Chapter 10 #2
He groans behind me, like the words cost him something, like they snapped whatever control he’d been holding by the throat. His hands grip my hips tighter, dragging me back onto him as he starts to move with more intent, more power, not frantic but no longer careful either.
“Fucking perfect,” he growls. “So tight. So wet. Look at you. I can feel your cunt flutter every time I say your name.”
“You haven’t,” I pant.
“What?”
“You haven’t said my name.”
He laughs again, this time darker, meaner. “You want that too?”
“Yes,” I admit, because I’m past shame, past reason.
“You’ll earn it.”
He angles his hips, thrusts again, and this time it hits something brutal and blinding. My mouth opens in a silent scream before the sound rips out anyway. He does it again, and again, holding me steady while I fall apart under him.
“Oh, she likes that,” he mutters. “You hear yourself?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whimper, the title tumbling out before I can stop it.
“Good girl,” he says, and this time it’s with heat. Approval. Possession.
He moves one hand between my legs, fingers sliding over the slick mess there, finding the spot that’s already pulsing and too sensitive, and presses. I jolt hard. My whole body lifts.
“Don’t you dare,” he says, voice firm. “Not without permission.”
“I can’t,” I cry. “I can’t hold it—”
“You will.”
His rhythm changes. Slower. Crueler. The kind of thrusts that go deep enough to knock the wind out of me, followed by soft, teasing touches that make me twitch and beg. My skin feels too tight. My eyes sting. My thighs shake so violently I can’t tell if I’m trying to push away or pull him deeper.
“I’m gonna come,” I plead. “Please—please, I need—”
“Not yet,” he says again, and this time he sounds closer to the edge than I am.
His grip climbs up my back, strong fingers spreading over my spine, pressing down until I arch for him involuntarily.
“I’m not done using you.”
That shatters something inside me. Not my will—my control.
I fall into the rhythm helplessly, meeting every thrust with what little range the restraints allow. He’s breathing harder now. Grunting under his breath. His body slaps against mine with wet sounds that echo off the walls. Every thrust is sharper. Every sound that leaves him is more desperate.
“You’re doing this to me,” he hisses. “You and this perfect, greedy fucking cunt.”
My eyes roll back. I swear. I scream. I claw at the restraints.
Then his hand releases one of my wrists. Then the other. I collapse forward, but his arm snakes around my waist, catching me, hauling me back up as he fucks into me even harder.
“Now,” he growls. “Now you can come, Lila.”
I do. Violently. Without warning. Without breath.
My body seizes and clenches and writhes around him, every nerve detonating, every inch of skin singing. My orgasm rips through me like a full-body scream, and I scream with it, wild and hoarse and honest.
He follows with a groan that turns into a growl, his hips jerking forward in a final desperate push. I feel him spill inside me, feel the pulsing warmth, feel his fingers dig into my waist as he rides it out with a raw, broken sound I’ll never unhear.
He stays there for a long time. Buried. Still. Breathing like he’s been through war.
Then he exhales hard and kisses the back of my neck.
He stays buried for a moment longer, his breath fanning against the back of my neck, one hand still locked around my waist, the other flexing where his fingers dug in.
Then, slowly, he pulls out. I whimper at the sudden emptiness. He hushes me softly, lips brushing my shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Stay right there.”
His hands move with purpose now, not rushed, but steady—first loosening the cuffs, unbuckling the straps, releasing me from the frame. My arms drop with a dull ache, wrists tingling as blood rushes back into them, and I collapse against him, spent and boneless.
“Easy,” he says, catching me. “Arms around my neck.”
I do as he asks. He lifts me clean off the ground like I weigh nothing, one arm under my thighs, the other across my back. My head drops to his shoulder without thought. His scent is warm now—salt and heat and something that still makes my stomach twist in the best way.
He carries me out of the playroom without a word, through the hall, into the soft light of his bedroom. The sheets are already pulled back. The air smells faintly of eucalyptus.
He sets me down gently on the edge of the bed, brushes my hair back from my face, then kneels to pull off my heels one by one, careful not to jostle my legs.
“Color?” he asks softly, looking up at me.
I nod. “Green. Just sore.”
That earns me a quiet smile. “Good.”
He disappears for a moment. I hear water running, something clinking in the kitchen. When he returns, it’s with a warm cloth in one hand and a bowl in the other.
“You’re going to eat this before you crash,” he says, tone leaving no room for argument. “And then you’re going to sleep in my bed, where I can keep an eye on you.”
He sits beside me, shifting so I’m nestled between his legs, back against his chest. The first bite is offered with the spoon already half-lifted.
It’s stew—chicken and rice, gently spiced, still steaming. He feeds it to me slowly, one careful spoonful at a time, letting me chew, watching me swallow, brushing the corner of my mouth when something spills.
“Good girl,” he says when I finish, and the praise lands deeper than it should.
He sets the bowl aside and grabs the cloth again, warm and damp and clean. I hiss when it touches between my thighs, and his grip tightens gently on my knee.
“I know,” he murmurs. “You did so well. Let me take care of the rest.”
He wipes me down with steady hands, cleaning me with more reverence than I expected, checking for marks with his fingers as he goes. Every now and then, he pauses to press a kiss to the inside of my knee, the top of my thigh, the base of my spine. Not sexual. Not possessive. Just…grounding.
When he finishes, he helps me into one of his shirts—soft, worn, impossibly large—then tucks me under the blanket, wrapping the covers around me before sliding in beside me.
His arm comes around my waist instantly, tugging me against his chest. His heartbeat is steady. His body is warm. I melt into it without resistance.
“You’re safe,” he says, voice a low rumble at my ear. “Right here. With me.”
I nod, eyes already heavy. My body is warm, loose, and tucked under the weight of his arm, but my mind won’t stop spinning, not even as exhaustion pulls at me. I want this again, not just tonight but tomorrow, and the next day, and maybe even after that, which is the part that scares me the most.
It’s not the bruises or the restraint or the fact that he could probably ruin me without breaking a sweat—it’s that I liked all of it, and I’m already craving more.
He’s not gentle in the way most people mean it, but he’s careful, and that might be worse, because it means he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I don’t think I’m strong enough to pretend I don’t feel what he’s doing to me. He’s possessive and dangerous in ways he doesn’t try to hide, and if I’m being honest part of me doesn’t want him to.
But the rest of me is already asking the only question that matters—
If I go deeper, I’ll risk losing myself to him completely. So do I stay…or do I run?