Chapter 5
Ben
The human ankle is a masterpiece of engineering. It’s a complex hinge joint, a delicate interplay of the tibia, fibula, and talus, bound together by ligaments that are deceptively strong until the moment they aren't.
I knew the anatomy of the ankle better than I knew the back of my own hand. I could draw the deltoid ligament from memory. I could recite the insertion points of the peroneus longus in my sleep. Kinesiology was my major, and the human body was my map.
But staring at Ivy’s ankle, currently resting on my thigh, I wasn't thinking about ligaments. I wasn't thinking about torque or range of motion.
I was thinking about how soft the skin was right behind her malleolus bone. I was thinking about how her calf muscle, lean and defined from years of brutal training, twitched under my thumb every time I applied pressure.
I was thinking about how much I wanted to bite her.
"You're staring," Ivy said. Her voice cut through the heavy silence of my bedroom, laced with that bratty, self-satisfied tone she had perfected over the last three days.
I didn't look up. I kept my thumb digging into the knot in her arch, working the tension out with methodical precision. "I'm assessing inflammation. Shut up."
"You've been assessing inflammation for twenty minutes, Ben. At this point, I think you're just enjoying fondling my foot."
I looked up then.
She was sitting on the edge of my desk, her good leg dangling, her injured one propped on my lap as I sat in my rolling chair.
She was wearing one of my t-shirts again—this one a black undershirt that hung off one shoulder—and a pair of tiny sleep shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
She was holding her Kindle, reading one of those smutty books she was addicted to, but her eyes were on me. They were hazel and bright, dancing with amusement. She thought this was a game. She thought playing with me was safe because I had set the rules.
She had no idea how close she was to the edge.
"It’s called soft tissue mobilization," I said, my voice dry. "And if you want to dance in two weeks, you’ll let me finish. Unless you want to go back to icing it with a bag of frozen peas in the basement."
"I like the massage better," she admitted, shifting slightly. The movement made the hem of her shorts ride up.
I saw the flash of pale skin at the top of her thigh. My jaw tightened.
"Stop moving," I commanded.
"I can't help it. It tickles. And it hurts. It’s a confusing sensation."
"That's the point," I muttered, returning my focus to her foot. "Pain and pleasure. They run on the same neural pathways. Your brain gets confused."
"Is that a medical fact, Doctor Sterling?"
"It is."
"Hmm." She tapped her chin with the Kindle. "That explains a lot about the book I'm reading."
I applied a strip of kinesiology tape to her ankle, smoothing it down over her skin. The friction generated heat. "Is that right? What happens in the book?"
I shouldn't have asked. I knew I shouldn't have asked.
But I couldn't help it. The "Deal" we had made in the basement—that I would fix her ankle and "teach" her in exchange for her obedience—had created a strange, volatile ecosystem in my room.
We spent hours here. Me studying or rehabbing her injury, her reading or stretching.
It was domestic. It was quiet. And it was the most erotically charged environment I had ever been in.
"Well," Ivy began, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "the heroine, Elara, just agreed to let the billionaire, Sebastian, tie her to his headboard. But she’s nervous. She’s never given up control before."
I smoothed the last piece of tape down. I didn't let go of her ankle. I let my hand rest there, my thumb tracing small circles on her skin.
"And?" I prompted.
"And... he tells her that she doesn't have to worry. Because he’s going to do all the thinking for her. He tells her..." She paused, glancing at the screen, a blush rising on her cheeks. "He tells her: 'You don't have to be good, Elara. You just have to be mine.'"
She looked at me over the top of the device. "Do you think guys actually talk like that? Or is it just written by women who have never met a real man?"
I held her gaze. The air in the room thickened, pressing in on us. The storm outside was still raging, snow pelting the window, sealing us in this capsule of heat and tension.
"Guys talk like that," I said quietly. "When they mean it."
Ivy’s breath hitched. She lowered the Kindle. "Really? Because mostly I just hear 'sup' and 'u up?' texts."
"That's because you hang out with boys, Ivy. Not men."
I stood up.
The sudden movement made her eyes widen. I was big. I knew that. I used my size on the ice to intimidate, to clear the crease. In this small room, with the slanted ceilings and the dim light, I took up all the oxygen.
I stepped between her legs.
She was still sitting on the desk, which put her at eye level with my chest. She had to tilt her head back to look at me. Her pulse was fluttering in her throat like a trapped hummingbird.
"Is the lesson starting?" she whispered. Her voice was shaky, breathless.
