Chapter 11
Kneel
ALISTAIR
I take Ivy’s hand at the bottom of the stairs, my fingers threading through hers with a firm grip that stirs the familiar heat low in my gut.
She looks at me, looks at the stairs, her pulse fluttering visible under the skin of her wrist.
“The dungeon,” she says. Not a question, her voice low and breathy, carrying the faint scent of toffee from dinner still lingering on her tongue.
“The dungeon,” I confirm.
She smiles, her lips parting just enough to show the tip of her tongue—and follows me up, her footsteps soft on the carpet, hips swaying with deliberate tease.
The closet. The long coats smelling of cedar and faint leather polish. The corner. The metallic click. The pocket door rolling left with a hushed rasp.
I light the candles while Ivy stands in the middle of the room and watches me, the golden flicker dancing across her skin, casting shadows that accentuate the curve of her breasts under her dress.
I can feel her watching, can feel the weight of her gaze like a physical touch trailing down my back, the low throb building in my cock…
I am always aware of exactly where she is in any room.
“You're staring,” I say, striking the next match, sulfur sharp in the air.
“I'm admiring,” she says, voice husky, stepping closer so her perfume, warm vanilla and sun-faded coconut, mixes with the wax melting.
The flame reflects in her darkening eyes.
I go to the bedside drawer and take out the rope—soft golden jute, coils heavy and pliant in my palm—and when I turn around her lips have parted, making my pulse kick harder.
“Take your dress off,” I growl.
She does—slowly, zipper whispering down her back, fabric pooling at her feet with a silken hush, revealing the lace clinging to her curves, nipples already hard in the candle-warm air, her skin flushed.
I turn the dimmer down and the room sinks into an intimate amber glow. I click play on the playlist. Bass pulsing, and then I go to her, close enough to feel the radiant heat off her body.
“Kneel,” I say.
She kneels. Graceful, thighs parting slightly on the lush carpet below, her breath quickening into soft pants that brush my knuckles as I trace her jaw.
And I begin.
There is nothing in my life that requires the quality of attention that this does.
Each loop of rope deliberate, jute rasping softly over her skin, warm from friction.
Each knot considered, tested with a tug that draws a small gasp from Ivy.
I work from her wrists upward, crossed behind her, her forearms, above her elbows, and watch her posture change as the binding takes shape: her chest opens, breasts lifting with each measured breath, nipples tightening further; her shoulders pull back, exposing the elegant line of her throat; her chin tips up, pulse hammering visible.
Her breathing slows to deep, rhythmic pulls, the room filling with her scent, arousal blooming sweet and musky beneath the cedar and wax.
That breath. The way her pussy lips part slightly as she shifts, already glistening in the low light.
“Okay?” I murmur, trailing a fingertip down her spine, feeling the shiver ripple through her.
“Very,” she says, voice thick, thighs pressing together.
I continue. Across her shoulders, her collarbones, a harness taking shape in the candlelight, rope framing her breasts like an offering, the golden strands warm against her skin, her nipples brushing the fibers with each inhale.
Ivy kneeling in the middle of the room with her eyes open and her body surrendered and her absolute trust given freely, which is, even now, even after everything, the most extraordinary thing anyone has ever given me.
I step back and look at her—bound, open, mine—cock straining painfully against my trousers, dampening the fabric.
“Beautiful,” I say, voice gravel, reaching down to palm myself once, the friction sending a jolt through me as her gaze drops hungrily to the bulge.