Coiled tight.
Already aching.
“I… err, packed it all,” I murmur, regretting the words the moment they leave my lips.
“Oh, right. For your little escape,” he teases, voice curling around me, breath warm against the nape of my neck. There’s amusement there, but something darker underneath.
“Arms behind your back.”
I obey without hesitation. My body moves before thought can intervene.
I can’t see much from this angle—not until he circles me, rope in hand, passing it around my torso with practiced ease. Each coil creates a map across my skin, a boundary. Piece by piece, he divides me—rib from breast, breath from resistance. He’s fast, focused, but not careless. And by the time he finishes, I can feel it—the pressure, the heat. The way blood scrambles to reroute beneath the tight cords now hugging my body.
My forearms are locked behind me, wrists tight, bound in a way that allows no wriggling or escape. I test the restraint anyway, out of reflex, but there is no give.
“You thought you were the only one who could tie knots?” he murmurs, catching the subtle tug of rebellion in my shoulders.
But it’s not rebellion.
It’s survival instinct.
Each twist of rope drags me closer to that memory—Lea. That bed. That nightmare. I’m trying to stay here, in this moment, in his gaze, but pieces of me are splintering. I’m unravelling from the inside out.
My heart thunders, but it’s not just the ache or the hunger driving it now. It’s something deeper.
A raw, desperate need to forget.
I’m trying to calm myself, but it’s useless.
My body trembles beneath his touch—every nerve lit like a fuse. He senses it instantly.
“Breathe, baby,” he says, his voice a low, quiet storm.
His chest presses against my back, grounding me.
“You know, my father was a terrible man.” The words crack through the haze. “Some of the things he did to me… the things he made me do… they still haunt me.”
His breath is warm against my neck, words threading through my skin like needles.
“But you want to know what helps?”
I nod, leaning into him, needing the contact, the anchor, anything to still the chaos inside me.
His fingers begin to map my skin in that slow, deliberate kind of way—tracing invisible lines only he can see.
“Pain,” he murmurs. “Inflicting pain, even more so.”
His hand tightens around my upper arm, not cruel but absolute. Unapologetic. Then silently, he nudges my legs apart with a knee. My breath catches in response.
His hand drops, trailing downward, claiming the space between my thighs with quiet authority.
A moan escapes me before I can swallow it.
Unbidden. Raw.
“There you are,” he murmurs, and I can hear the satisfied smile in his voice.
His hand dips to the unbearable heat between my thighs, but he doesn’t push further, doesn’t claim or invade. He just gathers the evidence of my need, and pulls his hand back.
