Page 194 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1
It shouldn’t work, this unlikely trio we’ve become, but somehow, it does.
Lunch is simple—sandwiches, fruit, and what Gabe now calls “compulsoryblowies” because apparently,proteinis important.
We find excuses to touch all afternoon—Hank brushing past to grab the pepper when it’s nowhere near me, Gabe reaching for a glass I don’t need help with.
The afternoon dissolves into one of our marathon movie sessions.
I’m sprawled across both of them on the couch, my head in Gabe’s lap while my feet rest in Hank’s. We’re supposedly watching Die Hard—Hank’s choice—but no one’s paying attention. There’s too much lazy touching, too much warmth.
Too much fucking.
I take that back.
There can never be enough fucking when it comes to Hank and Gabe.
“Aren’t we way better than your father’s security detail?” Hank refers to a rather vigorous session in which he had me bent over the couch less than an hour ago. His thumb traces circles on my ankle. “They never provided this level ofintimateprotection.”
Gabe snorts. “You’re terrible.”
“He’s not wrong, though.” I stretch slowly, deliberately—arms overhead, arching just enough to tease, to provoke. Both men freeze, watching every movement like predators locked on their prey.
Gabe’s lap is solid beneath me, one arm locked around my waist. Hank’s thumb drags in slow circles across my ankle, eyes burning with something dangerous.
“Pretty sure none of my father’s guards ever tied me up.” I glance between them, my voice dipping low. “I mean… what would they have done with a helpless woman in ropes?”
Gabe’s grip tightens instantly, his free hand sliding up my spine, anchoring me against him. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.”
“I’m not playing,” I murmur, my pulse pounding. “And I’m not asking. I’mbegging.”
Hank moves first—shifting my legs from his lap, rising in one smooth motion. His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back so I’m forced to meet his gaze.
“Up,” he orders. “Now.”
Gabe lets me go, but not without a possessive squeeze at my waist. I stand, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and heat.
Hank steps in close, his voice low, lethal. “Go to Gabe’s playroom. Wait for us there.”
My heart pounds.
“And Ally…” His fingers brush my cheek, deceptively gentle. “Tonight, you’ll call meSir.”
Heat floods my veins. I nod, breathless. “Yes, Sir.”
Gabe rises behind me, eyes dark and full of promise. “Run, sweetheart. Before we make you crawl.”
I don’t hesitate.
This time, what happens in Gabe’s playroom isn’t fire and fury.
There’s no sting of the crop or whip, no sharp crack of leather meeting skin. This time, it’s Hank’s domain—the ropes, the knots, the art of restraint.
It’s Shibari time: a blur of silk rope, whispered commands, and the intoxicating weight of surrender.
Hank’s hands are steady, sure—methodical.Every knot, every loop of rope is laid with purpose; his brow furrowed in concentration as he binds me, not with brute strength, but with precision. There’s a reverence to it, a quiet intensity that pulls me deeper into the moment with each pass of rope over my skin.
It’s erotic in a way that still surprises me—sensual, intimate, the heat building not from pain but from anticipation. From the tension of the rope. From the way his fingers brush, glide, and adjust.
And Gabe—usually the storm—is calm now, grounding me with his touch, his presence. He hands Hank coils of rope as needed, helps position me, and lifts and supports me as Hank works. His eyes burn, but he holds back his intensity, respecting this as Hank’s scene, as my surrender to Hank’s control. He’s the anchor as I’m slowly suspended, lifted one knot at a time into the air.
