Chapter 24 #2
I drop the robe and stand naked, except for the cord. My heart’s already outpacing my breathing, which is exactly what I want. I don’t shiver, not even when the air kisses every inch of me.
He starts at my collarbone, looping the rope around and under, over the shoulder, around again, forming a cross-hatch that presses between my breasts and cinches at the sternum.
His hands are exact, the tension always perfect, neither too tight nor too loose.
As he works, he talks to me, not loud, not for the room or the audience, just for me.
“I thought about this all week,” he says, voice right at my ear. “The way the red sits against your skin. The way you look when you’re about to come apart.”
I smirk, but my pulse ratchets higher. My body already reacting to his voice and the feel of his breath on my skin.
The mirror multiplies every gesture, my face flushing, his hands moving, the careful symmetry of the pattern he’s building down my torso.
When he pauses to test a knot, he brushes the inside of my thigh, not sexual, just a systems check.
It’s more arousing than anything else he could do.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“Should I stop?”
“Never.”
He works the rope around my ribs, then down and up again in a diamond lattice that frames my waist and pulls at my center of gravity.
I feel the rope’s friction at every step, every shift.
He finishes with a wrap that splits over my pelvis and anchors at the small of my back.
I’m gift-wrapped and immobilized, but still standing.
He circles to face me, and I see us together in the mirrors. Him in a black shirt and pants, sleeves rolled, his glasses a gleam in the low light. Me, in nothing but red rope and attitude.
He lifts my chin. “Ready?”
I nod, but that’s not enough. “Please,” I say, and the word is a detonator.
He backs me up to the mirror, palms me by the hips, and kisses me hard. I feel the marks of the rope bite into my skin, grounding me in the now. His hand goes to my breast, thumb flicking over my nipple, already hard from anticipation. I moan, not loud, but enough to echo.
He pulls my hands above my head and ties my wrists together, anchoring them to the overhead suspension point. I’m on tiptoe, stretched, exposed. The mirror catches every angle. I see what he sees, and the sight turns me molten.
He leans in, mouth at my ear. “You want them to watch?”
“Why else would I be here?” I rasp.
“Look,” he says.
I do. There are silhouettes behind the glass, two, maybe three, watching. One sits perfectly still, another shifts forward, hungry. They can’t see my face, but they can see everything else. I’m a specimen, pinned and spread, the rope a set of arrows all pointing to where I’m wettest.
Aiden runs a hand down my stomach, over the diamond knots, and between my thighs.
He finds me soaked, and makes a satisfied sound.
He works me open, slow at first, two fingers then three, his other hand at my throat.
I start to lose track of the time, of the number of eyes watching.
All that matters is the push-pull, the tightness of the rope, the building pressure.
He keeps his eyes on mine, and I on his. The only break is when I look at the mirror and see us together, predator and prey, except I’m not sure which is which anymore.
He brings me to the edge, then stops. I want to scream, but I clamp my teeth. He waits for me to say it.
“Please,” I gasp, “please—”
He obliges, thumb circling my clit, fingers fucking me hard enough that the sound carries. I come, body shuddering against the restraint, pulse spiking so hard I see white. My cry echoes off the mirror, and I feel the floor under my feet vanish for a second.
He waits for the tremors to subside, then unties my hands, lowers me to the mat. He holds me up as he unties the rest, knot by knot, his hands gentle now, careful. When I’m free, he wraps me in the silk robe, then sits beside me on the padded floor. He hands me water, watches until I drink.
The aftercare is quiet. He doesn’t say much, just rubs my wrists and shoulders, tracing the spiral marks the rope left behind. I lean against him, head on his chest, and let myself float. The glass in the walls turns back to mirror, blocking out the watchers.
When I feel steady, he helps me to my feet. We walk out together, me swaddled and smiling, him with a hand at my waist.
On the main floor, the noise swells to fill the void we left. People notice us, but don’t stare. The rumors will write themselves.
I stand a little taller, marks still burning on my skin, and think, let them wonder. Let them tell stories. The truth is better than any of them could guess.
And tonight, the story is ours.
At two in the morning, I am barefoot and braless in Aiden St. James’ penthouse, cradling a tiny cactus and contemplating the question of whether I’m moving in or just marking territory.
