Then he’s in front of me again, pushing one of my legs up and over his shoulder like I weigh nothing, opening me further, taking his time. His fingers graze the inside of my thigh, making me tremble.
But what replaces the brush isn’t his fingers. It’s colder. Harder.
A chilled metal measuring spoon, taken from the drawer only moments before.
I hiss through my teeth as he drags it along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Goosebumps rise instantly.
“You and your tools,” I manage to whisper, voice barely holding together.
He looks up, eyes gleaming. “You’re the one who built the playground,” he growls. “I’m just getting creative.”
The spoon slides higher. Higher. Then, finally, he runs the cool steel right over my soaked center. I jolt, gasping, hips jerking against the pressure.
He does it again, slower this time, watching me unravel. Then he dips it lower, using the curved edge to part me gently, exposing me fully before he leans in and replaces the cold metal with the hot, slick glide of his tongue.
I nearly scream.
The contrast is unbearable, in the best way. The chill lingering in my skin, the heat of his mouth, the firm press of his tongue as he laps at me with slow, devastating precision.
It’s not just sex. It’s worship.
Then come the ice cubes.
He takes one from a bowl, meant for chilling wine, and drags it from my navel to the crease of my thigh. Melting drops trace down over my pelvis and drip onto my clit, making me jerk, cry out.
“Knox,” I beg. I don’t even know what I’m asking for anymore. Justmore.
“Shh,” he murmurs, placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss right below my belly button. “I’m not finished.”
His hands know when to coax and when to claim. His fingers slide inside me while his mouth returns to my clit, sucking gently, tongue flicking in rhythm with his strokes.
It builds fast. Again.
“Please.”
He doesn’t stop. He keeps pushing. Drawing sounds from me that I’ve never made before. Pleasure coils, tighter and tighter, until I’m breaking open all over again, trembling and moaning his name like a prayer, like a curse, like I belong to him.
And maybe I do.
But he’s not done. Not even close.
Before the aftershocks have even faded, he pulls me off the counter, spins me around, and bends me over the prep table. My hands are still bound, and the helplessness only fuels the fire.
He props one of my legs up on a stool, spreading me open again, lining himself up.
“Ready?” he rasps.
I nod. “Please.”
He thrusts into me in one smooth, devastating motion, filling me so deeply I cry out. The stretch, the heat, the sound of skin on skin, it’s overwhelming.
He moves with purpose. Power. Each thrust deep, slamming into me with precision that borders on ruthless.
But it’s not just rough. It’s right. Like he knows the shape of my body, the tempo of my breath, the way I need to be taken apart and put back together.
“Shit, you feel… fuck, so good,” he grits out, voice ragged as he drives into me harder, faster.
I brace against the table, moaning, arching, pushing back to meet him. The angle is perfect, hitting every nerve, making me burn from the inside out.
