The rope above my head creaks, my wrists chafing against coarse twine, the lace of my gloves torn and tattered, the hay scratching my skin in counterpoint to the exquisite friction of his body against mine.
The pressure builds, a coiling spring of sensation wound tighter and tighter, a force of nature that’s both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Kane,” I gasp, voice ragged and desperate. “Please.”
He chuckles, low and dangerous, the sound vibrating through my body. “Please, what, sunflower?”
“Please… don’t stop.” He growls, a primal sound of possession that echoes through the maze, a declaration to the world, to the heavens, to anyone who dares to listen.
“I have no intention of stopping.” His hand comes down hard against the curve of my ass, once, twice, a brutal, possessive reminder of who I belong to. The stingsharpens the pleasure, heightens the intensity, sends a fresh wave of heat pooling in my core.
“Say it,” he commands, voice low and authoritative. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” I gasp, the word torn from my throat, a raw, desperate admission of surrender.
“I belong to you.”
“And what are you?” he asks, his thrusts growing erratic, desperate, frenzied.
“Yours,” I cry out, the word a prayer, a vow, a promise.
His breath comes out in a harsh gasp against the back of my neck, hot and ragged, his scent an intoxicating mix of rain, hay, and raw masculinity. “That’s right, sunflower,” he growls, his voice thick with a possessive hunger that makes my blood sing. “You’re mine. Every fucking inch of you.”
His rhythm becomes punishing, a relentless assault on my senses that leaves me breathless and begging for more. Each thrust is a brand, a claim, a primal declaration that I am his and his alone. The rope above my head groans, my wrists straining against the coarse twine, the lace of my gloves torn and tattered. The hay scratches against my skin, a counterpoint to the exquisite friction of his body against mine.
I can feel the pressure building again, a coiling spring of sensation that’s wound tighter and tighter, a force of nature that’s both terrifying and exhilarating. I’m teetering on the brink of oblivion, my body a quivering, sobbing mess.
“Kane,” I gasp, my voice a ragged, desperate plea. “Please...”
“Come for me, sunflower,” he commands, his voice a low, authoritative growl that vibrates through my entire body. “Show me how I make you feel. Show me how my cock shatters everything inside you.”
And I do.
My body arches off the hay bale, my cry a raw, primal sound of release that echoes through the maze. I convulse around him, my muscles clenching and unclenching in a rhythm that pulls him under, drags him down into a vortex of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. He follows me over the edge, his own release a violent, explosive force that leaves him trembling and spent, his hot seed pulsing inside me, a primal claim that marks me as his in the most elemental way possible.
We collapse against the hay bale, our bodies tangled, our hearts beating a frantic, syncopated rhythm that’s both chaotic and perfect. He’s still inside me, still buried to the hilt, our bodies joined in the most intimate way possible. His weight is a heavy, comforting presence that anchors me to the earth, his arms wrapped around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go.
I can feel his breath hot against the back of my neck, his chest heaving against my back, his heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. For a long moment, we just breathe, the only sound in the hush of the maze is our ragged gasps and the distant thump of music.
Then he slowly withdraws, the loss of contact a sharp, sudden ache that’s both physical and emotional. I feelhis absence like a cold void, a space that was just filled with his presence, his heat, his essence.
I hear the rustle of his jeans, the soft sound of fabric being pulled on, then the sharp glint of his knife as he cuts me free. My arms fall, limp and useless, the circulation returning with a thousand tiny needles that make me gasp.
He catches me before I can fall, his arms strong and steady, his body a solid wall of muscle and heat. I lean into him, my head resting against his chest, my eyes closed, my body boneless and spent.
“Easy, sunflower,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble that vibrates through my entire body. “I’ve got you.”
He scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other around my back, and carries me through the maze like I’m something precious, something fragile, something to be protected. The hay bales blur into a golden haze, the distant sounds of the party growing louder, more distinct.
But they don’t matter.
Nothing matters but the solid beat of his heart against my ear, the strength of his arms around me, the possessive glint in his eyes when he looks down at me.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted to own,” he says, voice low, reverent, like a confession carved from bone.
“You’re the only madness I never want to recover from,” I murmur, the words slipping from my lips like avow.
And I mean it.
