of her thumb strokes the small, downy triangle of golden hair just above my clit.