Chapter 38 Angelina
thirty-eight
Angelina
The lamp casts everything in gold.
I stand three feet from the vanity mirror, the bed behind me, the door to my left.
Naked and waiting, my pulse beating steady and slow in my throat, in my wrists, between my thighs.
The air touches every inch of exposed skin, cool where sweat hasn't gathered, warm in the hollow of my throat, the crease beneath my breasts.
Cole stands between me and the door with the red silk rope coiled in his hands. The same rope from before. Last time, he asked permission.
Tonight, I'm asking for something more.
"Turn around."
His voice is low and controlled, but tight at the edges, like he's holding it in place.
I turn and face the vanity mirror. He's there behind me, dark eyes tracking down the line of my spine. Everywhere his gaze lands, my skin warms.
"I want the full bind." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Mount Fuji, gote shibari."
His chest stops moving in the glass.
"You researched."
"Three nights ago, after Chesca fell asleep." I hold his eyes in the mirror. "Diagrams, terminology, videos of women being bound while their partners narrated each knot."
The room goes quiet. In the mirror, his jaw flexes and his knuckles go white on the rope.
"Your arms will be behind you." Each word is measured. "Bound. You will not be able to—"
"I know."
"You will have no control. None." He steps closer, still not touching. "If you need to stop—"
"I remember, mercy."
His chest rises and falls too fast for a man who plans seventeen contingencies for every situation.
"Why?"
The question is barely a whisper. The rope hangs loose in his hands, forgotten.
"Because I trust you with everything I am." My voice cracks on the last word, and I hold his eyes in the glass so he can see I mean it. "And I want you to feel it."
He closes the distance. Heat radiates off him before his hands land, and the bare skin of my back prickles. Goosebumps rise along my arms, my thighs. His palms close over my shoulders, and his grip is too tight.
His fingers dig in like I'm the only solid thing in the room.
"Cole."
"I know." The word comes out rough, almost angry. "I can't—"
"Don't stop."
His forehead drops to the crook of my neck. His breath hits my skin, ragged and warm, and the fine hairs at my nape stand on end.
He murmurs something in Japanese, low against my shoulder like a prayer.
I don't know what it means. I don't need to.
He straightens. His grip loosens. And then…
The first touch of rope against my upper arms.
I inhale sharply. Cool silk, smooth and deliberate, warming where it presses into my skin. He works in silence now, intent, and I watch in the mirror as he begins to bind me.
The rope wraps around my upper arms, pulling them back. The tension is immediate, my shoulder blades drawing together, my chest opening. His fingers brush my skin as he works, and a fine tremor runs through them.
Another pass, the rope crossing over my chest in an X pattern, the center knot settling between my collarbones. Then lower, a horizontal band snugging tight just beneath my breasts, lifting them, framing them. The silk presses into the soft underside, creating a shelf that puts me on display.
Each wrap pulls my arms further back. The stretch in my shoulders deepens, persistent, not sharp, and my breath comes shorter. Warmth builds low in my belly, spreading through my pelvis with every loop.
He's binding me. I'm letting him. I want him to.
"Color?"
"Green."
He works down toward my wrists. The silk slides across the small of my back, cool then warm, layering over itself in patterns I can't see but feel at every pressure point where silk meets skin and holds. Then my wrists press together, and they're bound.
I test the restraint.
There's nothing. No give, no movement. My arms are pinned behind me, elbows bent, wrists crossed at the small of my back.
I can't push him away, can't stop him, can't do anything but trust.
My stomach drops and my chest goes tight.
Adrian held me down. This is different. I chose this. I chose him.
"Color?"
"Still green, just... feeling it." My voice wavers.
His hand slides up my spine, between my bound arms, and I'm back in this room.
"Good girl."
Heat floods low in my belly, sudden and sharp. Inner muscles clench around nothing. My thighs press together and I pull uselessly against the rope, but the restraint doesn't budge. In the mirror, his reflection smiles, slow, one side of his mouth higher than the other.
He finishes the final knots and steps back.
The woman in the glass.
My arms are bound behind me, wrists crossed at the small of my back.
Red silk creates an X across my upper chest, a tight band beneath my breasts that lifts and frames them.
My nipples are hard, flushed dark, aching for contact.
The position and the rope together put everything on display, everything offered up. My skin is pink in the lamplight.
Last time, the harness was decorative. I could still move, still reach for him.
This time, I'm his.