I set the succulent on the kitchen island, right next to his monolithic espresso machine, and step back to admire the contrast. It’s prickly, inappropriate, and not the least bit ornamental. I love it.
Aiden watches me from the other side of the island, shirt unbuttoned to the third notch, sleeves rolled and forearms braced against the marble like he’s ready to negotiate a merger or stage an intervention.
He’s poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass, mine and his, neither of us pretending it’s a nightcap and not the main event.
He lifts his glass, eyes flicking between the cactus and my face. “Symbolism?”
“Survival,” I say. “Also, I know you hate plants.”
“I don’t hate them,” he says. “I hate inefficiency.”
“That cactus will outlive us both.” I take a sip, savor the burn. “You should thank me. It’s the only thing in this apartment more resilient than your NDA policy.”
He almost smiles. “The NDA is a kindness. You’d be astonished at the average person’s password hygiene.”
“I have a stronger password than you,” I say. “But you already know that.”
He raises a brow, then shifts the conversation. “I’ve been thinking about the new project launch. There’s a PDI regional conference in Munich next March, two weeks, high visibility. They want you to run point on the trade demos.”
I play with the rim of the whiskey glass. “So you want me to play arm-candy on another continent.”
“I want you to play whatever role you choose. But yes, I’ve already blocked your travel.”
It’s not a question, or a command. It’s just a given. I run a hand through my hair, loose now, the curls frizzing out after hours of knots and sweat and aftercare.
“You’re sure about that,” I say, quiet.
He leans in, voice lower. “I’m sure about you.”
For a half-second, I want to believe this is seduction or manipulation or just another negotiation. It’s safer to pretend everything is a game. But he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing he trusts to exist in the morning.
I distract myself by padding down the hall, whiskey in hand, to the bedroom.
It’s as minimalist as the rest of him—charcoal sheets, the faint scent of his soap, and not a single personal artifact except what I’ve left behind.
I add my novel to the nightstand stack, right on top, a battered paperback with my initials in the front cover.
It looks just as intimate as leaving lipstick on a collar.
Aiden is in the doorway, watching me with that analytical half-smirk.
“I reorganized your closet,” I say.
“You didn’t.”
“I did. You own exactly seven identical suits. That’s serial killer math.”
He ignores the bait, steps into the room, and stands behind me, close but not touching. “You left your shoes here last time.”
I turn, crossing my arms, heart going a little berserk in my chest. “Is that a problem?”
“I prefer it,” he says.
There’s a silence, but it’s not awkward.
I down the rest of my whiskey and crawl onto his bed, burrowing under the sheets like I own the place.
I do, for tonight. He strips off his shirt, folds it with the precision of a man who only knows order as a form of prayer, and joins me.
We lie on our backs, staring up at the ceiling, not touching.
After a while, I say, “Are you always this forward-thinking, or is this just your brand of foreplay?”
He’s quiet, then, “I don’t know what you want.”
It knocks the wind out of me, how raw he sounds. Like it costs him something to say it.
I think about the club, about the eyes on us, about how it felt to watch myself come undone in the mirror and know it was exactly what I’d chosen.
I think about the office, and the red rope, and the coffee in the morning, and how every rumor about us is both completely right and so desperately, stupidly wrong.
What I want is this. I want the long game. I want someone to remember which book I was reading three months ago, to save me a seat at the conference table, to bring me coffee even when they’re furious at me. I want to be so wanted that it stops being a liability.
I turn on my side, propped up on my elbow. “I want in,” I say.
He faces me, wary, like he’s expecting a punchline.
“I mean it,” I say. “Whatever this is. I want in.”
He breathes out, slow and shallow, and his hand finds mine under the sheet. It’s awkward at first, the way we fit together, two people who’ve spent a lifetime refusing to depend on anyone else. But we do. We fit.
We don’t fuck, not tonight. We just lie there, tethered together by hands and heartbeats, until the city outside goes silent and the sun starts creeping up the windows.
When I wake, he’s gone from the bed, but there’s a cup of coffee on the nightstand and a note tucked under it. My name, in his impossible handwriting. Underneath: “Survival is a joint venture. I’ll see you at work.”
I drink the coffee, black with one teaspoon of sugar, and smile so hard my face hurts.
The cactus sits in the kitchen window, catching the sunrise. I think it looks better here.
I think I do, too.