Page 23 of Mister St. James

I add a secondary loop, this one lower, just below her ribs. My fingers brush her bare skin, and she shivers, almost imperceptibly.

“You cold?”

She shakes her head, curls tumbling over her face. “No. Just…” She doesn’t finish.

I let the silence stand, then circle around to face her. She’s pink in the cheeks, breathing faster. I want to ask what she’s thinking, but I know. I can read it in the way her pulse hammers at her neck, in the way she stands a little straighter, as if the rope is the only thing keeping her from floating away.

“Want to keep going?” I ask.

She tilts her head, appraising her faint reflection in the glass window. “Please don’t stop.”

I nod, hands already moving. I tie the modified dragonfly harness over her torso, making a pattern that both restrains and highlights. Her arms pinned slightly back and to her sides.

I keep my hands clinical, careful, but the air between us is anything but. Every touch, every knot, every tug is an escalation. Her body is caged in crimson, every line precise, every intersection measured to the millimeter. She stands perfectly still, watching my face with rapt attention. The only sound is her breathing and the faint hiss of rope through my hands.

“Now what?” she asks, voice husky.

“Tell me what you want,” I whisper.

She leans in, and it’s her move this time. Her mouth finds mine, urgent and hungry, and I kiss her back, the taste of whiskey and her still lingering on her tongue. Her arms are pinned, so she can only press her body against me, arching into the harness, the ropes digging into her skin as she moves.

I brace her with one hand, the other tangling in her hair. I kiss her harder, my pulse hammering at my wrist, every nerve ending screaming for contact.

She bites my lower lip, then drags her mouth to my ear. “I want you to fuck me like this,” she whispers, and the words light every fuse in my body.

I nod, barely able to breathe but not missing a calculated opportunity. “I believe there was mention of begging.”

She smiles, a wicked, slow curl. “Please, sir,” she says. “Please fuck me.”

My self-control shatters. I bend, and pick her up over my shoulder. She lets out a surprised squeal and wiggles in my arms as I walk around to the back of the couch and place her down facing the seating area. I press her back, gently guiding her to bend over the couch, making sure she is safe and comfortable before I show her exactly what it means to be both restrained and free.

“Say your safe word and I’ll stop.”

“Never,” she gasps.

I take a moment to admire my art. The curves, the red ties against her bronzed skin. I kneel, my hands slide up her thighs slowly before I do what I’ve been wanting to do all night. I take the top of her black thong in my teeth and drag it down over her perfect ass, only using my hands to help push it lower, to hang above the ropes that start at her knees.

I press my hands up her thighs, mapping the way the rope frames her skin, how every line guides my gaze, my mouth, my need. She’s already soaking; I taste it before my tongue even finds her clit.

Cat writhes against the couch, arms locked in back, chest heaving, sweat blooming in every hollow. She moans, loud and reckless, the sound echoing off the glass and marble. The first time I taste her she bucks, hard enough I have to anchor her hips with both hands to keep her still. I smile into her cunt, then bite down, not cruel, just enough to remind her that the control is mutual.

“Oh fuck,” she says, voice ragged.

I look up over the side of the couch, face wet, glasses fogging, hair falling into my eyes. “You like that?”

She nods, but words are gone. I keep at it, alternating flicks with broad, flat laps, using the edge of my teeth to tease her right to the edge and then back off. Every time she gets close, I pull away, listen to her curse, watch her tremble, then start again.

She fights the restraint, testing the limits. When she tries to wiggle away, I tighten my grip and press harder. “You wanted this,” I remind her.

“Yeah,” she pants. “But I didn’t know.”

I slide two fingers inside her, knuckles deep, curling to find the spot that makes her scream. She loses it, bucking so hard she nearly knocks me over. I work her with my mouth and my hand, relentless, until I feel her clamp down around my fingers, her whole body going rigid.

She comes with a sob, then a laugh, then another sob, this one accompanied by soft Spanish words that sound like a prayer. I keep moving, gentle now, coaxing the aftershocks out until she’s limp, spent, arms twisted in the rope, hair stuck to her face in wild curls.

I help her stand up from her position, and her legs start shaking so I pick her up again and seat her on the back of the couch facing me. She is quiet and still as I remove the ropes from her legs, always massaging and kissing where the ropes were touching her skin.

“Can you stand?”