Chapter 46 #2
She’s on the edge before I think she possibly can be, her mouth stretched into a rigid O beneath the blindfold. She balances on her tiptoes, stretching her thighs. Her ass presses against me, teasing the hard-on that tents my pants.
“More,” she whispers. “Please. Please. More.”
When I back away, her sigh of frustration turns her wild. “Fucking shitehawk,” she says, and more in Irish that I’m sure is even worse.
I go back for the gag after all.
I want her to know her mouth is mine, the way I own all the rest of her body. But I need her still able to talk. I need her free to use her safeword, because I’m not sure she can bear what I intend.
Not after what happened the last time we played in this room.
“What are you doing?” she asks as I buckle the gag around her head.
It fastens below the blindfold. I guide the O-ring around her lips, stretching her mouth wide, stealing her words.
She demands again: “What are you doing?” but now she can only make the vowels: uh, ah, oo, oo-ee.
That’s enough. I’ll be able to hear the difference between red and yellow and green.
She screams in frustration.
I mean to make her scream with more than that.
It’s back to the armoire for me. This time I move quickly; I don’t want her losing the desperate bravery of a body on the edge of coming.
I drop the new tool on the emerald-covered bed, making sure it doesn’t warn her with a jangle. It’s easy enough to catch her arms before I walk her across the room. I make her climb onto the mattress and balance on all fours.
Her feet spasm as I lean onto the bed, holding her thighs apart with my shoulders so I can bury my face in her exposed pussy.
She squeals through the gag. It doesn’t take long for my tongue to find the same rhythm that worked with my fingers.
My strokes are long and deep as I drink her down, knowing my rough beard is pricking her most tender parts.
Her elbows give way. Her toes sharpen to points. Her breath comes through the gag in short, harsh grunts.
And I pull away just before she breaks.
This time, she howls, not even trying to force out words. She’s panting, desperate to fill her lungs. I know if I pull her hair and force her to look at me, her chin will shine with the spit she cannot swallow.
But I don’t pull her hair—not yet. Instead, I reach for the tool beside us.
I open the first cuff steadily, pulling on its leather buckle, making sure the hardware jangles. I don’t want to take her completely by surprise. I don’t want shock making her shout her safeword. I repeat the process with three other cuffs.
She’s caught on now. She may not be certain, but her brain is shouting warnings. She cranes her neck, trying to see, trying to hear, trying to know what happens next.
I grasp her right ankle firmly and lock it into the spreader, pulling the leather through its buckle so tightly that I fasten the lock on the last punched hole. She screams at the contact, kicking out with her free leg, but I grab that too and cuff it into place.
This isn’t the spreader she used on Pyotr Tarasov. That one was carried out of here when Sawgrass destroyed all evidence of our crimes. But her ankles are trapped, the same way she pinned the man she went on to kill.
I want to help her. I want to take her beyond the past, beyond everything that’s happened—but only if she’s ready to come with me.
“Ooooh,” she moans through the gag, which I’m pretty sure is no, but I know isn’t red.
All the same, I lean close to her ear and hiss, “What’s your color?”
She hesitates, her sides heaving. I repeat my question, in case the wires in her brain are too scrambled by terror for her to make sense of the words. “What is your color,” I ask again, each word simple and calm.
She takes a deep breath. Holds it for a count of three. And when she exhales, she says, “Eeee.”
Green.
She’s safe. She’s mine.
I lock her wrists beside her ankles. She’s in a stress position on the edge of the mattress, her weight on her knees and the fronts of her shoulders. Her face turns to the side, mouth gaping in the O ring, eyes hidden by silk.
She’s naked, soul and body. She’s waiting, because she trusts me. So I do everything I can to reward the faith she’s offered.
Pressing the palm of my hand into her soaked folds, I play the hard, exposed pearl of her clit like some rare musical instrument. I tap it. I stroke it. I twist it and pinch.
Kate strains against the spreader. Her feet fight to break free. Her hands spiral into tight little fists, as if she can slip them out of her cuffs.
My fingers bring her closer to coming… Closer… Closer…
I stop.
She wails.
She needs a moment to cool down. It’s not safe to leave her here, balanced so close to the edge of the bed. I can’t retrieve anything else from the armoire, even if I wanted to.
So I stroke her spine, telling her she’s a good girl. I wrap her hair around my fist, pulling gently as I say she’s mine. I cup her mound, tracing the shaved landing path she’s left me, smoothing the short curls over and over and over again.
And when she’s ready, when her trigger’s been reset, when I know she won’t explode before either of us wants, I step back from the bed. I’m only a foot or two away, just enough to pull my T-shirt over my head.
She’s twisting, grunting, trying to figure out what comes next. Her sounds cover the sizzle of my zipper. I toe off my shoes and socks. Work my pants over my hard-on. Grimace as I peel away my boxer briefs.
“Ooh?” she’s asking. Cole. Then more urgently, “Ooh!”
She shrieks as my fingers dig into her hips.
I pull her body toward me, angling over the spreader’s metal bar.
Still holding tight with my left hand, I use my right to position my cock at her ready, waiting entrance.
I pause until she takes a breath, then slide deep into her primed and waiting pussy.
Her cry is wild and wordless. Her fingers splay wide as I grip both of her hips. She bucks as best she can in her cruel restraint, pushing back in an animal demand for more.
I want to make this last. I want this to be the long drawn-out end of one story, of the terror of her past, of everything she fought through and survived. I want this to be the soaring start to another tale, the promise of our future, all the things we can do and be and live for each other.
But she’s liquid inside. And my lungs are filled with the salt-honey smell of her. And I can’t stop staring at the place where we’re joined, between her leather-bound ankles and wrists.
I hold on long enough to bring her back to the edge. I reach beneath her to settle my thumb against the burning diamond of her clit—tapping, tapping, tapping until I feel her break.
The swirl starts deep inside her, but it grows like ripples on a pond. She arches her throat, hissing breaths through her bared teeth. I rock back, almost pulling out before her throbbing draws me in again. My balls tighten against her.
A full-body shudder convulses her and she shatters, clutching and falling, clutching and falling, milking me until I see stars.
I want to scream her name, but I’ve lost every one of my words. I try to grasp her hips, but I can’t control my hands. She’s so tight and I’m so lost and when I empty inside her, I break through to a world beyond time and space.
Darkness.
Silence.
Peace.
I stir before she does. I find the metal buckles on her ankles first, setting them free. I work her wrists next, opening the cuffs. Dropping the spreader to the floor, I climb onto the bed beside her.
My fingers are steadier as I undo her gag.
By the time I unknot her blindfold, she’s shivering, trembling in aftermath.
I pull both of us up to the headboard, scrambling the linens along the way.
I cradle her back against my chest, folding my arms and legs around her before I pull the dark emerald sheet to her chin.
Her head lolls against my shoulder. “My,” she whispers, eyes closed. “What a long cock you have.”
She’s asleep before I stitch together a reply.