"Shhh..." His fingers pressed against my jaw, silencing me. His thumb dragged provocatively over my lower lip. I leaned in, kissing him hard. Wildly. Every fiber of me wanted him. My hands slid down his chest, lower, over the hard planes of his abdomen. There—the bandage. Proof he wasn't invincible. Without hesitation, I deliberately pressed down.
He inhaled sharply, his body tensing beneath me, head snapping back. "Fuuuuck, Fiona!" he growled, pain and fury flashing in his eyes.
I pulled back with a mocking grin. "I'm a sadist, Alexander. You knew that." A short laugh escaped me. I meant it—and reveled in it. Especially with him. "This is going to be so hot with you barely mobile and in pain..."
His gaze narrowed, the ice in it making my skin prickle. "Don't worry. I'm mobile enough to make you scream." A pause. His stare drilled into me. "I don't think you know what a sadist is."
Before I could blink, he yanked me—one sharp, precise movement—and suddenly I was straddling him. My knees hit the seat, my skirt riding up to my waist. I landed exactly where he wanted me.
His gaze slid slowly over me, lingering on my hips. "Perfect."
His hands clamped around my wrists, the pain I'd inflicted already forgotten. All that remained was that ruthless determination radiating from his every movement.
Leaning sideways with one hand, he popped open the door compartment.
"What are you doing?" I asked—my voice cracking more than I wanted to admit.
No answer. Instead, he pulled out something black and slender—a zip tie.
My eyes widened. "Alexander, you can't be serious—"
I tried twisting free, but it was useless. He was faster. Stronger.Precise. The way he looped the plastic, how he secured my wrists in one fluid motion—this wasn’t improvisation. This was practiced.
"You won’t do this." My voice shook, more fury than fear.
"Oh, I will." He practically purred it. Zip. The tie cinched tight."Take this off!" I hissed, fury lacing every syllable. I yanked, twisted against the restraint—but it held fast.
He leaned back, watching me with that infuriatingly smug look as I straddled him. His hand fisted in my hair, dragging me closer. His fingers tangled in the strands while his teeth grazed my lower lip—not tenderly, but as a promise of what was to come. At the same time, his other hand tightened the zip tie around my wrists another notch.
I gasped, tearing my mouth from his. "Let me go." The words came out sharp—dripping with defiance, with the last shred of control I refused to surrender.
He paused. Savored my demand, my helplessness.
"Hard pass." His voice was a rough murmur, laced with that taunting smile he only wore when he knew he'd won. It was that exact combination of ice, control, and quiet arrogance that never failed to ignite me—both to white-hot rage and reckless arousal. I surged forward, kissing him hard, as if I could steal something back. Our tongues clashed like opponents, not seeking connection but conquest. This wasn’t a loving kiss. It was a declaration of war. Mine.
I bit down—harder than I should have. Maybe harder than I'd ever dared. The metallic tang of blood flooded my tongue instantly—warm, unmistakable, forbiddenly good.
He jerked beneath me, a rough gasp tearing from his throat as he wrenched his head sideways. "Fuuuuck!" His voice was raw, laced with pain—but not an ounce of weakness. He dragged his tongue slowly over the bleeding cut on his lip, savoring not just the iron taste but the transgression itself. The look in hiseyes—dark, relishing—seeped under my skin like a threat. Then his mouth twisted into a smile, half pain, half madness. "You goddamn... vicious little cunt."
I lifted my chin, pulse hammering at my temples, but my smile was steel. "'Cunt'?" My voice was soft, almost sweet. "How... chivalrous."
With a sharp jerk of his knee, he forced my legs apart, leaving me exposed before him. My skirt strained against my thighs, the sudden chill of air on bare skin hitting like a slap. I felt my pulse hammering in my throat as he leaned forward slowly, reaching into the footwell.
When he straightened, a black knife glinted in his hand. He turned it deliberately, studying the blade like an artist contemplating a brushstroke before committing to canvas.
"Two sadists playing a game." His voice was velvet, a quiet current simmering beneath the surface. "And you started it." The words slipped from his lips, dark and measured, as if he'd been waiting for this invitation all along. "You do like knives, don't you, baby?"
I meant to answer, to defy him—but my body had already betrayed me. My breath came in ragged bursts, my gaze locked on the blade as he lowered it slowly. The cold steel met the inside of my thigh, where my skin was most vulnerable. At first, just the touch—so alien it almost felt tender. I held my breath, didn’t dare move. Not from fear, but to preserve this moment, this fever-clear sliver of time suspended between madness and craving.
Then—the first cut.
Not deep—but sharp enough to split skin. A thin line of pain flared, bright as light through a crack in darkness. I gasped, my back arching, but there was no escape—not with his thighs trapping me, not with my wrists bound, and certainly not with the molten heat surging through me like wildfire.
He watched me. With an intensity that slit me open before the blade ever did. And then came the second cut—a short, precise stroke, set diagonally to the first line. I felt my skin react, the burning twisting into something dangerously close to arousal.
The third cut went deeper. Not physically—but in the way he delivered it. Slow, with deliberate relish. I felt the pressure, the sharpness, the yielding of my skin, the quiet drag and then the warm pulse as blood gathered beneath the surface.
But it was the fourth cut that changed everything. Shorter, more precise, as if he only needed to place one final accent. I felt the lines on my skin connecting, forming a shape. They burned like trails of fire beneath my flesh, searing a pattern deep into me.
