17. Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Creed
S he’s kneeling when I come for her.
No theatrics. No performance. Just a woman waiting, hands folded neatly on her thighs, eyes down but not in defeat. The way she holds herself, spine straight, shoulders settled, mouth relaxed even as the skin around her eyes tightens in anticipation, makes my pulse tick faster.
She is mine.
I stand in the doorway, letting her feel the weight of my gaze. The air between us is charged, ionized, buzzing with everything unspoken. A few breaths, then I cross the room.
I kneel in front of her. I tip her chin up with two fingers. Her eyes, blue, clear, wild, search mine for intent. She finds only truth.
“Such a good little kitten, aren’t you?”
She nods. Once. Precise.
I cup her face between my hands, run a thumb along her cheekbone, savoring the way she leans into it, so slight, so natural, like she’s been waiting for this her entire life. I want to mark her all over again. Every inch, every breath.
“Thank you,” I say. “For choosing me.”
She laughs, a quick exhale that shivers up her body. “Like there was ever another choice.”
Her voice is raw, rasping around the words. I’ve never wanted to taste someone’s voice, the way I want to devour hers.
The cabin is dead silent. Waiting. I stand, and she watches, face upturned, waiting for my next command.
I offer my hand. She takes it, her grip fierce.
I pull her to her feet, steady her when she wobbles. I lift her with both hands, one under her knees, one at her back. Carrying her to the bed, setting her down gentle, then press her shoulders until she’s lying flat.
There’s no rush. I could draw this out for hours.
From the drawer by the bed, I retrieve the rope.
Soft, natural fiber, warmed by the room. I wind it around my fist, then let it unspool, deliberate, ritualistic. Her eyes follow every motion.
“Turn over,” I say.
She rolls to her stomach, hands behind her back, wrists crossed. I tie the first knot, snug but not cruel, then test it. Her hands flex, testing my work. She nods, satisfied.
Bringing her to a sit, I loop it around her waist, over her shoulders, around her tits. The rope makes a beautiful pattern, crisscrossed over muscle and skin, a map of my intention. Laying her back down, I admire how beautifully the rope bites into her smooth skin.
She’s breathing faster now, chest rising and falling in a fast rhythm that betrays her. I run a hand down her torso, fingertips barely grazing the surface, over the bumps of the rope. She shudders.
I pause, hook my thumb into the elastic of her underwear, and pull. It comes away in one clean rip, the fabric giving with a sigh. She gasps, but there’s no fear in it. Only need.
Slowly, my hands pull apart her knees. She is perfectly immobilized, but the way her hips arch tells me she’s still trying to meet me halfway. Good girl.
I kneel between her thighs, lean forward until my mouth is at her ear.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” I say, low and even. “And you’re going to scream for me. Understand?”
She swallows, then nods, teeth flashing.
I reach between her legs, palm cupping her pussy. She’s slick already, the heat of her radiating into my skin. I slide two fingers inside, slow, savoring the tremble that runs through her body. She clenches around me, desperate, wild. I work her open, thumb circling her clit in lazy spirals.
She fights to keep quiet, jaw clenched. I don’t let her.
“Let it out,” I order. “I want to hear you.”
She moans, raw, guttural. It’s the sound of everything she’s been holding back, rage, relief, hunger, maybe even love. I pump my hand, hard and steady, until her legs shake, the rope constricting her lungs just enough to force breathy rattles from her chest.
She comes once, then again, body shaking so hard it makes the bed frame rattle.
I don’t stop. Not even when her moans turn to pleas.
Grabbing her hips, I drag her towards me and undo my jeans, push them down just enough to free myself.
I line up and push in, one hard thrust, buried to the hilt.
She screams, the sound echoing off the rafters.
I clamp a hand over her mouth, not to silence, but to claim.
Shoving my thumb into her mouth, she bites down before sucking.
I fuck her deep, rhythm brutal, every stroke meant to remind her exactly who she belongs to. The ropes strain, her skin going red beneath them, but she doesn’t complain. She takes it, every inch, every ounce, her eyes rolling back as the pleasure overwhelms.
She comes again, this time with tears streaming down her face. Not from pain. From everything.
I let myself go, pouring into her with a final, shuddering growl. I collapse forward, weight pinning her to the mattress, both of us panting, spent.
