“Yes. Mine.” He might have growled the word because it went straight to my core, and I struggled not to squirm. “To the bed.”
Did I want this? So bad. But was I nervous? As hell.
It was when I got to the bed and sat that he moved from where he stood, his eyes having been on my ass the entire walk. He prowled to me, grabbed my chin and lifted.
“Safe word?” he asked.
Did I need one? I wanted to dip my ten toes into this without cowering, but seeing that he asked meant he needed me to have one in case it was too much for me.
“Locket,” I said, as if I would use it. His eyes dropped to the object that was still on my neck. “Oh.” I made to take it off but he held my hand.
“I want to fuck you with it on.” Then he pushed me, my back connecting with the cold sheets, and came over me, knees on either side of my thighs. “Wrists,” he ordered as he reached for the rope at the edge of the bed.
I brought my hands together and he gripped them in one fist, the other hand working to twist the rope around them.
The beat of my heart was so loud in my ear, it was disturbing. I tried not to lift my hips or rub my thighs together to ease the ache in my pussy at the sight of him atop me—broad, tall and breathtaking.
“Take off your shirt.” It was out of my mouth before I knew what I said. But I wouldn’t take it back. Instead, I added, “I want to see you too.”
He worked with the knot of the rope that was beginning to look like it’d take forever to undo, and when he was done, he met my eyes and replied, “Take it off yourself.”
I’d never tried to sit up so fast. It was hard, considering my hands were tied and he was atop me, though not sitting. His weight was resting on his knees.
He helped me up, putting me on my knees, his legs still on either side of mine. I swallowed whatever was in my mouth, my breathing unsteady as I moved my hands under his blue sweatshirt to touch his skin.
Damn.
That was the only word in my head.
Curiously, I pulled the sweats up to see what he had been hiding beneath cottons.
And to hell with cottons.
My pussy throbbed involuntarily as I internally drooled at his body. His body of art. Masterpiece. And I was yet to see it all. But the colours.
Hurriedly—with my annoying tied hands—I pushed it up, pleading with him to help me take it off. He did, and I eased back on the heels of my feet to take a look at him. The glory of muscles that rippled with the slightest movement. I needed him on me.
My gaze traced the patterns of his tattoos—dark, beautiful, and mysterious, much like the man himself. A crow stretched across his shoulder, wings poised as if ready to take flight. Beside it, a half moon curved, its crescent shape surrounded by stars, giving it a celestial aura.
But it was the tattoo of the tree on one side of his chest that held my attention—a twisted, leafless thing with brittle branches reaching out like claws. Yet, in the midst of the dry, lifeless branches, there was one small green leaf, the only sign of life in the withering tree. What did it mean?
My eyes drifted down his arm, where a swirling pattern of tattoos ran from his shoulder to his wrist. Dark, curling shapes, like the coils of smoke or stormy winds, twisted and intertwined, covering every inch of his skin. They seemed alive, shifting with the movement of his muscles. On his forearm, there was another design—a serpent coiled tightly, about to strike, its eyes burning with the same intensity that was in his right now.
Everything about his tattoos screamed of a past carved in darkness, but there was beauty in it too. And then there was the cut on his shoulder that he seemed to have cleaned.
I moved my hands, fingertips grazing his skin, reaching towards the scar under the beautiful tattoos. His hands clenched beside him, as if trying to fight the itch to take my hands off.
“What happened?” I trailed the closed scar with my fingers lightly.
“Now isn’t the time for backstory.” He took hold of my shoulders and pushed me on the bed, adjusting me so I was lying straight. Then he took the end of the rope and drew it close to the headboard, putting it through a small hole and fastening it.
Shifting my gaze back to the arms over my head, close to the headboard, my stomach clenched.
“Open your legs.” He didn’t even wait for me to comply. His hands wrapped around my shins and propped up my legs, my feet on the bed.
He visibly breathed in when he pushed my legs apart, his chest heaving—slow, ragged breaths that couldn’t hide the raw hunger in his eyes. His pupils dilated, swallowing the hazel in his gaze until they were almost black, dark and endless, like the abyss itself.
The rise and fall of his chest quickened, his fingers flexing as if fighting to control a storm, his lips parted ever so slightly like words couldn’t form what he was seeing.
