He clipped her wrist cuffs to the D ring at the front of the collar, motioned her to get into bed, and then ran a chain from her ankle cuffs to the bottom bedrail, locking her legs together while making it so she couldn’t get out of bed.
He rolled her onto her side facing the edge of the bed, climbed on behind her, lubed his cock, and fucked her ass for hours — slow and deep at first, then harder, chasing the oblivion of a warm, willing hole that didn’t ask for anything.
She came twice, and he waited to let himself come long after his dick was raw and her scent told him her asshole felt the same.
When he finally fell asleep still buried inside her heat, it was from exhaustion.
The next morning, he fucked her ass again before sending her on her way. Brutal and rough, but at least he was quick with it.
He worked the gun store all day, the bar that night, took Cindy to his room around midnight and tied her the same way. He started out by fucking her face this time, flat on her back with his dick down her throat. He came hard and then fucked her ass until she was shaking and begging. Once again, he crashed seconds after orgasm, and then fucked her all over again the next morning when he woke.
He worked security at the whore hotel the next day, and then stopped by the clubhouse, still undecided on whether to head home or stay in Chattanooga until Wednesday evening again.
But Chiquita was in a little red dress that made him want to hang her from his pulleys, so he took her home and bound her into a gorgeous arabesque — one leg extended high, arms bound with one over overhead in front of her and another dipping behind her, body stretched and balanced on the ball of her supporting foot. The chest harness squeezed her tits until they were balls on her chest, and the crotch rope looped under hip harness had knots that crushed her clit and irritated both holes.
She was a work of art. Dark, demented art, but still.
And best of all, her arousal levels were all over the place while he worked on the knots and rigging.
His inner sadist thrilled and his dick throbbed when he lifted her into the air slowly, watching the ropes take her weight.
But she only lasted maybe ninety seconds before she started crying. Not the overwhelmed, endorphin-drunk kind, but broken, miserable tears with almost no arousal behind them.
He tried playing with her nipples, working the knots on the crotch rope to give her more sensation, but nothing worked. Tried flogging her upper back, but that just made it worse.
The sweetbutts don’t get to tell them no. They have safewords, and they can leave at any time, but safewording just because something hurts isn’t seen as a positive. Injury is different, but that wasn’t a problem here and they both knew it.
She was no longer into it. She’d been fine when on the ground, but she’d lost her edge once in the air — and Knife couldn’t enjoy hurting her when arousal wasn’t part of the equation, so he brought her down, gave her a few shots of whiskey, fed her a steak and a microwaved baked potato, and drove her back to the clubhouse around three in the morning.
He asked Paco what needed doing, and Paco told him he could walk with Viper on sentry duty.
The night was warm, the moon was playing peek-a-boo with the wispy clouds, but nothing was as it should be.
Thankfully, Viper was a pleasant companion, talking about the next planned ride with the entire club, sharing interesting things about his tattoo customers, and just generally keeping the conversation going. Knife contributed as well, telling him about the cattle doing silly things while being rounded up, about odd customer requests in the butcher shop.
Eventually, out of nowhere, Viper said, “Some wounds you can only heal by walking the long way around the mountain. Not over it. Not through it. Around. Takes longer. Hurts different. But you see more that way.”
It felt like something Knife’s grandfather would say, and Knife wondered how much Viper knew about his heritage, the shared, distant Cherokee line.
But Knife didn’t answer, and Viper didn’t seem to expect him to — his brother merely changed the subject by asking about the best marinade for ribs, and turned their conversation into a debate on dry rubs versus marinades.
Chapter 37
Tuesdayhadn’t told anyone when she’d been seeing him. Not the day, not the pattern, not any of it. She’d kept Mondays to herself, but now her family and friends were filling her Mondays. Other days, too, but especially her Mondays.
Her brother took her to Top Golf on the first one back, which was exactly the kind of loud, competitive, low-stakes fun she needed. Their sibling rivalry was as strong as ever, and August kicked her ass while feeding her and filling her with drinks, talking shit the entire time.
And she loved him for it.
The following Monday, a cousin she hadn’t seen since Christmas invited her to a whiskey distillery tour and tasting in downtown Chattanooga. They learned all about the process and then got to sample the goods after. Their Aunt May drove them both ways to avoid legal questions. Wolvescan’t get drunk for long, but they also can’t explain that to the cops.
Tuesday drank good whiskey and kept thinking‘cancel cancel’ every time a thought about Knife entered her mind.
Willow invited her to hike to Edward’s Point the following Monday, and that’s when she figured out this was coordinated.
She and Willow were friends, but not close friends. They saw each other at every pack gathering, but rarely did things together outside the pack.
But Willow texted on a Saturday afternoon, and Tuesday said yes without analyzing it too much.