He moves to my left and begins to circle.
His footsteps are quiet on the hardwood, but the air stirs as he passes. My exposed side prickles where I can't see him. I try to turn, to track him, but I make myself stay still. Blood rushes in my ears.
He appears on my right, still circling. His eyes track over every inch of exposed skin, every line of rope, every place where the silk presses into my flesh.
My heart pounds and my breath comes fast, and then my shoulders drop. Every muscle I've been holding tight for eight years lets go at once.
He stops in front of me. His fingers hook under my chin, tipping my face up. His thumb presses against my pulse point, which is hammering now, giving me away.
"You're sure."
"I've never been more sure of anything."
His lips part, and his pupils blow so wide his eyes go black.
"Then we begin."
His hand trails down my throat, my collarbone, the rope across my chest. Then he moves behind me and his hand finds my bound wrists, not gentle but firm, possessive, using the rope as a handle.
He turns me and guides me with that grip, and I have no choice but to follow. My body bends, off-balance. Four steps to the bed. I stumble on the third, can't catch myself, and his free hand grips my hip.
"On the bed. Knees."
I climb up awkward without hands. He helps, guiding me onto the mattress until his hands position me where he wants me.
I'm on my knees, bent forward, my cheek pressed against the cool cotton and my arms arched behind me, useless and bound. Ass up.
The position hits me like a punch to the gut. Every part of me is exposed — the wet heat between my thighs, the vulnerable curve of my spine, the places no one sees. I'm splayed open for him, legs spread, nothing hidden, the cool air against my slick folds, and he's looking.
Oh God. Oh God. Yes.
Behind me, he shifts. The mattress dips as he kneels between my spread thighs.
He inhales sharply.
"You look—" The words die.
"What?"
His hands bracket my hips. His thumbs press into the muscle there, and they're trembling. When he speaks again, his voice barely holds:
"Like everything I've wanted for twelve years."
My breath leaves me. All of it, one long exhale that empties my lungs.
His hand slides between my thighs and finds me soaked, slick and swollen.
"This wet already?" His fingers spread me open, holding me there while he looks. His voice is reverent, disbelieving. "Just from the rope?"
"From you, all of it." I can barely breathe.
He strokes through the wetness, slow and maddening. His fingers explore without urgency, parting, circling, learning. My inner walls flutter, desperate for something to grip.
I try to push back against his hand but there's no leverage. I'm trapped at his mercy.
"You take what I give you." His voice drops. "Nothing more."
His fingers find my clit and circle.
My hips jerk. The pressure builds fast and sharp, spreading outward, tightening everything, in my nipples, my throat, the arches of my feet. I'm climbing faster than I ever have.
Close. So close. Right there.
His hand disappears.
"No—please—"
"Not yet."
His hand rests on my lower back, warm and still, while my clit throbs with the ache of almost. I can't even grip the sheets. My fingers flex uselessly behind my back.
Behind me, fabric rustling. His shirt over his head. Then his belt, the slide of leather through loops. Zipper lowering.
He adjusts behind me and his hands return to the rope at my wrists, gripping.
The head of him presses against my entrance. One breath. Two.
He enters me in one stroke.
I cry out. He's so deep he's everywhere, and the stretch burns, borders on too much. My inner walls grip him reflexively, trying to adjust, but the position leaves me nowhere to go. Nothing to do but take him.
He uses the rope to pull me back onto him, again and again. Each thrust deliberate, the slap of skin obscene in the quiet room.
"Color?"
"Green—fuck—green—"
He sets a rhythm that is relentless. Every thrust hits that spot inside me, the one that makes my toes curl and my breath stutter. I'm building again, inner muscles gripping him, heat winding tighter between my hips.
"Please. Cole, I need—"
"Not yet." He doesn't move. He stays buried inside me, thick and pulsing, and waits.
I sob. The ache radiates through my pelvis, my thighs, my spine. My clit throbs in time with my heartbeat. So close it hurts.
He does this three more times. Maybe four. I lose count.
Each time, right at the edge. Each time, he stops and waits, stays buried inside me while I breathe through the desperate, clawing need. My thighs shake so hard the tremors run up my spine. Sweat slicks my lower back, the crease of my thighs. My core muscles ache from clenching around him.
Methodical. Even now. He's taking me apart the way he plans operations — patient, precise, every move calculated to break me exactly where he wants.
"Good girl. You can take more."