Chapter Twenty-Two
Juliet
I can’t believe how right I was. He’s not just a sir, he’s so much more.
My God.
His room is a sex room.
Dark sheets. Restrained luxury. The kind of space that was designed for pleasure, control, ruin.
He’s so fucking perfect. More than I ever wanted. More than I even knew to ask for.
I move toward the bed, my fingers trailing over the sheets, feeling their softness, imagining how they’ll feel against my bare skin when he finally gives in.
I remember myself.
Remember that I need his permission.
I turn, eyes wide, voice soft. Innocent.
“Can I?” I ask, lifting my wrist, a little breathless, a little shy. Not really. “Please, sir.”
His cock twitches.
Oh. Oh.
It glistens in the low light, thick, perfect, and I want to ruin him. I want him to think he’s ruining me.
“Get in the bed,” he orders, voice firm, steady.
Oh, he still thinks he’s the boss of me.
He’s too adorable.
I love him.
I crawl onto the bed, stretch out, and then slowly roll onto my back.
The sheets are dark, cool against my bare skin, and I can already imagine how they’ll feel when my body is overheated, writhing, begging, oh, not really begging, but letting him think I am.
I tilt my head back against the pillows, stretching one arm above me, wrist loose, offering. My other hand trails idly down my stomach, skimming the lace still clinging to my hips. Not touching, not really, just enough to keep his gaze locked on me.
His jaw flexes.
Oh. He likes this. He likes this a lot.
The control, the anticipation. The slow unraveling of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing but plays it so sweet, so soft.
He steps closer.
I hold his gaze as I turn my wrist, exposing the delicate skin on the inside, offering him something that isn’t delicate at all.
“Please, sir,” I whisper.
His nostrils flare.
I can see it, the precise moment he stops thinking about if he’ll restrain me and starts thinking about how.
How tight. How far. How much I can take.
His fingers brush my wrist, tracing over my pulse. I let it flutter, let my breath hitch just enough to make his control slip, to make him want to fasten me down and keep me there.
“Such a polite little thing,” he murmurs. But his voice is rough now. “So good at asking for what you need.”
I smile, slow and sweet. “I’ve always been a good girl.”
I lift my other wrist.
And wait.
He takes my offered wrist, fingers firm, assured, claiming.
Oh. Oh, I like that.
The restraint glides over my skin, soft but unyielding, and I shiver. Perfect. He knows what he’s doing. No fumbling. No hesitation.
He fastens it, then tests it with a slow, deliberate tug.
I exhale hard. Fuck.
He watches my face as he reaches for my other wrist, like he’s expecting resistance. Like he thinks I might test him, might pull back, might make him earn it.
I don’t.
I lift my other wrist immediately, eagerly.
Tie me down, sir.
His eyes darken. A flicker of something sharp, something hungry, flashes across his face.
Oh, he wasn’t expecting this.
The restraint slides against my skin again, and God, I am so in love.
The second it’s secure I flex my fingers. No escape.
Like I’d even try.
Then, he reaches for something else.
Something dark.
Something smooth.
I realize what it is the second before he speaks.
“You trust me, baby doll?” he asks.
My breath catches.
The blindfold.
Oh, my fucking God.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, sir.”
He lifts it, trailing the silk over my cheek, down my throat, over my collarbone.
Teasing me. Testing me.
I’m shaking now. Shaking with need.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
And then?
The world goes dark.
The moment the blindfold settles over my eyes, everything shifts.
The air feels thicker. My skin feels tighter.
I can’t see him anymore.
Can’t watch his hands.
Can’t anticipate his next move.
I whimper.
A low chuckle rumbles from above me, dark and knowing.
He likes this.
Likes me vulnerable. Tied down. Waiting.
Helpless.
But I’m not helpless.
I’m exactly where I want to be.
His fingers drag over my collarbone, light as a whisper, barely there.
I shudder.
Then, nothing.
No touch. No sound.
Just absence.
I squirm, tugging at the ropes, my breath coming faster. Where is he?
Then… heat.
A slow, warm breath against my throat.
I tip my chin up instinctively, silently begging.
Kiss me.
His lips brush my pulse, just barely.
Then, lower.
Lower.
Over the curve of my breast, his breath ghosting over my nipple, teasing but not touching.
I arch. I whine.
I need.
And still, he waits.
His mouth hovers. His fingers trail.
I can’t see.
I can only feel.
The slow press of his palm down my stomach. The brush of his lips across my hip.
The absence where I want him most.
I’m burning.
I yank at the restraints, my body taut, trembling.
“Please,” I gasp. “Please, sir.”
Another chuckle.
Then…
Heat. Wet. Tongue.
Oh, fuck.