My hands come up to cradle her face, thumb wiping away the tears.
“You did so well,” I whisper. “Perfect girl.”
She smiles, weak but bright, eyes shining.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together, until her breath slows and her body goes slack.
I untie the knots, one by one, careful not to rush.
I inspect her wrists, her shoulders, her chest, every inch of skin the rope touched.
There are marks, red but clean. I reach for the lotion on the nightstand, work it into her wrists, her thighs, any and all skin on display.
She watches me, eyes half-closed, content.
I tend the wounds from yesterday. The bruises on her hips, the scrapes on her legs. I clean them, dress them, take my time.
When I’m done, I pull her against me, spoon her with my chest to her back, arms wrapped around her waist. She tucks her hands over mine, laces our fingers together.
“You never have to go back,” I say, voice soft in the darkness.
She laughs, a single, blissed-out exhale. “I never want to.”
I rest my chin on her head, inhale the scent of her, sweat, sex, and a wildness that’s all mine.
This is home.
This is everything.
I close my eyes, and for the first time in my life, I sleep properly.
The storm starts at noon.
At first, it’s just the sullen spatter of raindrops on glass, a sound so distant it barely registers.
But as the afternoon deepens, the sky hardens and the rain comes on with intent; thick, violent, hammering the cabin like it wants inside.
The fireplace is going, a muted crackle under the percussion of water.
The glass fogs, the lines of condensation race each other down to the sill.
The world outside is a smear. Nothing in here but warmth and her.
Julianna is curled up at one end of the couch, legs tucked under, a blanket heaped over her like the pelt of some great, defeated animal.
She watches the fire, chin propped on her fist, utterly still but for the way her eyes flick to me every few seconds.
I sit at the other end, feet up, a plate balanced on my knee.
The plate is loaded, bread, cheese, slices of pear.
Something is changing inside me, because for the first time, I want to feed her.
I set the plate down, slide over, and tap her ankle through the blanket.
She blinks up. “What?”
“You hungry?”
She shrugs, a tiny flex of the shoulders. “Starving.”
I take a slice of pear, then hold it out. “Open.”
She hesitates, but only for a heartbeat. Her lips part, and I push the slice inside, just enough to make her bite it. The juice runs down her chin, and I wipe it away with my thumb, then lick the taste off my skin.
She watches me, eyes darkening. I give her another bite, this time a wedge of bread smeared with butter. She takes it, chews, and lets her head fall against the back of the couch.
“I could get used to this,” she says.
I smile. “Happiness looks good on you.”
She snorts, a choked little laugh. “You’re not exactly the PTA dad type.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But give me time.”
The next bite, she snatches with her teeth, nearly catching my fingers. “Savage,” I murmur, and she grins, mouth full, cheeks going pink.
We work through the plate, trading bites. I watch her, fascinated by the mechanics of her jaw, the rhythm of her swallow. She never breaks eye contact, not for long. Every few minutes, I brush her hair off her forehead, or tuck the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
It feels… normal. Almost.
When the food is gone, she licks her lips, then stretches her feet out until they rest against my thigh. I run my palm along the ridge of her shin, feeling the old bruises, the new ones, each mark a tally of everything we’ve done to each other.
She shifts, then slithers over until she’s in my lap, blanket and all. She molds herself to my chest, arms winding around my torso. Her head finds my shoulder, the crown of her hair tucked under my chin.
I breathe her in. She smells like soap and skin and the faint, metallic tang of healing wounds.
For a while, we just sit, the rain a song in the background. I stroke her back, tracing the line of her spine through the cotton.
“Tell me something,” she murmurs, barely audible over the rain.
“Anything.”
She pauses. “What was your favorite thing as a kid? Like, before all of this. Before you started breaking people.”
The question throws me. I sort through the files in my head, most of them marked for deletion.
“Treehouses,” I say, finally. “Building them. I liked the idea of a place you could see the world from, but no one could see you.”
She hums, a lazy vibration in her chest. “That’s a good answer.”
“What about you?”
She hesitates, then: “Trampolines. We had one in our backyard. I’d jump until my knees buckled, just so I could feel weightless.”
The image is perfect. I tuck it away, a private treasure.
I tilt her chin up, force her to look at me. “If I built you a treehouse, would you live in it with me?”
She grins. “Only if you buy me a trampoline, too.”
“Deal.”