Chapter 18
Rhea
My hands shake as I balance the tray of drinks, the glasses clinking together dangerously.
Fuck, Rhea! Focus! Just get through this shift without breaking anything else.
But Professor Shaw's near interrogation keeps echoing in my head, that nauseating blend of disappointment and knowing in his tone when he called me out on my distraction in class.
"Table twelve's order is up!" Marco calls from the kitchen.
I nearly collide with another server as I spin around too quickly, my mind anywhere but on the dinner rush at Crave. The other girl steadies me with a firm grip and an accusatory scowl.
"The fuck is up with you? That's the third near-miss tonight."
"Sorry, sorry! I’m just a bit... scattered." I manage a weak smile, willing my chaotic thoughts to settle.
But they refuse to quiet. I can’t shake the image of the way Professor Shaw's eyes had pierced right through me, like he could see every filthy thing I'd done this week written across my face. The memory of his stern expression sends fresh heat flooding my cheeks. I've worked so hard to maintain my GPA the past three years, to prove I deserve my scholarship. Now here I am, letting my grades slip because I can't keep my mind off rope burns and leather cuffs and?—
The sound of shattering glass snaps me back to reality. I stare dumbfounded down at the broken pieces of what used to be a water glass, a cold puddle spreading across the floor at my feet.
"Well, that’s just great ," I mutter, crouching down to carefully gather the larger shards.
Real smooth, Rhea. Really proving you've got your life together.
"I'll grab the mop," someone calls out. I'm too mortified to even look up, focusing instead on not cutting myself as I clean up yet another mess.
When I finally stand, swiping sweat-dampened curls back from my face, a sudden awareness seems to press against my skin. That sixth sense that someone has their eyes on me.
I do a quick scan of the restaurant and, sure enough, Ethan lounges at a table in the corner, those glacial eyes fixed on me. Standing frozen with a handful of glass like a hopeless wreck, I don’t know what to do with myself. Neither of the twins have visited me at work since that first awful encounter with Dean’s nasty side. I can’t understand why Ethan would just show up unannounced, just like Dean did at my apartment last night. The surprise is jarring. Both of them are usually precise about making plans and showing up on time.
I learned that lesson with a hook in my ass.
Our gazes lock across the crowded restaurant and everything else fades to background noise. The weight of his stare sends liquid heat pooling low in my belly, memories of our last encounter flashing through my mind in vivid technicolor. The one where he pounded my ass while his brother thrust up into my pussy.
I doubt anything I experience for the rest of my life will quite measure up to that thrill.
He pushes up from his chair, weaving between tables until he reaches me. I run my fingers through my hair again, nervous that I must look like a complete mess mid dinner shift.
"Sorry for the random drop-in. I was, uh, I was thinking about you. Dean said you’d be working tonight.” He pitches his voice low enough that only I can hear, and it somehow feels intimate enough that I blush at the public setting.
"I shouldn’t be surprised, I already knew your brother had a taste for stalking." I try for playful, but the quip comes out pathetically shaky.
His lips curl into that devastating half-smile that always seems ten times more genuine than his twin’s signature smirk. Perhaps it’s because Ethan so rarely smiles. "What can I say? Some of us find you a little too addictive."
I roll my eyes, fighting back a gleeful grin as I deposit the broken glass into a nearby trashcan. "I'm working, you know. I can’t be dealing with all your distracting flirting right now."
"I can wait." He catches my wrist as I start to move past him, thumb brushing over my pulse point. "I've got plans for later, if you're interested."
The casual touch feels like a searing brand. After all this time and everything we’ve done together, I should be used to feeling their hands on me. But it somehow still feels new, forbidden, too good to be true. "Plans?"
"Mmhmm." He cocks his head in that way that makes me feel like a mouse facing down a coyote. "The kind of plans that'll make you forget all about whatever's got you so wound up tonight."
I wince. He's noticed—of course he has. Every man I speak to seems able to read me like an open book lately, picking up on every subtle shift in my mood, every clumsy fumble.
"I..." The rest of my response dies in my throat as his fingers trail up my forearm, feather-light but deliberate.
"Table seven's still waiting on their drinks, Rhea!"
I jump back at the alert from the kitchen pass, face burning. "Right, sorry! I should..."
"Go." Ethan's smile turns sympathetic. "I'll still be here when your shift ends."
If it’s possible, I feel even more frazzled as I hurry back to work, hyper-aware of his gaze following my every move. The promise of later has my pulse racing, thoughts of Professor Shaw's disappointment temporarily pushed aside by much more immediate desires.
For the first time tonight, my distraction has nothing to do with guilt or anxiety. Instead, I'm consumed by thoughts of playtime, wondering what exactly Ethan has planned, how he intends to help me forget my troubles. If the hungry look in his eyes is any indication, I'm in for quite a night.
