“May I?” he asks, the simple request for permission underscoring that this exchange remains mine to control, even in surrender.
“Yes,” I breathe, offering my wrists willingly.
The leather is butter-soft against my skin as he securesthe cuffs, then attaches them to hidden anchors on our headboard. The restraint is secure but not tight, a symbolic restriction rather than a genuine confinement.
“Test them,” he instructs, watching me pull gently against the bonds. “Comfortable?”
I nod, a strange sense of peace settling over me as I accept the restraint. With Steffan, restraint meant terror, pain, degradation. With Mason, it becomes the opposite—a framework for trust, letting go, and receiving pleasure on terms we’ve established together.
“Close your eyes,” he commands softly. “Focus only on sensation.”
I obey, darkness enhancing my other senses—the sound of his movement around the bed, the scent of his skin as he leans closer, the anticipation building in my veins. When he finally touches me, tracing a path from my throat to my sternum, I arch into the contact like a flower seeking the sun.
What follows is nothing like the desperate, needy passion of our first encounter in his Montana cabin. This is a deliberate, methodical exploration. His hands and mouth map my body with exquisite tenderness. He alternates between feather-light touches that make me whimper and firm, possessive grips that remind me of his strength.
Words of praise flow continuously—“So beautiful,” “So responsive,” “Such a good girl”—each one a healing balm to wounds left by a man who used words as weapons. When pleasure builds to an almost unbearable peak, Mason’s command comes against my ear—“Come for me, Willow”—and my body responds instantly, the release washing through me in waves that leave me trembling.
Before I can fully recover, he’s positioning himself above me, his jeans discarded, his arousal evident. His eyes lock with mine, seeking final confirmation even now.
“Please,” I whisper, arching toward him in silent invitation.
He enters me with exquisite control, his pace measured, giving me time to adjust to the fullness. When he begins to move, it’s with the same deliberate patience—each thrust precise, angled to bring maximum pleasure. One hand holds my bound wrists, emphasizing the power dynamic without causing discomfort.
“Mine,” he growls against my throat, the possessive claim sending a fresh surge of desire through me. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp as he increases his pace, the coil of pleasure tightening again impossibly soon. “Only yours.”
His control fractures slightly at my words, his movements becoming more urgent, more primal. Yet even as he chases his release, his focus remains on my pleasure—one hand slipping between us to ensure I join him in climax.
When it claims us both, the intensity leaves me breathless, tears streaming from the corners of my eyes. Mason releases my wrists immediately, gathering me against his chest as aftershocks ripple through us both.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs against my hair, seeming to understand that my tears aren’t from pain but profound emotional release. “I’ve got you.”
I curl into his warmth, letting the tears flow freely—not from grief or fear but from reclamation and healing. From the knowledge that what was broken in me is mending in ways I once thought impossible.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his chest, but my words are inadequate for the gift he’s given me. It’s not just pleasure but the return of agency, the reclaiming of surrender as something beautiful rather than terrifying.
His arms tighten around me, a fortress against the memories, against the world. “Always,” he promises, the single word carrying the weight of absolutecertainty.
Later, wrapped in the soft sheets of our bed, I trace the lines of his face. The scar that bisects his eyebrow. The strong curve of his jaw. The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that deepen when he smiles.
“I never thought I’d have this again,” I admit softly. “Trust. Safety. The freedom to choose for myself.”
His gaze holds mine steadily. “When I built that cabin in Montana, I thought I was done. With people. With connection. With feeling anything beyond guilt and regret.”
“And now?” I ask, though I can see the answer in his gaze.
“I know better,” he says. “That storm brought me more than a woman to protect. It brought me back to life.”
Outside our window, waves crash against the shore, creating a gentle rhythm. Bear snores softly from his bed in the corner. Somewhere in the house, Chaos keeps his silent vigil, ever watchful.
“Tell me again,” I whisper, needing to hear the words that have become our private ritual.
Mason’s arms tighten around me, his voice a rumble against my ear. “You’re safe. You’re home. I’ve got you, and I love you dearly.”
And in those simple words lies everything—the promise of protection, the gift of belonging, the certainty that whatever storms may come, we will weather them together.
I press my lips to the steady beat of his heart, silently offering my promise in return—that I will be his harbor as surely as he has been mine. That the strength he sees in me will continue to grow. The trust between us, hard-won and precious, will only deepen with time.
