Chapter 7 #4
I pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are glassy. Wrecked. His lips are swollen and wet.
"Do that again," I whisper.
"Do wh—"
I kiss him. Harder this time. Tongue sliding against his, messy and deep and nothing like the careful first kiss in my bedroom. This is heat and hunger and the taste of him—amber and warmth and something underneath that makes my whole body arch toward his. I suck on his lower lip. Bite it.
Feel him shudder.
And there it is again—that whimper. Vibrating against my teeth. Shaking out of him like something he's been holding behind his ribs for months.
My hands find the hem of his shirt. Push it up.
He pulls back just enough for me to drag it over his head—awkward with the zip ties, fabric bunching at his wrists before he finally just tears the fabric and tosses it aside.
His chest is bare. Warm. Solid. A scar below his collarbone I've never seen.
I press my palm flat against his sternum and feel his heart slamming.
"Your turn," he murmurs. His bound hands find the bottom of my scrub top. He eases it up—slow, careful, remembering the welts. His knuckles skim my ribs as the fabric rises. My stomach. My chest. Over my head.
He looks at me.
Not the way the handler looked at me. Not appraising. Not cataloguing. Bane looks at me like he's seeing something sacred and profane at the same time and can't decide whether to worship or devour it.
"Fuck," he breathes. The word is almost reverent.
His mouth drops to my collarbone. Presses a kiss there—open-mouthed, wet, tongue dragging across the bone.
Then lower. Another kiss at the center of my chest. Lower.
His lips trail down my sternum, each point of contact a small fire, and my hands are in his hair, gripping, guiding, because the heat is rising and every nerve in my body is tuned to his mouth.
He reaches my stomach. Pauses. His breath fans across the skin below my navel, hot and unsteady. His bound hands grip my hips—the zip ties cold against my skin—and he looks up at me.
"Can I keep going?"
"Yes. God, yes."
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my scrubs. Drags them down. Slow—so slow it's torture. The fabric peels away from damp skin, catching on my cock, dragging across the head in a way that makes me hiss. Down my thighs. Past my knees. Gone.
I'm naked beneath him. Fully exposed. Slick between my thighs, cock flushed and leaking against my belly, every inch of me on display under the flat fluorescent light.
His eyes move over me. Slow. Deliberate. His throat works—a hard swallow that moves his whole neck.
"You're so beautiful it hurts to look at you," he says. Not smooth. Not rehearsed. The words land clumsy and raw, like he didn't choose them—they just fell out.
His mouth finds my hip bone. Kisses it. Tongue tracing the ridge. Then the crease where thigh meets pelvis—and my hips jerk so hard he has to pin them down with his forearms.
"Easy." His breath ghosts across my cock. "I've got you. Just feel it. Don't think."
He lowers his mouth.
The first touch of his tongue sends a shock through my entire body.
I arch off the mattress—fists clenching in the sheet, a sound tearing out of me that's half-moan, half-sob.
His lips close around me and his tongue moves—slow, devastating, and his bound hands grip my hip for leverage.
He can't use his hands separately. Can't stroke me.
Can't grip. Just his mouth, wet and warm, and the impossible tenderness of someone who's been drugged and restrained and is using every ounce of clarity to worship me.
I'm close in seconds. The heat amplifies everything—every nerve ending dialed to maximum, every sensation doubled. My hips move against his mouth. My hands find his hair. I'm gasping his name—fragmenting—
But the ache inside me is building faster than the pleasure.
The hollow, clenching emptiness that the heat demands.
The biological need for something his mouth can't give.
It starts as discomfort. Becomes pain. Becomes something unbearable—a cramp that locks through my abdomen and wrenches a cry out of me that has nothing to do with pleasure.
"Stop—Bane, stop—I can't—it hurts—"
He pulls off immediately. Crawls up my body. Cups my face. I'm crying—tears streaming, body shaking, caught between arousal so acute it's agony and the heat-cramp that's hollowing me out from inside.
He kisses me. Deep. Slow. Unhurried. His mouth tasting like me, his breath warm against my lips, his forehead pressed to mine. Not a kiss that demands. A kiss that says I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Tell me what you need.
"It's killing me," he whispers against my mouth.
"Watching you hurt. Not being able to—" His jaw works.
"My body is screaming at me, Max. Every instinct I have is telling me to serve you.
To give you what you need. That's what alphas are for.
That's what this—" He lifts his bound hands. "—is keeping me from doing properly."
