“Just making sure you get a good look, Mr. Wolfe. Wouldn’t want you to miss something.” Now I’m teasing him. His brow lifts towards his hairline, pursing his lips to stifle the small smile forming. I drop my dress, and the material pools around my booted feet. The groan of approval from Ezra has me straightening my spine with pride; he clearly likes what he sees. The waxing, the preening, the choice of the red lace underwear set and matching fishnet stockings, it was all worth it to see the look of awe on his handsome face. Him like this—wanting me, needing me, desperate for me—it’s an addictive feeling.
I reach around and unclasp my bra, letting the straps slide down my arms, catching it and holding it out to him before I drop it to the floor. I run my gloved hands down my body, the leather gliding effortlessly like a hot knife through butter as I trail them down over my hips.
I grip the thin straps of my thong, but before I can work them down, Ezra clears his throat and shakes his head. I immediately do as I’m told and hold my hands up in the air, leaving my thong where it is on my body as per his wishes.
“Good girl,” he growls, and fuck me if his praise doesn’t set my body alight. Goosebumps cover every exposed inch of me as my pulse quickens.
“Do it, mark me, make me yours.” My breathless plea pleases him, the imprint of his hardening cock growing as he grips onto the scalpel. I step into his space, gazing up at him as I place my palms against his chest, revelling in the staccato thump of his heartbeat as it picks up pace. Hesitant isn’t a word I would use todescribe Ezra—he takes what he wants when he wants, without apology—but right now, I see a glimmer of something akin to trepidation fill his expression.
I eye the scalpel with a hitched breath, sharing my glance with his brooding stare when I say, “Of all your red flags, your obsession with me is my favourite, Mr. Wolfe. You have my permission.”
And that’s all he needs. He pulls his shirt off with one hand, his heavily tattooed torso heaving as he ponders his next move. Reaching down, he pulls out the spoon he has tucked in his boot.
“Bend over the bench, Cara. Hands behind your back,” he instructs firmly.
I don’t hesitate to follow his order, too intrigued as to how this is going to play out to second guess it. The cold steel bites at my nipples as I make contact. My heated body shuddering, anticipation unfurling inside me as I relax into this new position. I watch as he unbuckles the strap of my glove—first one and then the other that covers my disfigured hand. He’s seen my hand, the need for the gloves he made me is proof of that, but still, I recoil at the thought of having him see it up close and personal like this.
Sensing my unease, he stops what he’s doing and runs his fingers down my spine, slowing to caress each dip he comes across. “I’ve seen every inch of you and loved every second of it. Someone took something from you, they didn’t break you though. If you remember nothing else, remember that.”
I sigh at his warped brand of comfort, loving how his acceptance of me makes me feel so seen.
He resumes his work on the buckles with deft fingers, but he doesn’t remove the gloves like I’d thought he would. The clinking of metal on metal, and the inability to move my hands as they rest against the base of my spine, the taut position tugging painfully at my shoulders, alerts me to the fact that Ezradidn’t custom make me these leather gloves for comfort and concealment alone.
I’m shackled with my hands behind my back, and the only way I’ll be getting free is if Ezra decides to unbuckle them.
“Leather, lace, and ligatures—you look good enough to eat, Red,” he sing-songs, crowding my back so I can feel the impression of his thick cock against my bare arse as he bends and sinks his teeth into my shoulder.
I cry out, my hips jolting against the table as he laps at the mark he’s made with his tongue, featherlight kisses extinguishing the searing burn in my skin.
He impatiently knocks his army-issue boot against each of my ankles in turn. “Spread your legs, sweetheart, and show me my prize.”
I obey without question, parting my thighs and groaning when the cold air hits me at my core.
“Open wide, Red,” he says softly as he strokes the pad of his thumb over my trembling lips. “Don’t worry, I haven’t maimed anyone with this one—not yet anyway.” The twisted fucker gleams at the idea of adding to his victim list, and it should at least warrant a flicker of worry inside me, yet it doesn’t; this oil on water mix of fear and desire as they battle for dominance is a heady combination, coexisting elements that will never truly blend, intense in the way they heighten the moment. I open my mouth, and he places the spoon between my teeth. I bare down on it, resting my tongue under the metal length of it.
Satisfied with my compliance, Ezra hums his approval as he stands aside to look me over.
“Let’s see how well my plaything can follow orders; you drop that spoon, and I stop, you understand?”
“Uh huh,” the non-committal sound and the enthusiastic nod of my head is all he’s getting, my head swimming with panic and pleasure as I try to anticipate his next move. Unsheathingthe scalpel, he moves behind me. The moment he’s out of sight, my blood pressure spikes, my heart pounding against my ribs as I tug against the restraints. My mind craves the illusion of freedom—the reassurance that I can run if I want to. But the truth is, I don’t want to run. I never will.
He sets the scalpel on the table in front of me. My eyes widen as the blade catches the light.
Wrapping my braided length of blonde hair around his tattooed fist, he pulls me up against his chest, manoeuvring me so I’m looking up into his face, leashing me with a makeshift rein like I’m a fractious mare that needs to be broken in.
I’m close enough to him that I can taste the malty notes of the aged whiskey in the air as his warm breath splashes against my cheek. His taut jaw with his short beard is begging me to run my fingers through it, to grip on and pull his lips to mine, but I have no chance of breaking free of my restraints. I question who is crazier right now because bound and at his mercy, with a spoon in my mouth, I’m wetter between my thighs then I have ever been before.
“Oh, what pretty eyes you have,” he croons sweetly, that fizzle of darkness still present in his tone. He gazes intently into them as he flips his coin.
Still held in place, I can’t see which way it lands as it clatters against the metal tabletop.
“I’m intrigued, Cara; what side were you hoping for?” he teases, and I clench my thighs in response, that dull relentless throbbing like an incessant itch I can’t scratch, as I rock my hips against the edge of the table, desperate for some friction against my swollen clit.
I want to tell him I’m desperate to look down and see the fallen angel staring back at me; a skull and wings that would usually be attributed to something dark and sinister is exactly what I need from him right now. I remember at the last secondthat I can’t talk as my teeth clamp down on the spoon. If I drop it, this all stops, and I’m not ready to have this end just yet.
Pushing me down so I’m bent at the hips, my torso flush with the table, I see the coin, just about making out the winged fallen angel at this angle; my sigh of relief fogs up the steel top, and before I can adjust to this new position, Ezra has his forearm on my back pinning me in place.
The first line he carves into my flesh takes me by surprise, my brain not immediately registering the pain as my legs shake.
