"Good."
I trail my tongue down her sternum, circle her navel. She twists against the restraints, hips lifting.
"Please."
"Please, what?"
"Kade. Please."
I move lower. Part her legs and settle between them. The scent of her—aroused, wanting—hits me hard, driving out every residue of the perimeter alarm, the photos, the encroaching dark.
When I taste her, she screams. Sharp and shocked. Without her sight, the sensation is amplified—no anchor but me. She bucks against my grip, straining the ties at her wrists.
"Easy." I hold her hips down. "I've got you."
I take my time. Tongue, fingers, pushing her to the edge and pulling her back. Her breathing changes in stages—the hitch, the stall, the broken gasp. Her vocabulary reduces to my name and fractured pleas. The brilliant coder, the analyst who mapped their entire system in two weeks, stripped down to pure sensation.
"I can't... I need..."
"Tell me."
"You. Inside. Now."
I move up her body. Brush my lips against hers.
"Feel me," I tell her.
I guide myself to her entrance. She pushes back against me, no patience left.
I drive in—deep, filling her completely.
Her head throws back, throat arched, a cry tearing loose.
I stop. Hold still. Let the connection settle.
"I've got you." Against her mouth. "You're safe."
"Don't stop." Her voice is wrecked. "Don't you dare stop."
I don't. I set a rhythm—slow, grinding, relentless. Every thrust a claim. Every retreat a promise to return. I watch her face: the mask of ecstasy, the furrowed brow, the bitten lip. The most honest thing I've ever seen.
"Let go, Wren. Give it to me."
She shatters.
Her body bows off the mattress, clenching around me, my name torn from her throat in a sound of pure release. It breaks me. I drive hard, chasing my own finish, and when it hits, it's blinding. I bury my face in her neck and pour everything into her. The fear. The rage. The thing I'm not naming yet.
We collapse.
Ragged breathing. Wind against the cabin walls.
I don't untieher immediately. I press my lips to her wrists, right over the pulse points. Her forehead. The curve of fabric still covering her eyes.
Only then do I reach back and undo the knot at the headboard. Her arms fall limp. I work the blindfold loose.
She blinks, her eyes adjusting to the shadows. Dazed. Wrecked. Beautiful.
"Hi."
