Chapter 41
Lark
Try not to fall asleep watching my fave Christmas movie after the tenth “just one more scene” time.
—From Lark’s Christmas to-do list
"What are you talking about?" His features are slack with surprise.
I want the title of CEO. But it strikes me that it’s also a diversionary tactic. A way for him to not accept his feelings for me.
Sex with Brody has been stupendous. And emotionally satisfying, in a way I could not have predicted.
The way he looks into my eyes when he takes me? It feels like a kind of claiming. A possessiveness bordering on the side of primitiveness. So raw in its intensity that, every time he came inside me, it felt like he marked me as his. Which is why I refuse to believe that he has no feelings for me.
Only he’s too scared to accept it. Grr!
"Why can’t you man up and be truthful about your feelings?" I jut out my chin.
“Man up, huh?”
“I did not expect Brody Davenport, the big bad CEO, to be scared of speaking his mind.”
He sets his jaw. The tips of his ears grow white, which is the first warning that he’s pissed. “I’m not scared.”
“And I’m in love with you.”
There, it’s out there. Take that, Mr. Broody McBroody.
Predictably, he pales. “Y…you love me?”
“That’s what I said.”
He seems taken aback. “You barely know me.”
I roll my eyes. But my voice softens. “I know you’re brilliant and handsome and trying, in your own stubborn way, to make the world a little better.
I know you care about your grandfather so much, you’ll bend yourself into knots rather than disappoint him, even when you disagree with him.
You let him choose your bride to make him happy. ”
I swallow.
“You want to pour your inheritance into veterans’ programs, and you fund startups that make missions safer for our armed forces. You’re one of the most decent men I’ve ever met.”
My heartbeat stumbles.
“I know you put my pleasure first. Always. You pay so much attention to satisfying me, it makes me feel like the most beautiful, most cherished woman in the world.”
Heat rises in my cheeks.
“Not to forget, you let me cover the office in Christmas decorations because it mattered to me.” I chuckle.
“You act like you’re a ruthless, untouchable, grouch-face. But underneath… You’re a teddy bear.”
His features soften. His eyes fill with a combination of lust and need and a myriad of emotions that I interpret as love. Then he bats them away. A tortured expression fills his features.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Why don’t you tell me how you feel about me? Why can’t you tell me that you love me? Because I see it in your eyes.”
“I want to.” He curls his fingers into fists. “And I promise, I will. I need a little more time.”
I look at him with disappointment. “What are you afraid of, Brody?”
“I'm afraid of losing you!”
I place the document back on the table, then close the distance to him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He rises to his feet, slowly.
“You better believe, you’re not. I have you. I’m not letting you go.”
The possessiveness in his voice lights tiny fires under my skin. I can feel the intense emotions rolling off of him, and my knees tremble.
I tilt my head back, and further back, to meet his eyes. And the way they burn into me? I flinch.
His muscles vibrate with barely contained emotion, a storm trembling beneath his skin. For the first time since I met him, unease prickles down my spine.
I’ve always known there were passions simmering beneath that calm, controlled exterior; but provoking him and watching them claw their way to the surface feels like standing at the foot of Mount Vesuvius, hearing the first ominous rumbles before it explodes.
I take a step back, and another. He doesn’t move. But he watches me carefully. I get the sense I’m a rabbit, and he’s the big bad wolf who’s been provoked.
"You’re my wife, am I right?"
"Well, duh." I wave my left hand with the rings on my finger, in what I hope is a casual gesture. Too bad, my fingers tremble.
"Excellent." A smile I'd categorize as evil tugs at his lips. "And you liked everything I did to you so far."
"Meaning?"
The animal part of my brain tells me I need to buy time here while I figure out an escape route. Escape from what, I don’t know. But whatever he’s thinking and planning, it's no good.
Which means, I'm going to love it.
“The tying you to my bed and fucking you… Using the vibrator on you… Taking your virgin back hole… You liked all of it, yes?"
I flush to the roots of my hair. Not because I’m a prude, but because hearing him describe what he did to me in that dark, growly voice recalls all the sensations that coursed through me when he performed those things on me.
A strangled sound escapes me, but it must satisfy him, for he nods.
"Good. And you’re open to exploring more of your kinky side?"
