Chapter 17LARK #3
He tries to keep the rhythm steady, but I feel the tension in him, the way his muscles flex beneath my palms, the way his breath shortens with every slick glide of my mouth. He’s close already, I can tell. He’s trying not to be.
“Shit—fuck,” he breathes, his grip tightening like he’s about to pull away but can’t bring himself to.
I don’t let him pull away. Instead, I press forward, taking him deeper, pushing until he hits the back of my throat, my eyes stinging as I breathe through my nose and hold him there.
His body goes rigid, every muscle locked tight, and I feel it—the way he’s shaking, barely keeping it together, barely hanging on.
“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, “you’re gonna make me lose it. ”
I pull back just a little, lips wet, jaw aching in the best way. My hand wraps around him, stroking slow, watching the way his chest rises and falls like he’s outrunning something only I can name. His eyes stay on me, dark and desperate.
“You like that?” I ask, taunting, dragging my thumb along the head of his cock, feeling the way it twitches under my touch. “You like hitting the back of my throat, don’t you?”
He groans, low and broken, the sound ripping from his throat.
God, the way I love him like this. Unraveled. Breath uneven, jaw slack, every careful thread of control slipping through his fingers—and he lets it. For me.
Boone’s always been the steady one. The calm in every storm. All quiet strength and unshakable presence. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t break. But right now? He’s ruined. His need isn’t quiet or polite. It’s loud. Messy. Honest. And all of it is mine.
It’s muscle memory—the way he touches me, the way I open for him.
Takes me back to high school, when we were sixteen and reckless with each other, always reaching, always needing.
Mornings before school when I’d slide into his truck, and before he could even say hello, I was in his lap, pulling his zipper down.
My mouth on him, his hand in my hair, steering with the other like nothing else in the world mattered but getting off and getting there.
We made a religion out of backseats and barns. Behind the hay bales, dirt in our lungs, my knees raw from gravel and want. The scent of hay and sweat and him everywhere. I lived for it. For how he came apart when I touched him.
“Say my name,” I whisper, my mouth grazing over him, my tongue teasing. “Say it, Boone. Tell me who’s on her knees for you.”
His head falls back, a curse torn from his throat, rough and desperate. That jaw—clenched so tight it could snap. The sound he makes isn’t even human. It’s a growl, a surrender, a plea.
“Lark,” he grits out. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
And God, I hope I do .
His whole body jerks, his hips starting to lose rhythm, control slipping fast.
“Fuck—shit—I’m not gonna last.”
I don’t let up. If anything, I work him harder. Mouth and hand in sync, slick and steady, until he’s barely breathing, eyes clenched shut like he’s hanging on by a thread.
“Lark, fuck. We have to stop. I wanna come inside you,” he rasps.
I stop just long enough to let my tongue flick over the tip of him, slow and deliberate, before I lift my gaze. His eyes snap open—wild and dark, filled with that thing I can’t name but feel all the way in my bones.
Need. Want. Me.
Boone bends to dig through the pile of his clothes, and when his hand comes back with that rope—the thick, scratchy one I clocked earlier—my heart stutters. My cunt clenches, like it’s already dripping in anticipation of being split open and completely fucking used.
And then it hits me—what he’s about to do. What that rope’s for. What I’m for.
Holy shit.
He’s never tied me up before. Never restrained me. But he doesn’t ask if I want it. He knows. He sees it all over my face, in the way I suck in a breath and sway toward him like a goddamn heat-seeking missile.
There’s no fumbling. Just Boone grabbing my wrists and pressing them together like he’s been fantasizing about this very moment.
His hands are steady, rough as he starts to loop the rope.
Each pull of the fibers scrapes against my skin, the friction biting, digging in, making my skin burn and my pussy ache.
It’s not gentle.
It’s ownership.
Once he’s done wrapping, he tugs my arms up and ties the end to one of the beams overhead. My whole body stretches with it—breasts rising, stomach pulled tight, legs instinctively spreading because there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. I’m on display, just for him.
And God, I love it .
I should be embarrassed. Scared, even. But all I feel is this wicked rush—hot and sharp and curling low in my belly like I might combust if he doesn’t do something soon.
I’ve never let anyone see me like this. Never trusted someone enough to be so bare. But Boone? Boone’s not just someone. Boone knows me—knows how I breathe, how I break, how to hold all the shattered pieces together and still make me feel like fire.