"I'm scared." The words come out small. Smaller than I want them to be. "What if it changes things? What if—"
"It won't change anything that wasn't already changed the second I walked through that door."
I look at him. His face above mine. Hazel eyes glassy from the sedative but focused—completely, entirely focused on me. His jaw tight. His shoulders tense. The physical evidence of his restraint pressing against my thigh—hard, straining, his body fighting his control.
And I think about the word chosen.
"Okay," I say. "But slow. Please. I need it to be slow."
"Slow," he repeats. "Whatever you need. However you need it."
He doesn't rush. He shifts down the bed instead—bound hands sliding along my outer thigh, his mouth following. Lips pressing against the inside of my knee and then opening me wide. Then higher. A slow, open-mouthed kiss on my inner thigh that makes my leg tremble.
"Relax," he murmurs against my skin. "I need to get you ready. I won’t hurt you."
His fingers find me. Slick-wet and swollen and aching—my body has done most of the work already, the heat making me open and desperate in ways I'd be ashamed of if I could think straight.
But Bane doesn't rush it. One finger slides in—slow, careful—and my breath catches.
Not from pain. From the pressure. The stretch.
The intimacy of someone being inside me with this much care.
"Okay?" His lips press against my thigh again. A kiss. Soft.
"Yeah." Barely a whisper. "Yeah, it's okay."
He moves the finger. Slow. In and out. Letting me feel it.
Letting my body adjust. His mouth stays on my thigh—kissing, dragging his lips across the sensitive skin, the scratch of stubble sending sparks up my spine.
When my hips start to rock against his hand—when the tension in my legs releases and my breathing shifts from panicked to wanting—he adds a second finger.
The stretch makes me gasp. His mouth presses a kiss right next to where his fingers disappear inside me.
"Still okay?"
"More." The word comes out wrecked. "I can take more."
He scissors his fingers. Slow. Stretching me open with a patience that borders on reverence.
His mouth trails higher—kissing the crease of my thigh, the ridge of my hip, the spot below my navel that makes my stomach clench.
A third finger. The fullness is exquisite—pressure and heat and the slow give of my body softening around him.
"There you go," he breathes. "That's it. You're ready."
He withdraws his fingers. I whimper at the loss—the emptiness rushing back, the ache doubling.
"Turn over," he says. Quiet. "On your side."
I roll. Face the wall. My breath is coming in shallow gasps.
I feel the mattress dip behind me. Bane's body settling against mine—chest against my back, warm and solid, his bound arms looping over me.
He pulls me close. Tucks me against him.
His face presses into the back of my neck.
I feel his breath. His lips. The tip of his nose tracing along my hairline.
"Tell me if it hurts," he whispers into my skin. "Tell me and I'll stop."
"I will."
He reaches down and positions himself. I feel him—hot, blunt, pressing against where his fingers just were. He pushes in. Slow. So slow. One inch. Two. His breath shaking against my neck. His hands wrap around me, flat against my chest, feeling my heartbeat.
The ache dissolves as he pushes deeper.
“Oh, Bane,” I breathe.
"Okay?" His voice is wrecked. Arms trembling—the sedative and the restraint and the effort of holding himself in check.
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He moves. Slow. A deep roll of his hips that pulls a sound from my throat I've never heard myself make. Not a moan—something lower, rawer, the sound of a body being answered after hours of asking.
His mouth is on my neck. Pressing kisses along the curve of it—open-mouthed, warm, his breath shaking against my skin.
His bound hands are wrapped around me, one arm under my head, wrapped around me so tight one of his palms is flat against my stomach.
Holding me. The zip ties dig into his wrists with every movement but he doesn't adjust. Doesn't complain. Just holds me tighter.
"Is this okay?" he murmurs against my hair.
"Don't stop. Please don't stop," I repeat.
Another roll. Deeper. He buries himself to the hilt and holds there—just holds—and I feel every thick inch of him, feel the pulse of his cock inside me, feel the heat of his chest against my back and his mouth against my shoulder.
"You feel—" His voice cracks. "Max, fuck. You feel incredible… I can't—"
He doesn't finish. Doesn't need to. His hips start moving again—slow, devastating rolls that find a rhythm. Not thrusting. Rolling. His whole body moving with mine like a wave.
Like breathing. In and out. Deep and slow.
His lips find the side of my neck. Kiss. Drag. His teeth graze the skin and I shiver—full-body, electric—and he pulls back immediately.