God help me, I am. I manage to nod again.
His expression softens. "There’s no shame in it."
"I’m not ashamed." I pout.
"Good." He rumbles. "Take off your clothes, wife."
I’m never gonna get used to this man calling me 'wife' either. It shouldn’t sound so erotic, but coming from him, it’s everything.
"Now," he snaps.
Oops, okay then. I hurry to obey him and strip off my clothes.
Suddenly, I’m naked in the center of the living room, with the world outside bathed in snow. In a chalet, in the middle of the most beautiful part of the country. On Christmas morning. What even is my life?
He prowls forward, then slowly circles around me.
I feel his eyes on every dip and curve and hollow of my body.
By the time he stops in front of me again, my nipples have pebbled, my thighs tremble, and I’m positive fat drops of cum have slid down my inner thigh.
I manage to stay still. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of finding out how turned on I am.
He taps his chin. "I know what I want for my Christmas gift."
"What’s that?"
"You." His eyes gleam. "Gift wrapped for me."
A ripple of anticipation unfurls in my belly. The thought being offered up to him for his delectation is the culmination of my every erotic dream.
"Would you like that, wife?"
Even if he hadn’t called me wife, I’d have agreed. But add that to the intention he outlined, and I feel almost faint with desire. I want everything he’s going to do to me. And more. I want to be at the receiving end of every bit of his desire. Only me.
"Yes." Barely is the word out of my mouth when he scoops me up in his arms. I’m too overcome with lust to be surprised. Too taken aback with the pulsing need coursing through my veins to protest. Why pretend I want anything else than being used by this man in any way he wants?
He stalks into the bedroom and places me on my feet near the bed. Then he walks into the closet.
This time, he emerges with coils of dark ivy in his hands. No, they’re ropes.
Strands of emerald-green that look silky and soft to touch. My pulse skips. My breath stutters.
“Come here.” He gestures.
I step closer. The air between us hums. He reaches for my wrist, tracing his thumb along the inside, where my pulse stutters. His touch is warm, grounding.
“This isn’t about restraint.” He searches my features. “It’s about trust. About letting go. Do you understand? Say yes, if you do."
The words make something inside me loosen and quake all at once. But when I speak my voice is strong. "Yes."
"Good girl." He bends to kiss me firmly.
Then slides the rope over my skin, a whisper-soft glide that sends shivers spiraling down my spine. He moves behind me, his body a wall of throbbing heat I can feel even without touch. Each loop he makes is measured, deliberate. His breath is steady, while mine, in contrast, is ragged.
He crosses the rope over my shoulders, down my back, then around my ribs, a careful cradle that holds me upright. It’s not too tight.
Enough to make me aware of every place the fibers kiss my skin. I can feel the faint press between my breasts, the pattern forming. Each loop painting a line of tension and release on my skin.
I can smell him now: dark, peppery, and so masculine; every cell in my body hums in appreciation. My body sways without permission, my lungs seizing up under the onslaught of his overpowering presence.
“Breathe for me," he whispers.
I inhale; the ropes shift, expanding slightly with my lungs. The sensation is intoxicating. The awareness that even my breath moves at his will makes my head spin and my thighs quiver.
His fingers trace down my sides as he gathers more rope. He threads it around my waist, weaving it through the pattern at my back, the pressure growing firmer.
My skin tingles, alive beneath every pass of the rope.
When he kneels in front of me, the sunlight slanting in through the window carves shadows across his jaw. He loops the strand around my thighs, guiding it with the same care he might use to handle something sacred.
The pattern is simple but beautiful: diagonal lines tracing from my shoulders to my hips, crossing at the center of my chest like the wrapping on a precious gift.
He lifts my arms, guiding them up until my elbows point outward, and my hands rest behind my neck.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Rope slides over my wrists, the friction sparking goosebumps across my skin. He binds them together, then threads the rope behind my neck, drawing it snug until it keeps my hands resting there.
The result is, I have to push out my chest. The ropes are crisscrossed to expose my nipples. Framing them. Exposing them for his delectation.
I glance down long enough to see how the ropes bear down under my thighs to lift up my pussy lips, with the engorged and very obscene looking button of my clit between them as an offering.
I feel open, exposed, in a pose of surrender that feels both restrained and intimate.
