Chapter 5 #2
She stares straight ahead like a soldier on parade. Only the tight muscles of her ass show the energy she’s putting into keeping her legs clamped together.
“On your knees.” I growl the order beside the ear I just savaged.
She stays standing.
“You don’t know me, Kate Lynch. You have no idea what I’m capable of doing. But trust me when I say this: You want to follow my commands.” I give her a moment to tremble. “On. Your. Knees.”
She tightens that amazing ass but otherwise stays still.
“Two,” I say.
I strip the tie from my throat. I’ve never liked bowties, not since Shannon forced me into one along with fake eyeglasses and slicked-back hair, all designed to make her marks think I was a harmless dweeb.
But the black silk looks smart when I tie it around Kate’s neck. I cinch it a little tighter than necessary. I like the way the ends bob when she swallows. The silk hides the bruises left by her mother.
“Stay,” I say, like I’m training a dog.
I stalk to the bedroom then, to the closet where the Langham has left me a pair of terrycloth robes. The belts are what I need—long and flexible and impossible to tear. As long as I’m there, I toe off my polished shoes, leaving them behind with my silk socks.
Back in the living room, Kate is teasing her nipples, pinching those dark buds with both hands. At first I think she’s licked her fingers, but then I catch a whiff of melon and honey. She’s dipped between her legs to get that glistening sheen.
“Stop,” I say, choking the word short as my cock leaps to full attention.
Looking straight at me, she pinches harder—left, then right, then left again.
“Three,” I say, pulling her right hand behind her. “Four,” I add, yanking the left.
“What the fuck are you counting?” Her voice has gone rough with Irish, so it’s fook and countin’, and my cock thinks those are invitations too.
I know I should stick to business, follow my plan, but I can’t help bringing her right hand to my lips. I suck hard, scraping her skin with my teeth. Her thumb and index finger are sweeter than I thought they’d be, just a hint of salt mixed in with the fruited honey.
My cock tells me this would be the perfect time to suck her other hand, to go after both tits, too, but my brain is a hell of a lot better at delayed gratification. I tie a terrycloth leash around each of her wrists, twin square knots, twin dangling tails.
“Walk,” I say. “To the bedroom.”
She stiffens her spine in blatant defiance.
“Five.” I push hard between her shoulder blades to get her moving, but she stagger-steps to a full stop. Rather than fight, I scoop her into a fireman’s carry. Ignoring her squawk of protest, along with her flailing arms and legs, I cross to the bedroom and deposit her on the bed.
“Six,” I say as she clamps into a ball, knees to her chest, ankles together, hugging tight with her arms.
She has her safeword. She knows how to make me stop if she truly wants to be done.
But for now, she’s playing a game. She’s read books or seen movies or heard some goddamn rumors about how a sub is supposed to tease her Dom. She’s testing my limits. And soon enough, I’ll be testing hers.
She’s new to this, so I’ll keep things simple.
A crab tie will do the job—right wrist to right ankle, left to left.
She’ll be completely restrained, helpless on her back or her side or—if her shoulders can take it—splayed on all fours, with her ass in the air.
I’ll be able to take my time giving her the punishment she’s earned, along with the pleasure she deserves.
I tap her right ankle, ready to complete the first bond. “Open,” I say, because I need her legs splayed.
She pulls tighter.
“Seven.” I snarl. She’s making this hard on herself, and I’m forced to modify the medicine she’ll take. I don’t want her safewording before I’m halfway through.
“Open,” I order again, and this time I wrap my left hand around the delicate bones of her ankle. I squeeze hard so she knows I’ve reached the limit of my patience.
Her legs tighten, knees going white, thighs starting to tremble.
“Eight,” I count, banking my frustration, because an angry Dom is dangerous. Despite her playing games, I’m not ready to walk away from this scene.
I’m stronger than she is. I’m more experienced. And I’m a hell of a lot more determined. I pull her ankle toward her wrist. I lean in so I can pin her with my knee, freeing my hands to tie the necessary knot. I force her legs to splay, revealing the white canvas of her inner thighs.
For just a moment, I don’t understand what I’m looking at. There’s the creamy white flesh I crave, smooth and taut, trembling as she fights me.
But it’s not all white. There’s an angry ladder on either side, stark raised rungs etched into her skin. The marks range in color from dusky pink to raw crimson, closest to her snatch.
They’re scars, terrible in their perfect precision, climbing from old to new.
But they’re not what rocks me back on my heels. They aren’t the reason I drop her foot and retreat halfway across the room.
At the top of Kate’s right leg, just below the crease of her thigh, is a two-tone tattoo. It’s outlined in black: A wide-brimmed scarlet hat turned up in back, with the front narrowed like a bird’s pointed beak. A tattooed feather streams from the top, a trailing line of ones and zeroes.
I saw that hat this morning.
Kate Lynch might as well be screaming at the top of her lungs. She runs with the Red Cap Raiders.