He takes his time, wrapping the rope around one wrist, careful not to cut off blood flow as he works some intricate knots across my wrist. The rope is surprisingly soft against my skin. He guides my arm up toward the corner of the bed.
“I’m getting you a proper headboard.” He kneels on the ground to secure the ropes to the small legs of my basic metal bedframe.
“I didn’t need one until now,” I admit.
And that makes him fucking glow. He tied me up the night we met—when he kidnapped me. And now, he’s the first man to tie me up. The first man I trust to take full control. I only hope he won’t hurt me.
He can’t hide his smile now as he binds my other wrist to the bedframe. Tristan’s large hands tug on the ropes, testing their give and the intricate knots while admiring his handiwork.
“You look fucking gorgeous tied up,” he confesses likeit’s a secret sin. “I’ve been picturing you in my ropes again. I’ve fantasized about you like this so many times.”
Well, glad to know I’m not the only one who's had fantasies between us.
Tristan returns to his duffel and pulls out a smaller bag. “I bought you a present.”
My wrists tug at the ropes. “I hope you’re not going to ask me to open it.”
Tristan chuckles, but the lightness in the room is sucked out once he reveals a knife. The thick black handle is rimmed with grooves, the blade hidden by a matching black leather sheath.
“Tris,” I don’t hide the worry in my voice. What’s he got planned for me? He’s not going to hurt me, right? Maybe he decided this is too much, that I’m too much, that I’m better off dead rather than have to deal with?—
“Stop,” he says. He takes a step closer, and I try to scramble up the bed, but the ropes make moving difficult.
“What’s that for?” My voice trembles, and my gaze fixates on the knife as he pulls it from the leather.
“It’s for you. After what your ex put you through today, I know how I’m going to kill him for you. With this.” He lifts the blade from its sheath, and he discards the leather holder on the floor.
“You… you’re going to kill Brent? With a knife?”
Tristan smirks. “By the end of the night, Daph, it will be a very special knife.”
My mind’s swirling, and I’m not sure what he means, but he steps closer. He rests his knee on the side of the bed, the knife poised in his hand.
My eyes slam shut. He’s not, is he?
Snapping fabric fills the air, and the straps of my brafall away, the cotton slumping down low enough to reveal my nipples.
Tristan sets the knife on my wobbly bedside table and unclasps the bra from behind me, tossing it on the floor.
Relief surges through me. He’s not going to hurt me.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, taking me by surprise.
“What?” I ask, trying to gather my thoughts.
“You flinched,” he said. “You look scared of me.”
I nod. “I still am. A little.”
Tristan frowns at my words, and the people pleaser in me feels guilty for being honest.
Tristan leans lower, kissing me until my head presses into the pillow from the sheer force of his lips.
“Daphne Fox,” he says with reverence, “I promise you don’t need to fear me. I will never hurt you.”
My heart swells in my chest. Hope. I might not fully believe him, but I’m hopeful that he’s being honest with me. Hopeful that he means it. Hopeful that maybe someone in my life doesn’t want to hurt me. Doesn’t want to use me. Wants to be around me for who I am, and not what I can give them.
Before my mind spirals, Tristan grips my panties and tugs them down and off my legs, baring me to him fully.
