Chapter 4
LUKE
She's magnificent when she's trapped.
I watch her back away from me, eyes wide and wild, chest heaving. The ruined sugarplum fairy costume clings to her body—torn tulle revealing more skin than it covers, rhinestones catching firelight and making her sparkle like the princess she is.
She's dirty from the dirt buried beneath the snow, scratched from low-hanging branches, trembling from exhaustion and cold. Her fishnets hang in tatters. The small crown that was perched so perfectly on her head now sits askew, tangled in red hair.
She's a complete mess.
She's absolutely perfect.
The workshop bedroom is everything I imagined it would be and more—intimate, warm, romantic in a dark fairy tale way.
Red silk sheets that will look stunning against her bare body.
A fireplace casting dancing shadows. Fur rugs soft enough to cushion her.
And in the corners, those special chains attached to the bedframe.
But those are for later. Right now, I have other plans.
She hits the bedpost with her back and freezes, realizing she's out of room. Her bound hands come up defensively, velvet rope still holding her wrists together. Such a pretty pink binding.
Every detail matters. Every choice serves a purpose.
"Nowhere left to run, sugarplum?" I murmur, taking another slow step forward.
Her throat works as she swallows hard. She's terrified. Aroused. Fighting both with everything she has.
It's intoxicating.
I've been patient. I've given her the chase she needed, let her run and hide and fight. Now it's time to touch.
"I’m done chasing you," I say softly, unwinding more of the Christmas lights. "I’d like to have my way with you."
She presses harder against the bedpost, as if she could somehow melt through the wood. Her eyes track the lights in my hands, watching them pulse red then white then red again. I can see the endless possibilities running through her pretty little head.
Good. Let her imagination run wild.
I'm going to do all of it.
"Stay away from me," she says, but her voice lacks conviction. It's breathy, shaky, undercut by the way her body leans slightly toward me.
I smile. "Now sugarplum, we both know you don't mean that."
"I do. I—" She cuts off as I take another step, close enough now that I could reach out and touch her. "Please. Just let me go and I won’t tell anyone."
"Let you go?" I angle my head. "After I went to all this trouble? After I built this entire winter wonderland just for you?"
Confusion flickers across her face, but she comes up wordless.
I take the final step forward, eliminating the space between us. She gasps, pressing back against the post, but there's nowhere for her to go. I'm close enough now to see the melted snowflakes on her eyelashes, close enough to smell winter and sugar on her skin mixed with…
Arousal.
I can smell it on her, that betraying scent that says her body knows exactly what it wants even if her mind is fighting it.
"Please," she whispers again, but this time it sounds different. Less like a plea for mercy and more like... she needs this as badly as I do.
I reach out slowly, letting her track the movement of my hand. She flinches when my fingers touch her wrist, but she doesn't pull away.
She just watches me with those wide eyes as I trace the velvet rope binding her wrists together.
"Such soft rope," I murmur. "I chose it specifically. Pretty and pink, just like you."
My fingers trail up her forearm, feeling the way she shivers beneath my touch. Her skin is cold from the snow, pebbled with goosebumps, but warming quickly.
"You're freezing," I observe, my hand moving higher, skimming over her bicep to her bare shoulder. "Should have worn something warmer."
"You—" Her voice breaks, her frustration obvious. "You dressed me in this."
"I supposed I did." I let my hand drift along her collarbone, feeling the way her breath hitches. "I thought you'd look beautiful as a sugarplum fairy. Was I wrong?"
She doesn't answer, just stares at me with those wide, confused eyes. My hand slides up to cup the side of her neck, thumb pressing gently against her racing pulse.
"Your heart is pounding," I say softly. "Are you scared, sugarplum? Or is it something else?"
"I don't—" She tries to turn her face away, but I hold firm. Not painful, just insistent. "I don't know what you want from me."
"Liar." I lean in closer, my mouth near her ear. "Your body knows. Even if your mind is fighting it, your body knows exactly what it wants."
She makes a sound—half gasp, half whimper—that goes straight to my cock.
I've been hard since the moment I saw her wake up in the snow, but this... touching her finally, feeling her warmth, hearing those little sounds she makes... this is testing my control.
My free hand comes up with the string of Christmas lights, and I let them slide across her skin. Down her other arm, across her chest just above the bodice of her costume, along the bare skin of her throat.
She shudders so sweetly.
"Let's see how pretty you look wrapped up for me," I whisper against her ear.
That breaks whatever spell was holding her frozen. She twists hard, using the bedpost as leverage, and manages to shove against my chest with her bound hands. I let her push me back a step—just one—because I want to see what she'll do.
She darts to the side, trying to slip past me toward the door.
Not happening.
I move with her, faster than she expects, and catch her around the waist. She struggles immediately, all that gorgeous fire finally igniting. Her bound hands beat against my chest and shoulders, her body twisting in my grip.
"Let me go!" She's panting, fighting hard, and it's exactly what I wanted.
I tighten my grip and spin us around, walking her backward until her back hits something solid.
Not the bedpost this time. The wall next to the fireplace, where I'd positioned one of the massive evergreen trees. It's wrapped in red lights that glow softly, and when I press her against it, the bark must dig into her back through the thin fabric.
She gasps, hands pushing against my chest, but I'm so much stronger. So much bigger. I press my body against hers, pinning her to the tree, and she has nowhere to go.
"Stop fighting," I say, but there's no real command in it. I don't want her to stop. I love this—the struggle, the resistance.
"Fuck you," she spits, and then her knee comes up toward my groin.
I block it with my thigh, pressing my leg between hers and forcing them apart. The move puts me even closer, our bodies aligned in ways that make her breath catch and my control slip another notch.
