Chapter 12
Becki
The second his footsteps fade down the hallway, I collapse back onto the cot. The thin mattress sighs under me, the metal frame creaking like it knows exactly what just happened in this room.
Or almost happened.
For a few seconds I just lie there, staring at the ceiling’s peeling paint, letting the silence swallow the wild thundering in my chest. The air still vibrates with Royal’s presence, the leftover heat of him lingering like smoke after a match goes out.
Every part of me is buzzing. Not with fear, not with shame, but with the kind of sharp, starving need that makes my fingers tremble around the chain links.
It rushes through me in waves, hot and electric, settling low in my belly and between my thighs.
My wrist stings where the cuff chafed my skin raw earlier, but even that sting seems intimate, like something he left on me on purpose.
Royal didn’t kiss me. But he almost did. And my hand on his cock, even through his pants. The memory is a blade sliding slow under the skin.
His breath brushing my lips, his voice cracking, his control slipping thread by thread. He held that knife to my skin like he wanted to carve a promise. Biker looked at me like I was the sin he finally wanted to confess to.
And then he walked away.
Coward.
My thighs press together automatically, a small gasp escaping me as everything throbs at once. Want, anger, hunger, the memory of his breath ghosting across my mouth.
I try to breathe, try to settle, but my pulse is sprinting under my skin like I’m still pinned to that wall with his knife beside my cheek. My hips keep shifting, restless, seeking friction from the cot’s thin blanket, from anything.
I flop back, legs splayed, chain pulling taut at my wrist. The chain rattles like it’s laughing at me, like it knows exactly what kind of mess I am right now.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the dim darkness.
My voice sounds utterly wrecked. Desperate. Too honest.
I shouldn’t do this. The thought comes weakly, the last whine of whatever good sense I ever had.
I absolutely should not do this.
At Pearly Gates, we were told not to. It’s shameful.
But the second I slide my free hand down my stomach, the second my fingertips drift under the waistband of my shorts, my hips arch up like my body has been waiting all damn night for this exact moment.
My breath catches on a sharp inhale, and my toes curl before I even touch myself where I’m aching.
He did this to me.
Royal.
The biker who chained me. The man who almost kissed me. The man who touches me like he’s deciding whether to worship me or fuck me. The man who held a knife to my skin tonight and looked like he wanted to carve his name into my bones.
My fingers slip lower.
Wet.
Soaked, actually.
For him.
Moaning, I bite my lip hard to keep quiet, but the sound that slips out is needy and humiliating and so fucking desperate that my wrist jerks against the chain. The metal bites into the tender skin, reminding me I’m not free. Not from him, not from this.
“Royal…”
His name tastes like danger.
Like ownership.
Like every twisted thing inside me waking up and stretching its claws.
I rub slow circles over my clit, letting the pressure build, letting the memory of his voice settle over me.
You think you’re safe with me?
No.
But I want to be unsafe with him.
I want him to hold me down. I want him to drag that knife over my thigh again, slow and threatening, until my whole body shakes.
I want him to pin my wrists above my head, knife in one hand, me in the other, and make me say his name like a sin.
Make me submit to him. The fantasy crashes over me fast and hot and uncontrollable.
My hips buck.
God.
I’m already close.
I slide two fingers inside myself, panting, arching, imagining his cock there instead, thicker, rougher, pressing deeper than I ever could. I imagine his breath on my ear, his voice telling me to hold still, to be good, to take what he gives me.
My back bows off the cot. My breath comes in ragged little pulls.
“Fuck. Royal. Please…”
Do I even know what I’m begging for? Maybe I’m begging for him to lose control. Maybe I’m begging for him to come back through that door and do all the things he threatened without saying.
Maybe I’m begging for him to break first. Maybe I’m begging for him to mark me with that knife, to claim me in a way no one has before. Hurt me so bad, I bleed.
I thumb my clit harder, faster, chasing the edge, the chain rattling like applause.
And then it hits.
A sharp, stunning climax ripping through me so violently I slap my free hand over my mouth to smother the scream. My whole body trembles, curls inward, then bows again as the pleasure keeps rolling over me in waves. I squeeze my eyes shut so hard I see stars.
I sink back, boneless, panting.
Sweaty.
Shaking.
Alive in a way I haven’t felt in years.
The aftershocks fade slowly, leaving me staring at the ceiling with my fingers still wet between my thighs.
“Next time,” I whisper to the empty room. “You’re the one losing control.”
The chain rattles as I settle back onto the cot, a twisted smile tugging at my mouth.
Royal
I hear her the second I step into the hallway.
The sound cuts through the silence like a sin whispered in a confessional.
Soft. Breathless. Muffled like she’s trying not to be heard.
Then I hear the chain, the moans.
