He didn't play with my hair, threading his fingers through the strands with that possessive gentleness that makes my chest ache.
He didn't ask for more lines in our epic never-ending poem, listening with that focused intensity that makes me feel like my words mattered.
He didn't command me to ride him until I climax, his hands guiding my hips, his voice a rough litany of praise and demand in my ear.
I didn't getanything.
And now, here I am.
Miles from that dungeon.
Commanded into another man's bed.
I understand that it's wrong. I do. On some rational, functioning level of my brain, I know this whole situation is completely fucked up. But is it any wonder I'm fucking horny? My body has been trained to respond to authority, to anticipate reward and punishment, to crave the structure that gives my chaos shape and meaning.
I turn around, settling my back against his metal headboard, and watch as Lorcan—my heroic kidnapper, my philosophical spiral machine, my willing savior—roots through his closet like he's searching for something specific.
He's muttering to himself. Little curses in that thick Irish accent that I can't quite catch. Words that sound like prayers or profanity, or maybe both at once.
Then he exhales—a long, defeated sound—and turns back around to face me.
And what is he holding in his hands?
A pair of handcuffs.
But not industrial-grade steel handcuffs. Not the cold, utilitarian kind you'd see on a cop's belt or in a crime show.
No, I'm talking about leather handcuffs—padded, supple black leather with stitching so precise it looks like art. Little gold padlocks dangle from the clasps.
"You're…" But I can't finish.
My body is organizing a fucking revolution. Every nerve ending is suddenly firing at once, every synapse lighting up like a city grid during a blackout that just ended.
My hormones are flooding my bloodstream—adrenaline, oxytocin, dopamine all rushing through my veins in a chaotic cocktail that makes my hands shake and my breath catch.
Hell, I can practically feel my clit swelling in real time, that unmistakable pulse of heat and pressure that signals exactly how my body is interpreting this moment.
"You're a dom." I say it like it's an accusation. Like I've just uncovered some terrible secret he was trying to hide from me.
"A dom?" Lorcan repeats, and there's something dangerous in the way he says it—like I've just stepped on a landmine disguised as casual conversation. "Ah, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. No. Absolutely not. That's not—" He stops himself, running one hand through his blond hair in a gesture of pure exasperation. "Look, I experimented a bit when I was younger, yeah? Everyone does. Some teenage stuff. Couple sessions at a club in Dublin. Learned some knots. The psychological dynamics of power exchange punishments and?—"
He catches himself spiraling, jaw clenching. "I'm not explainin' this to you."
Except… he kinda is.
My brain latches onto every word like a starving thing.
Experimented.That implies innovation.
Learning knots means Shibari, rope work, the intricate patterns that turn a body into living art.
A club in Dublin—I can picture it with terrifying clarity. Dark rooms with leather furniture. The scent of expensive cologne mixing with sweat and arousal. Music pulsing through the walls while people negotiated scenes in alcoves, their voices low and intent.
Power exchange punishments.
And he's been doing this since he was a teenager.
Holy fuck. My imagination is running absolutely fucking wild right now.
