I didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want this night to end.
But as Cam took my hand and led me back through the carpeted hallway toward the elevator, I realized something.
I was happy. Actually, genuinely happy.
And for once, I didn’t try to talk myself out of it.
EMILY
The rope moved over my skin like water.
I knelt on the floor of our hotel bedroom, wearing nothing but black lace panties and a blindfold, my breathing slow and deep. My mind had gone quiet somewhere between the third and fourth pass of rope across my shoulders, and now there was just this: his hands, the rope, the steady rhythm of him working.
The jute was softer than I’d expected, warm from his hands as he wrapped it around my arms and bound them behind my back. I felt the pressure increase as he secured the knot, then the whisper of rope sliding over my skin as he brought it forward over my collarbone, under my breasts, around my ribs.
Each pass was deliberate and careful, his fingers brushing against me as he worked, sending little sparks of heat through my body.
I was so fucking turned on I could barely think straight.
My pulse thrummed in my ears and between my legs, and everywhere the rope touched, my skin felt hypersensitive, alive in a way that made me want to arch into his touch.
But I stayed still, letting him work and trusting him completely.
The rope tightened across my chest and I sucked in a breath as the pressure sent a bolt of pleasure straight to my core. Cam’s hands stilled for a moment.
“You good?” His voice rippled over me like hot molasses.
“Yeah.” The word came out breathy. “Really good.”
“What’s the safe word?”
“Green for go, red for stop, amber for slow down.”
He made a sound that might have been satisfaction and continued with more rope. When he finally stopped, I was floating.
I heard him move behind me, then his hands were on the blindfold, gently lifting it away.
Soft light flooded my vision and I blinked, adjusting, and then I saw it in the mirror.
He’d positioned me directly in front of the full-length mirror and now I could see everything: the intricate rope work covering my torso and crisscrossing over my stomach and chest in geometric patterns, my arms bound behind me, my breasts framed by rope.
Each loop and knot was placed with deliberation, transforming me into something beautiful and bound and his.
And the scars were right there, visible through the gaps in the rope work, pale lines against my skin that told the story I’d tried so hard to hide for so long.
My throat tightened. “I thought you were going to cover them.”
Cam’s hands settled on my shoulders. They were heavy and warm, a solid anchor against the flighty panic in my chest.
“There’s no need to cover them.”
His fingers traced down my arms and followed the rough texture of the rope until his palms flattened against my stomach. He didn’t avoid the damaged skin. He sought it out. His thumbsbrushed over the raised lines, light and deliberate, effectively rewriting the map of my body.
I stopped breathing. I couldn’t look away from the sight of his large, capable hands claiming the parts of me I hated most. He touched me like I was precious art rather than damaged goods.
He pressed a kiss to my neck, just below my ear. Then my shoulder. Then that sensitive spot behind my ear that always made me shiver.
“Open your legs for me.”