***
The ropes lie in precise coils on the table in the playroom, each length measured and prepared with Ethan's borderline-obsessive attention to detail. We've done this enough times now that my body responds automatically to these familiar arrangements, heat pooling between my legs as my mind begins to drift into that alluring calm.
"Strip for me," Ethan commands softly, pulling his own T-shirt over his head until he’s standing there in just his low-hanging jeans. "Then kneel on the bed."
It takes me a few moments to move, torn as always between the instinct to obey and the primal urge to just stare at him in all his chiseled glory. For the first time, a touch of sadness creeps into my immediate lust. If we were something serious, something real, I might trace my fingertips over the ripple of his abs and confess how beautiful I think he is. I might trail kisses across the inked skin of his pecs, discover how soft and smooth it would feel beneath my lips.
But that’s not how we do things. I’m here at his command, as his toy, to do whatever he tells me to. Ethan doesn’t ask for affection, or any kind of intimacy beyond presenting my own body to him with absolute trust. I shouldn’t begin to wonder how it might feel to touch him as if he were mine.
The mattress dips as I settle into position, anticipation already building as Ethan strides towards me with the first length of rope. It slides across my skin like a silken cage, soft to the touch but thoroughly restricting, each knot placed with artful precision. He weaves an intricate harness across my torso, the pressure points grounding me, drawing me deeper into that floating headspace.
When the last knot is secured, he steps back to admire his work. My top half is completely immobilized, elbows and wrists secured behind my back so that my chest is thrust out, thighs spread wide as I sit back on my feet. The way he has to adjust himself in his jeans tells me that he enjoys this position very much. But instead of moving to touch me, he reaches down for a leather bag I've never seen before.
"I want to try something new with you tonight." The metallic sound of a zipper is a threat and a promise all at once, as it always is when my favorite sadist decides he wants to play. "But first, we need to talk a little more about boundaries."
My eyebrows must shoot into my hairline as he withdraws a knife from the bag. It's not particularly large, but the blade gleams wickedly in the low light. My lips fall open with an audible pop as I stare down this new challenge, this new danger.
"Have you ever thought about knife play before?" Ethan asks with an almost clinical interest. Whenever we discuss these things, I can’t help feeling like he’s studying me, like I’m a test subject in a lab. As always, I’m filled to the brim with the desperate desire to get perfect scores.
I shake my head, unable to look away from the blade. "No, never. But I’m not… opposed ."
"Then we'll start slow." He sits beside me on the bed, holding the knife where I can clearly see it. "This is a special blade for edge play. It’s dulled just enough to be safe, but sharp enough to feel dangerous. I won't cut you unless you explicitly ask for it. Tonight is about sensation, about exploring how your body responds to the threat."
My mouth goes dry as he explains the mechanics. How he'll use different parts of the blade to see what I like, how temperature and pressure create distinct responses. The technical details help calm my nerves even as they heighten my curiosity.
"What are your hard limits with this?" His icy eyes bore into mine, demanding complete honesty.
I consider carefully, hyperaware of my vulnerability in the bindings, of every inch of my exposed skin. "No actual cutting without plenty of warning. And...stay away from my face?"
He nods approvingly with a sort of half-grin. "Good girl. Specific limits help me keep you safe. Though, you should know I’d never dream of marking up this pretty face. What about a few grazes, if you’re into it? No areas you don’t usually have covered with clothes, just like with impact play."
"Green for those areas."
"And how are you feeling about being tied up while I use the knife?"
"Nervous," I admit, squirming a little to test my very limited range of motion. "But excited. I trust you."
Ethan’s pupils are blown wide by my confession. This is the part he loves, the part he needs, my complete and utter faith in his control. Sometimes I think hearing me say I trust him pleases him more than the sex. He wants me on a silver platter, compliant to whatever he wants even if it’s just to sit back and stare at me. Or to drag a knife across my skin.
And God help me, that’s right where he has me.
"I need you to be extra vocal with your colors during this scene. Any hesitation, any uncertainty, say yellow immediately. Understand?"
"Yes."
"And if it becomes too intense?"
"Red means stop everything."
He traces the flat of the blade along his palm, watching my reaction. "Good. Now, tell me why you want to try this. Be honest."
Though I should be used to his curiosity by now, the question catches me off guard, makes me examine the heat building between my legs. "I... I like feeling helpless with you. Knowing you could do anything but choosing to trust you anyway. And the knife..." I swallow hard. "It makes everything more intense. More real. It’s the adrenaline, I guess."
