He stepped forward, the distance between them shrinking. “You have someplace to be?” he asked. “Something more important than doing what you bargained for?”
The words should have stung. Instead, they sent a low thrum through her belly. Still, she hesitated. “The others—”
“Are down in the dark,” he said. “They won’t be back for hours.” He stopped a pace away, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze.
“I couldn’t work,” he said simply. “Couldn’t get your scent out of my head. Had to leave before I took my temper out on some poor sod’s skull.” His eyes flicked to her mouth, lingering. “Figured I’d take it out on you instead.”
She froze.
He stepped closer again, and she found herself backing up until her hips bumped the table.
His hand came up, fingers wrapping around her wrist. His hand was enormous. Calloused, rough, but warm. The heat of his touch seared through her skin. Her heart skipped from fast to racing.
She tugged once, out of instinct more than intent to escape. He held on easily. “Gage,” she said.
“I want you,” he said bluntly. “All to myself. No Harry making jokes, no Bennett sighing like a ballad, no Silas snoring before I’m done. Just you and me. My cock and all of your holes to bury it in.” He glanced down and noticed the strip of rope coiled beside the bed—it was always there, used to secure gear when storms rattled the roof.
Her pulse jumped as she followed his gaze. “How rough?”
“Tie you up. Take what I want. Make you beg.” His eyes searched hers. “But you need to say yes. Really yes. Not 'I'm afraid to say no' yes.”
She swallowed. “And if I say no?”
“Then I go chop wood until I'm too tired to think about it.” He stepped closer. “We don’t tell any of them about this. Ever. Understand?”
Something in his intensity called to something in her. “What do you want to do?”
Ignoring her question he added, “We need a safe word,” glancing at her neck, “Falcon. If you say falcon, I’ll stop immediately, no questions asked.”
Snow White thought for a moment. “Okay, I understand. What are you going to do to me?”
“I want you,” he said, as if that explained everything. His mouth curved further. “Come on,” he said. “Drop that broom.”
She did as she was told. He tugged her toward the bed, the rope already in his other hand, rough fibers catching on his calluses. She should have said no. She knew that, somewhere under the rush in her veins. But the lump of curiosity in her chest was almost as tight as the knot he was about to tie.
“You’re not scared?” he asked suddenly, eyes flicking to her face.
She swallowed. “A little.”
He snorted. “You should be,” he said. “I’m in a mood.” He sat her down on the edge of the bed, then turned and dragged the chair closer, the legs scraping on the floor. He pushed her back into it with firm hands.
Her breath came faster. He lifted her wrists one by one and wrapped the rope around them, binding them to the arms of the chair. The fibers dug into her skin. “That’s tight,” she said, fingers flexing.
“Good,” he replied. “I don’t want you running when it gets good.” He crouched to tie her ankles to the chair legs as well, his head level with her knees. Her skirt slid up with the movement, baring her calves, then her thighs. The air was cool against the dampness she hadn’t realized had already gathered between her legs.
When he stood, she was open. Trapped. Heart thudding, limbs pulled just far enough apart that she couldn’t close them. A small, involuntary shiver ran through her.
“Cold?” he asked, though the glint in his eye said he knew it wasn’t just that.
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
He stepped between her spread knees and cupped the back of her neck, thumb stroking just under her ear. “You have no idea,” he mumbled, “what you do to me.” Then he let go, undid his belt, and pushed his trousers down.
She couldn’t look away. She’d seen him before, of course—a dozen times, more. But somehow this felt different. There was something about being the only one in the room, about his body focused solely on her, that made the sight hit harder. He stood there a second, letting her see the extent of his want. The thick shaft standing out from his body, the flushed head, the heavy weight of him. Her mouth went dry.
His gaze dropped to her lips, then back up again. “Open,” he said. Her pulse hammered. She parted her lips.
“That’s my pretty girl,” he grunted. He stepped closer until he was close enough that she could smell him: sweat and iron and something darker, uniquely his. He braced one hand on the back of the chair, the other threading into her hair. Gently, almost unexpectedly so, he guided her mouth to him.