"Lesson?" I placed my hands on the desk on either side of her hips, boxing her in. "I thought we were doing rehab."
"We finished the tape," she pointed out. Her hands came up to rest tentatively on my biceps. I felt her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt. "My ankle feels... stable."
"Good. Because we're moving on to a different muscle group."
"Which one?"
" The brain."
I leaned down until my face was inches from hers. I could smell the vanilla lotion she slathered herself in. It was sweet, innocent. It clashed violently with the dark, predatory hunger waking up in my blood.
"You like reading about it," I murmured, glancing at the Kindle she had set down next to her hip. "You like the idea of submission. Of giving up control. But reading isn't doing, Ivy."
"I know," she breathed. "That's why... that's why I asked you."
"Do you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Even though I'm an asshole?"
A small smile tugged at her lips. "Especially because you're an asshole. You're predictable. You like rules."
"I do like rules," I agreed. "And Rule Number One of this arrangement is simple: You don't tease unless you're ready to back it up."
She swallowed hard. "Was I teasing?"
"You've been reading porn out loud to me for three days while wearing my t-shirt and no pants. Yes, Princess. You've been teasing."
I moved my hand from the desk to her thigh.
Her skin jumped under my touch. My palm was rough, calloused from the stick, from the gym. Her skin was silk. The contrast was visceral. I slid my hand up, slowly, deliberately. Just an inch. Then two.
"Ben," she gasped.
"Relax," I ordered softly. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm just exploring the anatomy."
"You're... high up."
" The femoral artery runs through here," I lectured, my voice calm, clinical, while my thumb pressed into the soft flesh of her inner thigh. "Major blood supply to the lower limb. If I press here..."
I pressed my thumb into the junction of her hip and thigh.
Her head fell back. A soft, strangled moan escaped her throat. "Oh god."
"See?" I whispered. "Neural pathways. Confusion."
"I'm not confused," she panted, her eyes fluttering shut. "I'm... frustrated."
"Good."
I moved my other hand to her waist, gripping her hip bone to hold her steady. I wasn't gentle. I wanted her to feel the anchor of my grip. I wanted her to know she wasn't going anywhere until I said so.
"Open your eyes, Ivy."
She struggled to open them. They were heavy, glazed with lust. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The brat was gone. The heiress was gone. There was just a woman, unraveling for me.
"Spread your legs," I commanded.
She hesitated for a microsecond—the reflex of a lifetime of being told to be a 'good girl' in the wrong way, to sit like a lady, to cross her ankles.
"Ivy," I warned, my voice dropping to a growl. "For me."
She let out a shaky breath and widened her knees.
The sight nearly broke me.
She was wearing flimsy white cotton shorts. I could see the outline of her heat dampening the fabric. I could smell her arousal now, mixing with the vanilla. It was a musky, sweet scent that went straight to the primitive part of my brain and short-circuited all logic.
I wanted to rip the shorts off. I wanted to bury my face in her. I wanted to claim her in the most primal way possible.
But I couldn't. Not yet. She was a virgin. She was fragile. And she needed to learn that I could control this. That she was safe because I had the wheel.
"Good girl," I praised.
The effect of those two words was instantaneous. She melted. Her shoulders dropped, her spine curved, and she leaned forward, resting her forehead against my chest.
"I like that," she mumbled into my shirt.
"I know you do. You're starved for it."
I slid my hand higher, my fingers brushing against the cotton of her shorts, right over her center.
She bucked into my hand. An involuntary, desperate movement.
"Easy," I murmured. I didn't give her what she wanted. I kept my hand still, just the weight of my palm resting against her heat. "We aren't rushing. You rush everything. You dance until you break. You talk until you run out of air. Tonight... we go slow."
I started to move my hand in small, agonizingly slow circles over the fabric.
"Ben, please," she whimpered. She bit my shirt. "It’s... it’s too much."
"It's not enough," I corrected. "You don't even know what too much is yet."
I slipped my hand under the leg of her shorts.
Skin on skin.
She hissed, her nails digging into my biceps. "Cold. Your hands are cold."
"They'll warm up."
I bypassed her center, sliding my fingers down to her inner thigh again, then up to her hip, teasing the edges. I was mapping her. I was learning the geography of her pleasure. Every twitch, every gasp, every hitch in her breath was data.
"You're torturing me," she accused, breathless.
"I'm teaching you," I said against her ear. "Lesson Two: Anticipation is better than the act."