“I’m close,” I warn.
“Me too,” he answers. “Say my name when you come. Now.”
“Oh—” I gasp, my head snapping to the side. “Oh, it’s—I’m—”
The moment pulls taut and then breaks.
We come together.
His hands on my hips. My hands over my head.
It’s endless. Wave after wave of orgasm rushes through me as I cry out his name, calling for him as everything inside me comes undone.
Carrson answers. A low, guttural sound, my name on his lipsas he lets go.
We thrash, thrusting into each other, chasing the last of it, before slowing and finally going quiet. We stay that way for a long minute, suspended in the aftermath, as the tension drains away.
Finally, Carrson pulls out and steps off the altar. There’s a click as he releases the handcuffs and my arms drop uselessly to my sides. I can’t hide my whimper as pain rushes in, burning, prickling, stabbing. A thousand tiny needles plunging into my skin.
Carrson murmurs sympathetically and runs his hands up and down my arms, urging the blood flow to come back. Once the worst passes, he strikes a match and lights the torch. After so much darkness, the light burns. I lift a hand to shield my eyes, blinking against the sting as my vision clears.
The key to the room has fallen from my pants. Carrson picks it up and pockets it.
I don’t bother to protest. I’ve already seen everything hidden here.
After that, he helps me stand, and we dress. With his arm around my waist, he leads me up the winding stone staircase. My head falls against his shoulder as we walk. I’m heavy, pliant, my eyelids slipping closed as we leave the cold and the dark behind.
He takes me to my bedroom, tucks me in like a child.
“Carrson?”
“Yeah?”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to ruin this, whatever this is, but the thought won’t go away. “I’m—I’m sorry for sticking my nose into your things. I can’t help it sometimes.”
He sits on the side of my bed and brushes the hair from my face. “Let’s just say I’m not surprised.”
I crack an eye open. “You expected me to do it?”
“I’ve been watching you.” His mouth quirks at that, like it’s his own private joke. “I know you better than you think.”
“You’re not mad?”
I shouldn’t care about his opinion. I hate that I care, but somehow I do.
A kiss to my forehead. So light it almost tricks me into thinking he’s gentle. Safe. I relax into him, into the warmth lingering in me, the way my muscles go loose and heavy against the mattress.
Then his hand slides down from my temple, across my cheek, and down to my neck.
His fingers circle my throat. Right where the knife was.
His thumb brushes against my skin, over the frantic beat of my pulse, claiming it without a word.
My eyes snap open. Each muscle draws taut, but it isn’t with fear. Not entirely. It’s darker. It attracts instead of repels, draws me in even as every logical part of me tries to pull back.
I should speak. Tell him no. Scream at him to leave, that this is too far, but the words lodge somewhere deep, caught behind the steady pressure of his hand and the way he watches me, as if he already knows they’re not coming.
His fingers tighten enough to remind me how easily they could hurt me, then ease.