He ties off the final knot low at my stomach. His hands linger there, palms warm, grounding me in his touch.
“Look at you.” He swallows. “My Christmas miracle. Wrapped for me.”
My breath catches. I should feel exposed, but instead, I feel luminous. I feel seen. An offering for my master. Tied up and at my Sir’s mercy. The ropes hold me the way his gaze does: reverent, possessive, protective.
He reaches up and brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “How do you feel?”
“Like I belong to you." I force everything I’m feeling into my eyes, hoping he sees how much deeper I’m falling in love with him every second that we’re together.
His eyes flash. His breathing grows rough. He senses how I belong to him completely. Mind. Body. And soul. I challenge him to tell me he loves me with my eyes.
His gaze turns fervent.
But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “You do. You belong to me. You always will. And after today, you’ll never forget that."
The intent in his voice is a promise, a pledge. A declaration. He may well have carved those words into my soul. The ropes creak softly as he draws me into his arms. My skin hums where the fibers press. The yawning desire in my center is fanned by the flames in his eyes.
He drags his palms down my spine, slow and possessive, until they find my arse. He massages the skin, tender from his earlier ministrations. Electricity zips out from his touch. My nipples harden. My clit throbs.
His fingers dip into my sensitive curves, claiming, testing, worshipping. The ropes cinch across my skin, a perfect lattice that frames the curve of my buttocks, lifting and presenting me to him. The ropes frame me, and offer me up for his pleasure, his control, his indulgence.
In that moment, tied and trembling under the force of his desire and mien, I realize, this isn’t about control at all.
It’s about surrender. Giving myself up to be used by my master.
It’s a strangely freeing sensation. To realize, I've submitted myself. Put myself at his mercy. For him to do with me as he wants. That I trust him to ensure I’m thoroughly pleasured.
That when it comes to my body, he knows what I want more than I know myself.
As if he senses my thoughts, he steps back slightly. "Choose a safe word."
"A safe word?" I frown. “Do I need that?”
“This is your first foray into kink, so it’s important that you choose it. That way, you know you’re in control. Anytime you want to stop you only have to say so and I will.”
Okay then.
I think for a few seconds then say, "Mistletoe."
He absorbs it, then nods. "Don’t hesitate to use it." He lifts me up by the backs of my thighs then carries me to the bed. He places me on it, then bears down so I sink down to sit on my heels. He uses more of the silky rope to tie my ankles to my thighs.
Then tips me back gently onto my back. In this position, my knees are bent and spread out.
He continues to work with the rope, looping it gently around my neck once, twice.
He’s making a collar, I realize. I should be repulsed by it, but I’m not.
It feels like the ultimate sign of ownership.
But not owning me in the way of an inanimate possession.
More like a promise to protect. It feels like some kind of unspoken claim.
Like he’s asserting his authority over me in a very intimate way.
The surge of endorphins from the thoughts course through me, relaxing my muscles. It feels like he’s fully attentive, in command. His movements sure. The brush of his fingers, the slide of the rope over my skin strangely reassuring. Almost rhythmic.
Having him work on me, his focus so fixed on me, his heightened sense of awareness as he tugs on knots and checks to make sure that the ropes don’t hurt my skin—not more than he intends, that is—forges a sense of emotional intimacy that’s headier than anything I’ve encountered.
At the same time the feeling of the ropes, the pressure, the texture, the restriction they place on my movements heightens my awareness of my body.
I feel myself come into my body fully for the first time ever.
My breath. My heartbeat. The tension in my muscles.
The rise and fall of my chest. The give of the rope against the physiological movements of my body, all of it is grounding.
It’s a meditative state that I haven’t experienced before.
I’m floating, yet also keenly aware of everything around me. Of his breathing. His scent. The tension coiling his muscles. The elevated beating of his heart, in sync with the rhythm of my own.
He slides his finger under the collar he’s fashioned for me and presses against the pulse fluttering at the hollow of my throat. "You good?"
Umm, good is not the word I’d use. More like. Ecstatic. In a kind of floating, happy kind of way. And this is from him tying me. I wonder what’s going to happen when he gets around to fucking me.
His features soften. He’s so tuned into me it’s as if he senses my thoughts. "Answer me, Siren. You good?"