"Is that any way to talk to your captor, sugarplum?" I ask, voice dark with amusement.
She glares at me, defiant even now, and tries to headbutt me.
I catch her chin with my free hand, forcing her to look at me. "Careful. I like the fight, but I won't let you hurt yourself."
"Let me go," she says again, but her voice has changed. It's still demanding, still fighting, but now she’s breathless.
"No." I press closer, letting her feel every inch of my body against hers. Letting her feel exactly how much I want her, how hard I am. "Not until I'm done with you."
Her eyes widen, and I see the moment she feels my erection pressing against her stomach. She goes still, just for a second.
Then she starts fighting again, harder this time, desperate. But her body betrays her—I feel the way she arches slightly into the pressure, the way her breath comes faster, the way her nipples have hardened beneath the thin bodice.
I grab both her bound wrists in one hand and pin them above her head against the tree. The position arches her back, presses her breasts toward me, and makes her completely vulnerable.
She's breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly, rhinestones catching light with each movement. The red glow from the lights wrapped around the tree paints her skin in crimson.
My dark fantasy.
"You're so beautiful like this," I murmur, my free hand trailing down her raised arm, along the side of her breast, down to her waist. "Trapped. Desperate. Fighting even when you know you can't win."
"I hate you," she gasps.
"Liar." My hand skims lower, over her hip, gathering the torn tulle of her skirt in my fist. "Your body is telling me something very different."
I press my thigh more firmly between her legs, and she can't stop the moan that escapes. The sound is tortured, like it was ripped from her against her will.
"That's it," I encourage, grinding my thigh against her core. "Stop fighting what you feel."
"No." But she's moving against my thigh now, just slightly, her hips rolling in a rhythm that's pure instinct. "No, this is wrong. You're—"
"What?" I lean in, my mouth hovering just above hers. So close I can feel her breath. "What am I, sugarplum?"
She stares at me, and I see so many emotions warring in her eyes. Fear. Arousal. Confusion.
"Tell me," I press, my hand sliding higher under her tulle skirt, fingers brushing the inside of her thigh. "What am I?"
"A monster," she whispers, but her legs spread wider, giving me better access.
I smile darkly. "If I'm a monster, what does that make you? The one who's getting wet for me despite everything?"
Her face flushes with embarrassment. My fingers trail higher, teasing, and I feel the heat of her even through the thin panties beneath the costume. She's soaked through. Absolutely drenched.
"This," I say, pressing my fingers against her through the fabric, "tells me everything I need to know about what you want."
She whimpers, and her hips buck involuntarily against my hand. She's so responsive. Every touch makes her react, even as she tries to fight it.
I press harder, feeling how her body trembles, how close she is to giving in completely. Just a little more pressure, a little more friction, and she'd come apart against my hand.
But not yet. Not like this. I have plans for her first orgasm tonight.
I pull back slightly, and she makes a sound of protest that she immediately tries to smother.
"See?" I murmur, leaning in so my lips brush her ear. "You don't want me to stop. You want me to keep going. You want me to touch you properly and make you come so hard you forget why you were fighting."
"No," she says, but it's weak. Unconvincing.
"Yes." I release her wrists and bring the Christmas lights up between us. "But first, I'm going to decorate you properly."
Her eyes go wide as she realizes what I'm planning. I loop the lights around one wrist, then reach for the other—
She moves fast, ducking under my arm and trying to slip away. I catch her immediately, but she's slippery, desperate, fueled by adrenaline and panic. She twists out of my grip and stumbles toward the door.
I could catch her. Should catch her. But this game isn't over yet, and part of me wants to see how far she'll get. I can give her one more run before I finally bring her down for good.
So I let her reach the door. Let her fumble with the lock and get it open and stumble out into the snow.
Then I follow.
The cold air hits like a slap after the warmth of the workshop, but I barely feel it. My blood is running too hot, my focus too sharp. She's running again—barefoot, exhausted, probably in pain—but she's still running.
God, I love her for that.
She doesn't get far. Maybe twenty feet before her legs give out and she crashes to her knees in the snow. She tries to get up, arms shaking with effort, but her body has reached its limit.
I walk toward her slowly, Christmas lights still coiled in my hand. The distorted music continues through the speakers, and fresh snow falls around us.
She looks up as I approach, and the expression on her face is complicated. Fear is still there, but it's been joined by something else. Exhaustion. Resignation. And underneath it all, that persistent arousal.
"I can't," she says, voice breaking. "I can't run anymore."
I kneel in the snow in front of her, close enough to touch. "I know."
"Please." Her bound hands reach toward me, and I'm not sure if she's pushing me away or pulling me closer. "I don't understand what's happening. I don't understand why my body—"
"Shh." I cup her face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears on her cheeks. "You don't need to understand. Not yet."
She leans into my touch despite herself, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. When they open again, there's something raw and vulnerable in them.
"What do you want from me?" she whispers.
I lean in, my forehead almost touching hers. "Everything."
Then I stand, scooping her up in my arms before she can protest. She's light, even soaked and trembling, and she doesn't fight as I carry her back toward the workshop.
"Where are you taking me?" she asks, though I think she already knows.
"Back inside," I say. "We're not done playing yet, sugarplum. Not even close."
She shivers in my arms—from cold, from fear, from anticipation—and I feel her fingers curl into my jacket, holding on even as every instinct probably tells her to fight.
The workshop doors stand open, firelight spilling out into the snowy night. I carry her across the threshold and kick the doors shut behind us.
The lock clicks.
I'm going to take my time wrapping and unwrapping my present.