Chapter 38 Angelina #2
Tears slide sideways across my cheek. Too much sensation, too much intensity, too much him.
I can't—I can't—
I could say mercy. He would stop.
But I don't want him to stop. I want to shatter.
"Let me come. Please. I'll do anything—"
His grip tightens on the rope.
"Ima."
Now.
His hand finds my clit, finally.
Two strokes and I'm gone.
I scream his name. The orgasm tears through me, everything clenching at once, so hard I can't breathe.
My ears ring and my walls clamp down on him and he groans, and still the pleasure keeps coming, rolling through me in waves that start where he's buried and pulse outward until even my scalp tingles.
He doesn't stop. He fucks me through it.
"One more."
"I can't—"
"You can." His voice is ragged. "Give it to me."
His fingers are still working. Too sensitive now, almost painful, but the pain tips into pleasure so fast I can't tell them apart. The second orgasm crests before the first fades, building on top of it, stacking, impossible.
I'm sobbing his name, incoherent, drooling onto the comforter.
The second orgasm crashes into the first.
And then he breaks.
Japanese pours out of him, his voice shattered. He comes with my name in his mouth, the heat of him pulsing inside me.
His rhythm stutters and stops.
For a moment, neither of us moves. His breath is ragged against my back, my thighs trembling, sweat between us where his chest meets my bound arms and cooling on my face.
Then he pulls out slowly. I whimper at the loss, and his hands go to my hips. He eases me down onto my side. The mattress dips as he lies behind me, chest against my bound arms, his breath ragged on my neck.
I'm still bound. He's still shaking. Both of us breathing hard.
"Angelina." My name against my neck. "My firefly."
My throat is too tight for words. I can only lie here, marked, claimed, his, and safe.
His hands are on the rope now, working the knots loose.
I'm floating. My limbs are heavy, my pulse slow. The world has narrowed to the warmth of him behind me, his chest against my back, and the deliberate movements of his fingers.
Each knot he frees, he kisses the skin beneath.
"Still with me?" His mouth is against the curve of my shoulder.
"Mmm."
"Words, Angelina." His fingers work another knot loose and the rope shifts against my skin.
"Here." My tongue is thick and slow. "Floaty. Good."
A sound from him, low and quiet, vibrating through his chest into my back, and his hands keep working. There's no rush.
My wrists come free.
He sets the rope aside and takes my right wrist in both hands. His thumbs press into the muscles, finding knots I didn't know had formed, and warmth spreads up my arm. Then the left wrist, the same careful attention.
"That feels..." My fingers curl around his, weak but there.
"I know." He presses his lips to my inner wrist where the rope left its deepest mark.
The rope across my chest loosens and falls away. Cool air hits my skin where silk was pressed and I shiver.
He traces the path where the rope bound me. Red lines mark my skin, evidence that will fade by morning.
That this happened. That I chose it. That I'm his.
He kisses each mark, slowly, deliberately.
I turn my head and press my lips to his shoulder. Salt and heat and skin.
I'm crying again, quiet tears sliding down my cheeks.
The last of the rope falls away. I'm fully untied, and the sudden lightness, my arms floating, nothing holding me together, just makes me cry harder.
He pulls me against his chest, sits up against the headboard and arranges me across his lap, my head tucked under his chin. His arms wrap around me until I'm surrounded by him, his scent. Saffron, cedar, warm skin.
His chest expands against me with a deep breath.
"Water." His voice makes it clear it's not a question.
"Not yet." I press closer, tucking my face against his neck. Mine breaks. "Just hold me."
His hand finds my hair and strokes it slow.
"Talk to me." His hand keeps moving through my hair, rhythmic.
"It's not bad, it's just... overflow." The words come between hiccupped breaths, muffled against his neck.
"All of it coming out." His other arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer.
"Yes." I flatten my palm against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath it, and count three slow beats.
"I've got you."
I know.
Neither of us speaks. His heartbeat a slow drum against my cheek. Sensation returns — every nerve ending close to the surface, tender and exposed.
"What did you say earlier?" The question surfaces slowly. I trace a lazy circle on his chest. "The Japanese, when you were tying me. That tremor in your fingers."
His arms tighten around me.
"Anata wa watashi no subete da."
My hand stills on his chest.
"What does it mean?"
"You are my everything."
Tutto. The pressure behind my sternum breaks, and I sob.
"Cole."
"It has always been true." His voice is rough. "I just couldn't say it. Not until you let me show it."
I twist in his lap until I can see his face. The lamp paints him in gold, his dark eyes on mine, his mouth soft with no tension at the corners.
"I'm yours."
"I know." There isn't a second of hesitation.
My throat closes. I swallow past it.
"And you're mine."
"Always."
The word sinks into my chest like a hand pressing flat against my sternum.
I kiss him, soft.
When I pull back, the corner of his mouth twitches.
"Was that—" I bite my lip. "Did I do okay?"
He laughs, and the sound is low and warm and rare.
"You're asking me for a performance review."
"I'm a professional." I poke his chest. "Constructive criticism welcome."
"Angelina." He catches my hand, presses his lips to my knuckles. "You were perfect."
"Even the crying?"
"Especially the crying." His thumb strokes across my palm. "It means you let go."
"I drooled on the comforter."
"I'll wash it." His thumb is still tracing circles on my palm, absent and constant.
"Very practical."
"I'm a practical man." But he's smiling now, actually smiling, soft and unguarded. "Who happens to be in love with a woman who researches Japanese rope bondage like she's preparing for oral arguments."
"I wanted to know what I was asking for."
"You wanted to impress me."
"Did it work?"
He pulls me closer, tucks my head under his chin. "I've been impressed by you since the day you corrected my Italian in the university library."
I tuck into him. My hand finds the place over his heart where the firefly lives beneath his skin.
He's permanent now. Under my skin the way I'm under his.
The lamplight catches on the rope pooled at the foot of the bed, red silk coiled like a promise.
"Sleep," he says.
"Stay."
"Forever."
I believe him.