Ethan nods, that slight smile returning. There’s not much I wouldn’t do to earn myself one of those precious rarities. "The psychology of knife play is fascinating, isn't it? The way fear and arousal intertwine, how the threat of pain can be more exciting than pain itself." He stands, blade catching the light. "Are you ready to explore that with me?"
“Yes,” I whisper, the rushing in my veins feeling like I’m standing on a cliff, my toes curled right over the edge. Ethan stands and moves behind me. It’s like being blindfolded all over again, the panic and excitement rearing their heads in equal measure when I can’t see what’s coming next.
The cool metal touches my shoulder blade, and my world narrows to that single point of contact, every nerve ending coming alive. Ethan traces it down my spine with exquisite slowness, barely touching, just enough pressure to make me acutely aware of the knife's presence. I stop breathing for a moment, muscles tensing against the ropes that hold me in place.
"Breathe, little one," he soothes, his free hand coming up to stroke my hair. "Feel how sharp it is? How easily it could slice if I pressed just a little harder?"
A soft moan escapes my throat. The knife travels lower, dancing across the swell of my ass, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Every sensation feels magnified—the bite of the ropes, the cool air on my exposed flesh, the sharp tease of the blade that doesn’t hurt at all but has my heart pounding with the promise of pain anyway.
"Give me a color, Rhea." Ethan's voice has taken on that hypnotic quality that makes my mind go fuzzy.
"Green," I gasp as he circles around and drags the flat of the blade across my stomach. "So green."
He hums his approval, increasing the pressure ever so slightly. My blood thunders in my ears as he traces abstract patterns across my torso, exploring every inch of skin that peeks between the crisscrossed bindings.
"Look how your body responds," he murmurs. "The way you tremble, how your breath catches. You love this, don't you? Being completely at my mercy?"
I can only nod, lost in the contrast of cool metal and his burning gaze. The knife travels lower, skating across my hip bone, and unconsciously I spread my thighs a little wider.
"Stay still, little one," he commands. The blade stills against my flesh as a warning. "Movement could make accidents happen. Don’t make me bind your legs too."
The threat makes me moan again, frustration mounting with every second my arousal sores to new heights. I force myself to remain motionless as he resumes his exploration, but I can't suppress the soft sounds that escape my lips with each new touch.
"Pretty girl," he praises. "I could spend hours like this, watching you react to every little sensation."
The knife traces the curve of my breast, and I bite my lip. Ethan's breathing has grown heavier, his control visibly fraying around the edges as he watches my chest heave. I can only hope his patience is wearing thin. I don’t know exactly what I want him to do, but I want him to do it soon. I want him to push me further.
"Ethan," I sigh.
"Yes, Rhea?" The blade circles my nipple, the sensitive nub pebbling at the slightest touch. "Tell me what you want."
"I... I don't know." I try to conjure a coherent thought as he drags the knife down my sternum. "More. Harder."
He freezes, blade pressed against my skin. "Are you asking me to cut you?"
My heart thunders against my ribs as I consider it. Against all human instinct, I’m not in the slightest bit scared. I’m so turned on I could explode. I want to feel that sharp sting on my skin. I want marks, lasting evidence of pleasing him. I want to surrender completely to his every dark need and then I want to cling onto the physical memory for as long as possible. The memory of being here, in this room, where I am his.
And for a moment, I can pretend that he’s mine.
"I... maybe... Yes, I want to feel more."
A growl rumbles in his chest. "Fuck, you're perfect." He traces the knife to my inner thigh, the sensitive skin there erupting into goosebumps. "So brave, so willing to explore. Don’t worry, little one, I’m in no rush to push the full extent of your limits. But we can move a little faster, if that’s what you want."
He increases the pressure just slightly, enough to leave a white line in my flesh that quickly turns pink. Not breaking skin but promising what could come later. My head drops back as my eyes flutter closed, my entire being floating in this drunken haze of sensation.
"Watch," he orders me. "Watch what I'm doing to you."
I force my eyes open, looking down at where he wields the weapon with such alluring control. Ethan draws the knife up my thigh with tantalizing slowness, leaving another white graze in its wake. My muscles quiver with the effort of staying still, my feet starting to go numb beneath me. Each sharp breath feels like it might shatter me.
"Color?" I can hear every ounce of hunger in his deep voice, the raging animal that’s clawing against his rigid composure.
"Green," I pant. "Please don't stop."
He glides the blade back up my body, this time with the just point barely tickling my skin. The change in angle makes me gasp. It’s sharper, more dangerous.
"I think I would like to see you bleed, little one," he growls, tracing the column of my throat. "Would you bleed for me if I asked you to?"
I can’t think to respond right away, caught between fear and carnal desire as the blade hovers over my racing pulse. Every nerve ending in my body seems to be firing at once, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment.
But I know with absolute clarity I'll let him do anything he wants to me.