His fingers skim the rope, tugging, checking. “Too tight?”
It is. It burns in the best way. I can feel my heartbeat in my wrists.
But I shake my head, lips parted, breath catching. “No.”
His mouth curves, slow and smug, like he knows damn well I’m lying but loves that I’m willing to take it anyway. “Of course it’s not,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my collarbone. “Because you’re my good girl, aren’t you?”
Fuck. That tone. That voice. I swear I could come from that alone.
His hands run down my arms, over the swell of my breasts, fingers teasing, tugging, taking. Not asking. Claiming. He palms one breast, then the other, thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard and aching, until I’m arching into his touch like some shameless thing begging to be used.
Then his mouth is there—hot and wet and hungry. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling before his teeth graze over it, and I whimper.
The rope digs into my skin as I strain against it, my whole body desperate and writhing, but I don’t want to escape. I want to drown in this. In him.
Boone pulls back, lips shiny, eyes dark. “You feel how wet you are for me?” he growls, slipping his hand between my thighs and cupping my cunt like it’s his favorite fucking thing. “You’re soaked. Fucking dripping, baby.”
I choke on a gasp as his fingers slide through the mess he’s made of me. I can hear it—the wet, obscene sound of my body begging.
“Goddamn, look at you,” he says, thumb brushing over my clit like he owns it. “Tied up, tits out, your pretty pussy leaking all over my hand.”
I moan. Loud. Shamefully loud. I don’t even care .
Because here, like this—with rope on my wrists and Boone’s voice in my ear—I don’t feel weak. I feel indestructible. I feel like the center of the universe. Like I’m his whole world, and he’s mine.
And I’d let him ruin me a thousand times just to feel this again.
I shiver, hard. Can’t help it. My skin’s already hypersensitive, and the second Boone drags his teeth across my stomach again, I swear I forget how to breathe. He chuckles—low, cocky, dark—and it vibrates straight through me like a fucking weapon.
And then he does it again. Teeth. Lips. That scrape of stubble that should hurt but doesn’t—it just lights me up.
He’s not in a rush. Boone never is. He takes his time, mouthing at every inch of me like he’s got a goddamn checklist. Like he’s memorizing the taste of my sweat, the curve of my waist, the way I arch when he licks my skin.
By the time he gets lower, my thighs are trembling, chest heaving, body strung tight like I might snap with the next breath. His mouth hovers just above the mess between my legs and I twitch—full-body, desperate—as the heat of his breath ghosts over me.
And he hasn’t even fucking touched me yet.
“Always so impatient,” Boone says, dragging his nose along the inside of my thigh like a fucking tease. “Like you don’t already know I’d give you anything you want.”
And that’s the problem. I do know. He’d hand me the world if I asked for it. But right now, I only want his mouth. Right there.
His eyes drop, laser-focused on where I’m dripping for him. Then—slow as sin—he slides two fingers through it. I make this involuntary sound, all throat and need, and Boone just lifts his fingers, coated in me, and holds them right in front of my mouth.
“Open.”
And I do. My lips part, and he pushes those fingers in deep—past my tongue, down my throat—and watches me choke on the taste of my own cunt like it’s the best fucking view he’s ever had.
“Shit,” he growls, jaw tight. “You look so fucking perfect when you’re choking on the taste of your own pussy.”
I moan around his fingers, eyes on his, filthy and unashamed. I suck him in deeper, tasting everything—salt, heat, me—and it’s like setting a fuse. When he finally pulls them out, dragging over my tongue, I gasp like I’ve just been yanked out of water, spit-slick and totally fucking gone.
But Boone doesn’t let me come up for air.
He kneels between my thighs like a man at prayer, but there is nothing holy about the way his mouth moves over me—slow, devoted, sinful. Each breath against my skin feels like worship, and it’s my undoing.
He licks me like he’s starving—flat tongue, hard pressure, zero mercy. One long, brutal drag that makes me see stars.
He groans into me like he’s drinking something he’ll never get enough of.
And then he finds my clit—flicks it once, twice—and sucks. Hard. His hands clamp around my thighs to keep me in place, and I thrash. I’m panting, straining, a live wire sparking in real time, and he just stays there—mouth locked on, tongue relentless, like he’s got something to prove.
“Boone—fuck—”
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, lips shiny, chin soaked.
“I want you screaming,” he says. “I want you losing your fucking voice over me.”
And then he dives back in.