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CHAPTER TEN

ISLA

It's been another long day. My feet ache in my regulation boots, and Dawson's shoulders slump with the weight of his twelve-hour shift. We stumble through a quick "shared" shower, steam rising around us, his calloused hands massaging shampoo into my hair while hot water drums against our tired muscles.

After, Dawson moves around my kitchen with practiced ease, the sizzle of garlic in olive oil filling the apartment while I measure out kibble for Alfred and open a can of food for Oreo.

We collapse onto my couch, plates balanced on our laps. Alfred claims his usual spot on Dawson's muscular thigh while Oreo wedges himself into the narrow space between us, purring like a motor. Dawson talks about a false alarm at the elementary school, his voice a low rumble beside me, but I barely catch every third word. My fingers fidget with the handcuffs hidden in my pocket, cool metal warming against my skin as I rehearse exactly how I'll use them once dinner is over.

When it’s time for bed, Dawson stands, stretches, and peels off his shirt, revealing skin so tan and golden it’s almost a sin. I follow him to the bedroom, flick on the bedside lamp, and stand in the soft glow, watching him strip down to his boxer-briefs and flop onto the mattress, limbs wide, a man entirely at home in his own body.

He looks up, sees me hovering in the doorway, and lifts a brow. “You coming to bed, or just planning on staring all night?”

“Both,” I say, and he laughs, but there’s heat in his eyes. I let him wait, slowly undoing the buttons of my shirt, one by one. He watches with hunger flashing through his blue eyes, and the longer I drag it out, the more his mouth curves into a predatory smile.

I slide the shirt from my shoulders, let it fall to the floor, then step out of my jeans, leaving me in nothing but a lacy black bra and panties set. Dawson’s eyes go dark, the kind of dark that means he’s two seconds away from throwing me on the bed and making a meal out of me. I walk over, climb onto the mattress, and straddle his hips, planting my knees on either side of his body.

For a moment, I just sit there, soaking in the feel of him under me, the solid heat of his chest against my thighs. I lean down, trace kisses along his jaw, his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone. His hands come up to grab my waist, but I catch his wrists, pinning them to the pillow above his head.

“Stay,” I murmur. He does. His pupils are blown wide, breath coming faster, and I know he’s not sure what’s coming next, but he trusts me enough to play along.

I reach over for my sweatpants, fingers fumbling for the cold metal, and when I finally pull the cuffs out, his eyes go wide. Not in fear, but in something wilder—anticipation, curiosity, hunger. I hold them up, let the lamplight glint off the steel.

“Do you trust me?” I ask.

His voice is rough as gravel, low and certain. “With my goddamn life.”

“You have the right to remain silent.” I guide his wrists to the headboard, thread the cuffs through the ironwork, and lock them with a satisfying click. “Or not.” The sound is sharper than I expect, echoing off the walls, and for a heartbeat, I freeze, half-expecting him to laugh or squirm. “The louder the better for me.” But he just lies there, arms stretched above his head, watching me with a mix of reverence and pure, animalistic want.

He growls. “Fucking hell, this is all my darkest fantasies come true.”

I can feel my confidence doubling by the second, like his surrender is some kind of fuel for every part of me that’s ever doubted my power. I press my lips to his neck, nipping at the pulse point, then lower, mapping the landscape of his chest with my mouth. Every place I kiss, he shudders a little, the tension building between us so thick I could chew it.

The lamp casts shadows across his body, lines and valleys of light that make him look carved from something ancient and indestructible. His breathing is shallow now, every inhale a stutter, every exhale a curse or a prayer.

I drag my nails down his sides, watch him flex against the cuffs, the tendons in his arms straining. I know I could stop at any moment, that the safety is there, but the knowledge only makes me bolder.

I reach the waistband of his briefs, kiss along the edge, and look up to find him staring at me, raw and open, his eyes saying please without a single word.

“I think I like you better like this,” I admit, sliding my hands beneath the band, feeling him hard and heavy. “Entirely at my mercy.”

“Yeah?” His voice is breathless, almost reverent.

“Yeah,” I say, and tug the briefs down, slow and deliberate, exposing him inch by inch to the warm air and the soft light.

I climb up, straddle his hips again, and let my hair fall forward, brushing over his face, his lips, his jaw. I kiss him once, hard, then sit back, letting him watch as I unhook my bra and toss it aside. His eyes go even darker, the muscles in his arms flexing as he strains against the cuffs.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he says, and I smile, pleased at the power, the control, the way I can make him beg with nothing more than a look.

“That’s the idea,” I reply, and lean in again, ready to make good on every promise I’ve ever made, whispered or otherwise.

Each time the cuffs click, each time his arms flex and fail, my confidence doubles. I’m the boss tonight, and for once, it feels good to let go and just take what I want.

This is better than any fantasy. This is all too real.

I keep him waiting, just long enough to taste his desperation. He’s not a man who’s ever truly powerless, and the knowledge that I can take it from him feeds something primal in me. His wrists are locked above his head, shoulders bunching, muscles carving shadows under the lamp’s yellow cone. His pulse is visible at his throat, hammering, a live wire throb I want to bite just to see how hard it can jump.

I start at his neck, tongue flat, licking a stripe from the hollow of his throat to the sharp edge of his jaw. He tastes like sweat and soap and need, a combination that makes my mouth water. I nibble the soft skin under his ear, and he shivers, hips jerking up to meet me, even though I’m nowhere near where he wants me. Not yet.