He removes his arm and sits up, kneeling again, eyes scrutinising me from farther away. His weight shifts on the bed and I can imagine him resting back on his heels, admiring the view. An illusion that matches to the soft, satisfied sigh that slips free. “You’re so beautiful. Every piece of you.”
He gently caresses my lower back, withdrawing his fingers, leaning to the side as he reaches into his bag of tricks again.
“Open your mouth,” he says, straddling me. His nose rubs against the back of my neck, then his lips gently suck at the same spot, leaving me delirious.
I obey his instruction and he pushes a metal plug into my mouth, shiny silver catching the pink from the fading sunset. The size, bumping against my upper palate, feels as girthy as his cock but there’s no give. If it’s shoved inside, no amount of squeezing or changing angle will reduce its size.
My tongue pushes it out and Zane’s amusement rumbles across my skin. “Are you sure you don’t want to warm it longer?”
He dips until his eyes catch mine, vibrant with affection, with good humour, withneed, and I feel that tug inside me again. The pleasure at pleasing him, at giving him what he wants. An amplifier to my own enjoyment.
I try to suck it back in again, struggling until he helps me, his smile setting me alight. Using his left hand, he gently explores my face with the back of his fingers, eyes never leaving mine until minutes have passed, the metal is warmed through, and he pulls until my lips release it with a pop, my eyes watering with an overload of joy and trepidation.
His gorgeous face shimmers as his lips trace the same journey, ending with a kiss beside my eye, the pressure releasing a tear as he whispers, “That’s my beautiful girl.”
My body melts into the mattress, nothing but a liquid mess. A dozen times more responsive as his probing fingers return,relaxing even as the warmed metal, slippery with lube, presses against my hole.
“You look so good,” he murmurs. “Next time, I’m going to film this with my phone and show you while my cock’s buried deep inside.”
The words send another jolt of pleasure through me, my hips gently pumping again, needing attention as the stretch becomes a burn, and instead of receding the discomfort grows larger, louder, drowning out its opposite.
Even as I pant into the pillow.
Even as I try to relax, try to bring that gorgeous sensation of melting back to my bones. But they’re stiff, crunching like broken glass.
And the string of trust snaps under the weight of panic.
“Rose,” I call out. Then again, “Rose!”
Fear threads through my voice and for one terrible moment, I think it’s not working, that I have the wrong word and he can’t see my frantic blinks, can’t feel the taps from my numb, restrained hands.
Then he withdraws, the time elapsed counted in milliseconds but tell that to the pulse pounding in my veins. Tears spill as my ankles and wrists tug at their bonds, sobs hitching in my chest. “Let me go. I want you to untie me.”
And the words aren’t needed because he’s already doing that, pausing between the right and left to jerk my kilt down to cover me, to stop that dreadful feeling of being too exposed.
Zane cradles me to his chest as I sob, the emotional overload too big to share, to express. A thousand images trigger, flipping through my head at greater and greater speed and the heel of my palm pushes against him until he releases his hold, jumping to free my ankles.
I curl into a shuddering ball and then his hands are back, tentative on my shoulder, his body laying nearby but notcrowding me, letting me find my own shivering way back into his embrace.
My throat seizes as I try to apologise, upset at ruining the moment, at forcing him away. His palm rubs across my back.
“Do you need me to leave? You can lock the door.”
But I shake my head, vision blurry as he climbs off the bed to drag on his jeans.
Even though the threat is over, my panic isn’t receding. Instead, spiralling out of control. My breath hitches and he perches on the edge of the bed, helping me upright, taking my hand and pressing it against his chest.
“Try to breathe with me,” he says in the gentlest voice I’ve heard him use. “You’re not asthmatic, are you? You don’t have an inhaler?”
I shake my head to both questions and his posture grows more confident.
“You’re hyperventilating. Can you feel my chest rising and falling?”
My eyes screw shut, cutting off the bright lights, the loss also helping to lower the volume in my ears. I nod, speech still out of reach.
His left hand cups my head, thumb stroking along my cheekbone. The soft touch is in time with his breathing, another guide rope back from the panicked edge. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, inhaling and holding the breath, exhaling slowly.
For long minutes, the panic hovers, pacing, waiting for another opportunity to pounce and claim me for a victim. But as my breathing settles, as air gets where it needs to be, it retreats.
