Page 14 of Mister St. James

I am close, so close. My hips buck. I hear myself moaning, shameless, needy, wet as fuck.

“Come for me, Catalina,” he whispers close to my ear, using my real name.

The orgasm hits, not a wave, but a detonation, sharp, bright, loud enough to drown out every other thought. I sob, scream, shudder against the rope, the pressure and friction sending aftershocks through every muscle.

He holds my shaking body upright, whispering, “Perfect. Fucking perfect.”

When it’s over, he pulls me gently back against his chest, so I can see myself in the mirror, eyes wide, lips slick, body trembling.

For a moment, I’m nothing but heat and pulse, every sense boiling with the aftermath, my skin a fever map of rope and sweat, breath tangled in the hollow of my chest. My knees barely hold, toes dead asleep and wrists tingling with the kind of pain I only ever get from laughter or loss. I’m on display, arms still bound to my sides, chest arched, sweat running in rivulets down the valley between my breasts, dripping from my jaw.

Aiden stares at me in our reflection, the same heavy gaze as the night I performed, before he lifts me and brings me to lie on the chaise lounge. There is a silence in the room so heavy I think it might bruise me.

But he’s still right here, so close I can smell the whiskey and adrenaline coming off his skin, and the faint chemical tang of expensive hair products. I feel the static in the air, the way it thickens and gathers, as if waiting for an aftershock. I half expect him to gloat. Or worse, to be gone, leaving me to collapse, boneless, on the cold leather platform.

But Aiden just stands behind me, close enough that I sense him before I see him. My vision is a wet blur through the mask, sweat and tears and probably mascara, the edges of everything pulsing with post-scene static. He waits, hands careful not to touch until my trembling slows, until I am more here than gone.

His breath is right at my ear, a whisper only I can hear. “Would you like me to provide your aftercare?” The way he says it, “aftercare,” as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if we’re just two normal people winding down after a workout, sends a spike of vulnerability so sharp through my belly that I can’t even answer.

I nod, too fast, like an addict.

A tiny exhale. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was relieved.

He presses something on the wall. Instantly, the room flashes: a brief, searing white, then darkness, and then the slow return of ambient light. The mirrors are gone, replaced by opaque obsidian. No more audience, no more performance. Whatever happens next is ours alone.

He kneels beside me and his hands are so gentle I want to cry. He touches the first knot, working it loose with the same patience he showed building it, thumb and forefinger tracing each loop before giving it slack. My shoulder throbs as the tension releases. I gasp, a soft mewling sound that I do not recognize as my own.

His breath is steady and slow. He doesn’t speak. Each time a knot loosens, his hand lingers, massaging the rawness where the rope has bitten. He slides the next knot open, the one around my chest. My whole upper body sags with the sudden absence of pressure, and I would fall if he weren’t holding me up with one arm wrapped across my waist, the other slowly working the rope out from under the curve of my ribcage.

I want to know what he’s thinking, but I don’t ask. I don’t have to. Every touch, every word, every small act of care is an answer.

His hands are everywhere. Aiden loosens every loop with the same reverence he used to build them. Caressing each mark the rope left behind, little red rivers, raw in places, some already beginning to bruise. I watch him circle each one with his fingertips before bending to kiss it apologetically.

The ropes are gone and I feel more exposed than I have ever felt before. I am shivering, but not cold when he pulls me into his lap against his chest, arms wrapped around me beneath a blanket. The room is so quiet I can hear his heartbeat. I melt into him, I’m not crying, but something in my chest is unspooling, too. A warmth, a brightness, a longing I didn’t know I’d held in reserve. My body feels like it’s been completely emptied out and then filled again with sunlight.

I tuck my head under his chin and just float, letting him do the one thing I never allowed anyone to do before. I let him care for me.

Chapter nine

Red Rope

Aiden

The weight of her body against me feels surreal. She is limp, pliant, still half-lit from the endorphin blitz, her cheek pressed against my shoulder in a way that makes her look absurdly young. The room is dark, sound-dampened, no thud of bass, just the wheeze of the ventilation and her uneven breath. I am careful not to move too quickly. There is a protocol for these things, and I pride myself on knowing it.

But for me, personally, this is not protocol. This is improvisation. Her thighs are splayed over my lap, skin still prickled where the rope had bit. I watch the red marks bloom and fade, fingers hovering just above the surface. I want to touch, to trace the lines, but hesitate. When in doubt, do nothing. That is lesson one.

I try to remember if I have ever done aftercare like this before. Holding, waiting, smoothing her hair out of her eyes with a tenderness that feels less clinical, more affectionate. Normally I prefer my rope bottoms having a designated partner for most of this. I hand them water, drape a blanket, offer a debrief if they want it and disappear if they do not. Someone else handles their care once the ropes are removed.

But her, the Scarlet Muse, Catalina my office siren, she lingers. She does not stir, does not immediately inventory her limbs or scan for her clothes. She just breathes, shuddery at first, then steadier, each inhale dragging in more of herself. Each soft breath steals a piece of my soul.

I debate breaking the silence. I want to ask if she’s cold, if she’s thirsty, if she needs me to tell her she did well, if she wants the fantasy to keep running or if it’s okay to just sit here, silent and raw. I do none of these things. Instead, I offer her a bottle of water from the side table, the cap already twisted off.

She takes it, slow as pouring syrup. Her hand is steady, which surprises me, but her voice is not there yet. She sips, holds the bottle with both hands, and watches me over the rim. The pupils are still wide, eyes unguarded.

I say, “You okay?” before I can stop myself.

She nods, twice, quick and shallow. “Yeah. Good. Just—” She cuts herself off, breathes again. “You didn’t go easy on me.”