And it hits me where it hurts most, deep, low, molten. Heat flares beneath my skin, rough and instant, lighting every nerve like a fuse. And it’s like I didn’t just relieve myself.
I freeze mid-step, one hand braced on the wall, staring at her closed door like it’s a loaded gun pointed at my chest.
Becki’s getting off.
I shouldn’t go back.
I absolutely should not open this door.
But my hand lifts anyway, sliding the key into the lock before I’ve even decided what lie I’m gonna tell myself later.
The door opens.
I freeze.
Becki’s still on the cot, but her thighs are parted, her hand between them, the chain tight around her wrist, her chest rising and falling in the wreckage of an orgasm she’s still trying to breathe through. Her hair is matted, cheeks flushed, lips parted like she’s still coming down from the high.
Her eyes fly open when she hears me.
Not embarrassed.
Daring.
Like she’s been waiting for me to see.
Slowly, she drags her glistening fingers up her stomach, over her ribs… to her mouth.
She sucks her own fingers clean.
Then smiles.
“Shut the door, Royal,” she whispers, voice rasped from pleasure. “Or leave it open and let the whole damn club see.”
My vision goes red at the edges.
Possessive.
Obscene.
Destroyed.
The door slams shut so hard dust shakes from the frame.
I stalk toward her, every step a warning.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snarl.
She lies back on the bed, chain rattling like applause. “Replacing what you wouldn’t give me.”
I’m on her in three strides, gripping her hip so hard she gasps, pulling the knife from inside my cut with the other hand.
The blade flashes. But I don’t lift it to her throat. I press it flat to the inside of her thigh. Her breath leaves her in a trembling rush.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” I growl.
Becki
Oh, I do.
I know precisely what danger is like. It feels like cold steel against hot skin. It feels like Royal’s breath shaking just above my knee. It feels like every bad decision I’ve ever made coming back for seconds.
“You gonna hurt me?” I ask softly.
His jaw flexes. Hard. “Yes.”
The blade glides higher, slow, deliberate. Cutting. Barely breaking skin. Not just threatening it. Not just promising.
“I’ll mark you,” he says, voice low enough to crumble bone. “I’m gonna put my name so deep into you that you won’t ever forget who you belong to.”
My pulse stutters. “I’m not yours.”
His eyes go dark.
“You’re chained in my room, Becki,” he murmurs as he pulls my shorts off my legs. “And you touch yourself thinking about me. That makes you mine more than you want to admit.”
I should fight.
I should deny it.
Instead, my legs slide further apart.
The knife follows.
Up, up…almost to where I’m throbbing for him.
“Royal…” I whisper.
He looks up at me through his lashes, hunger carved into every shadow on his face.
“Say you don’t want this,” he orders.
I wet my lips. “I don’t.”
“Say you’re not begging for me.”
“I’m not.”
“Say you don’t want my knife on your skin.”
“Royal,” I breathe. “Stop.”
His grip tightens on my thigh.
And I see it. The exact moment he breaks.
Royal
I should pull the knife away.
I should shove myself back.
Walk out.
Lock the door.
Forget what her voice sounds like when she’s pleading.
Instead, I drag her shorts off. Tow the blade, safe, controlled, from the inside of her knee… to the tender skin just beside her pussy. The steel carrying the heat from my hand now, warm and cold all at once against her trembling flesh.
She jerks. Not away. Into it.
Fucking hell.
“You want to know what I’ll do to you?” I murmur against her ear.
She whimpers.
“Make you hold still while I trace every inch of you,” I say, sliding the steel between her folds, leaving goosebumps like a trail of worship. “Not to hurt you. To claim you.”
Her breath shatters.
Her hips roll.
My hand snaps to her lower belly, pinning her down.
“Don’t move,” I snarl.
Her thighs tremble. “Royal…”
“You move again,” I growl. “And I’ll use the sharp side.”
She freezes. Shaking. Aroused beyond reason. I run the blade, slow, reverent, back and forth.
“You have no idea how hard I am right now,” I say into her throat. “No idea what I’m holding back.”
She swallows. “Then don’t hold back.”
Christ.
She doesn’t understand what she’s inviting.
“I’ll fuck you,” I say. “Not your body. Your mind. You’d think about this every time you closed your eyes.”
“Good,” she whispers.
My vision tilts. My control snaps like a bone. I press the cold flat of the blade to her clit.
She gasps, arching.
I hold her down, her breath turning into a broken moan.
“Royal…”
“Say you’re mine,” I demand.
“No.”
“Say it,” I growl, pressing the steel firmer, circling slow enough to torture her.
“No,” she gasps. “I’m not.”
I growl.
But I drag the knife away before I lose the last thread of sanity I have left.
She collapses back against the cot, trembling, pupils blown wide.
I’m shaking too.
Because if she had said yes… I would’ve fucked her with the blade still in my hand.
And I don’t know if I would’ve stopped.