I pull back slowly, deliberately dragging my tongue along his length one more time just to watch him shudder. "Did I prove my point?"
"Fuck yes." He moves fast, sitting up and pulling me into his arms with care for my shoulder. "And now it's my turn to remind you exactly who's in charge here."
20
ARCHER
Iguide her back down onto the pillows, positioning her exactly where I want her with practiced efficiency. Her injured shoulder needs support, and I arrange pillows with the same attention to detail I'd use checking weapons before a mission. Because she matters more than any mission ever has.
I retrieve the silk rope from the nightstand. She watches without hesitation as I bind her good wrist to the headboard, knots firm, secure, never painful. The arm with the injured shoulder remains free, placed exactly where it won’t strain.
When I settle beside her, my hand traces down her sternum, slow and possessive.
She took control because I let her.
She’s mine now because she chose this.
And I’m going to remind her exactly how safe that choice was.
"I'm going to worship every inch of you," I say, mouth following the path my fingers traced. "Going to reclaim every part of you. Going to make you remember exactly who you belong to."
"You," she breathes. "I belong to you."
"Say it again."
"I belong to you, Sir."
"That's my girl."
I take my time, mapping her body with hands and mouth and teeth. My palms are rough against her skin, callused from years of weapons training, and I feel her shiver beneath my touch. I start at her collarbone, tongue tracing the line of bone before teeth scrape just hard enough to make her gasp. Every touch is intentional. Every kiss claims. Every bite leaves marks that declare possession—my mouth working down her sternum, across her ribs, teeth closing on the curve of her hip hard enough that she'll see the bruise tomorrow and remember who put it there.
I'm mindful of her injured shoulder, keeping her body positioned so there's no strain, but the rest of her is fair territory for my worship. When my mouth closes over her nipple, sucking hard while my hand works the other, she arches into the sensation despite the restraint holding her wrist. I can feel heat building in her body, building with every pull of my mouth, every roll of my fingers.
"Beautiful," I murmur against her skin. "So fucking responsive for me."
When I kiss lower, moving down her stomach with agonizing slowness, her thighs fall open without conscious thought. I settle between her legs, and the first stroke of my tongue makes her cry out. The sound goes straight to my cock, but I ignore my own need. This is about her. About reclaiming what doubt tried to poison.
I explore her like I'm learning every nerve ending, tongue circling her clit with maddening precision before sliding lower to taste her fully. She's wet and ready, and the taste of her on my tongue is addictive.
"Archer," she gasps, pulling against the silk binding. "Please."
I look up at her from between her thighs, and the sight of her—flushed, desperate, completely at my mercy—makes satisfaction surge through me. "You taste like mine," I say, and then my mouth is on her again, tongue working in slow deliberate strokes.
Pleasure builds in her with agonizing slowness, and I read her body like a language only I know—backing off when her breathing changes, adding pressure when she starts to beg. I bring her to the edge and hold her there, watching her come undone beneath my mouth.
"Please," she sobs. "Archer, please, I need?—"
I pull back just enough that she feels the loss of my mouth like physical pain. "You come when I give you permission. Not before. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, Sir," she manages, and the submission in those words makes heat coil in my gut.
"Good girl." I return to my worship, and this time I'm relentless. Two fingers slide inside her while my tongue circles her clit, and the dual sensation makes her back bow off the mattress. I set a rhythm that's maddening—slow, deep thrusts of my fingers while my mouth works magic.
I bring her to the edge repeatedly, holding her there until she's shaking and begging incoherently, words dissolving into sounds that might be my name or pleas or both. Only when she's completely undone, when surrender is absolute and walls are shattered, do I finally pull back and position myself above her.
I read her body—pupils blown, thighs trembling, breath coming in desperate gasps. She's green. I don't need to ask.
"I know what you need." I settle between her thighs, mindful of her shoulder, and the first press of my cock against her entrance makes us both groan. "I've got you. I've got you, love."
