The warning is not for me.
“If we’re going to do this, do it right,” I say, keeping my voice steady even as my pulse jumps.
That gets his attention. His gaze locks on mine, searching, weighing. For a long moment, he does nothing.
His jaw tightens, the pause stretching longer than necessary, as if he’s weighing how much restraint he has left. Then he nods once. “Tell me what exactly you want.”
The power shifts, subtle but unmistakable.
I draw in a slow breath. “Touch me,” I say.
He does not move right away. When he finally does, his hand slides along my arm again, slow and deliberate, stopping at my hip. He stays there, waiting.
I swallow. “Further,” I add quietly.
Only then does his hand move carefully, following my direction instead of his impulse.
He hums at my admission, the sound vibrating against my skin. His fingers glide over my wetness, teasing and taunting as he works slow circles.
My breath quickens as the anticipation builds. He slips one finger inside me, then two, then three, stretching and filling me in a way that sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through my body.
I arch off the bed, gasping as he pushes deeper into me, curling his fingers just right to hit that spot that makes my head spin.
"Yes," I moan, unable to contain the ecstatic noise escaping my lips. The sensation is overwhelming. A wave of pleasure builds within me, and the tension tightens, spiraling toward release.
He pulls his fingers out of me just as I am about to lose it. The restraints, the mystery, the lack of sleep. It all comes to a head here, in this moment. I’ve never felt such ecstasy.
He puts his fingers in his mouth and licks my essence off of them, and my body convulses, jerking against the leather straps.
He frees my wrists, and the sudden rush of blood makes my arms burn. I barely register it before I reach for him, pulling him close, needing the solid weight of him there to anchor me.
He keeps my ankles tied to the bottom of the bed.
Freedom in my arms doesn’t mean I’m free, but it’s a start.
After that, I stop hesitating.
He shoves his pants down, then pulls mine off and tosses them. He climbs on top of me, and my clit pulses, and I clamp down on it just as fast, resisting the pleasure. This isn’t supposed to feel like this.
Skin against skin. Heat and friction, and the sharp awareness of how exposed I am.
He pauses, searching my face. I don’t look away. I let him see exactly what I want him to see.
I grab his shirt and tug him closer, refusing to let his stalling take over now. He needs to believe I want him, that I’m into this. That’s the only way this works.
He positions himself at my entrance, keeping his eyes locked on mine. The silent question hangs in the air. I simply nod and pull him closer.
Then, with one powerful thrust, he’s inside me.
When he moves, it steals the breath from my lungs. The stretch is almost too much, the pressure overwhelming after being held still for so long.
Pain sparks first, then fades into something deeper and heavier that pulls a sound out of me before I can stop it.
My hands clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into muscle. I cling to him, not gentle, not careful. Every movement rattles through me, setting off a confusing mix of need and anger and something dangerously close to relief.
The ache in my arms lingers, a reminder of where I am and how I got here, even as my body betrays me. The contradiction only sharpens everything.
I hate that I want this. I hate that it works.