The moment his tongue flicks against me, my body jolts. My thighs quiver. My wrists pull against the restraints, a desperate, instinctual reaction to the overwhelming heat of his mouth.
He hums.
Like he’s savoring me. Like he’s getting his first taste of something addictive.
I whimper, hips lifting, trying to press closer.
But he’s strong. Too strong.
His hands slide beneath my thighs, locking me in place.
Then, he devours me.
Slow. Purposeful. Ruthless.
Every lap of his tongue is precise. Measured. Torturous.
Soft flicks against my clit, followed by deep, slow strokes, spreading me open, teasing, taunting.
My back arches. My breath catches.
The blindfold makes everything sharper. Every sensation stronger. Every stroke deeper.
His mouth. His tongue. His fucking control.
“Sir,” I whimper. I don’t even know what I’m begging for.
But he does.
His grip tightens. His mouth seals over my clit, tongue swirling, sucking, demanding.
I break.
Hard. Violent. Overwhelming.
A cry spills from my lips, my body shaking, trembling, the restraints digging into my wrists as I pull, convulsing beneath him.
He doesn’t stop.
Not until I whimper. Not until I’m too sensitive, too raw, too wrecked.
Only then does he pull away.
I feel his breath against my thigh, feel the wet heat of his mouth pressing one last kiss against my skin.
Then, his voice. Low. Rough. Utterly wrecked. “You’re fucking perfect, baby doll.”
Oh. Oh.
He’s mine.
I can’t believe how right I was about him.
The way he’s handling me, keeping me bound and blindfolded, leaving me aching, desperate, wrecked, it’s perfect. He’s perfect.
I pull at the restraints, just to feel them hold me tighter. God, I love this.
I feel his hands ghosting over my body, teasing, never quite touching where I need him most. He drags his fingertips over my stomach, down the soft curve of my hip, so close between my thighs, then gone.
I squirm, trying to shift, trying to chase his touch.
He chuckles. Low. Deep. Amused.
“Impatient?” he murmurs.
I whimper.
But he waits for me to say it.
“Please, sir,” I breathe. So sweet. So obedient.
I hear the sharp exhale of his breath.
Then, finally, finally, he grips my hips and presses inside me.
Oh. Oh, God.
He’s so thick, so deep.
I can feel every inch of him.
I gasp, body arching, wrists straining, back bowing.
His hand slides over my stomach, holding me steady, keeping me still as he fills me completely.
Then, he moves.
Slow, deep, devastating strokes, dragging himself out before thrusting back in, making me feel everything.
I can’t see him.
But I can hear him.
The way his breath roughens, the way he groans when I tighten around him.
The blindfold makes it so much worse, so much better.
His hand comes up, grips my throat, gentle, but firm, pinning me down as he thrusts harder, deeper, rougher.
I can’t breathe.
I don’t need to.
Because I’m about to shatter.
“Come for me,” he orders, voice gritted, commanding.
And I do.
I fall apart completely.
Writhing, moaning, shaking.
He follows with a groan, thrusting deep, holding me tight.
Then? Silence.
Just the sound of our breathing, ragged, uneven.
His weight over me, his body still inside mine.
I’m floating.
Still blindfolded. Still trembling. My wrists are warm where he held them. My body still thrums with the aftershocks of what he did to me.
Elliot’s fingers ghost up my arms, gentle now, tracing the places he restrained me. Then, with deliberate care, he unties one wrist. I flex my fingers, barely remembering how to move them, and then he kisses the inside of my wrist. Soft. Reverent. Like he’s worshiping the marks he left.
Oh. Oh, I like that.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this cherished after being utterly destroyed.
He unties the other, kisses that one too. Then his hands glide up my arms, slow and soothing, until they cradle my face.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs.
I shiver.
He pulls off the blindfold, and the room is too bright for a second. I blink up at him. He looks so damn pleased with himself. Smug. Sated. Like a man who just claimed something he’s never giving back.
That’s cute. He still thinks he’s in charge.
His fingers sweep my hair back from my face. “How do you feel?”
Ruined. Obsessed. Starving for more.
“Perfect,” I whisper, because that’s the only word I can manage.
He smirks. “I bet you do.”
And then?
He kisses me.
Not demanding. Not teasing. Just soft. Lingering. Like he’s memorizing me.
Oh, sir.
I slide my arms around his neck and kiss him back just as slow, just as sweet, knowing, just knowing, he’s already mine.
I let him hold me until my body fully remembers how to function. Until the world settles back into place and my pulse slows from a desperate sprint to something softer. Something satisfied.
I trace my fingers along his chest, dragging lazy patterns over warm, solid skin. His heartbeat is steady beneath my touch, but I know I rattled him tonight. I know he’s still feeling me, sinking into me, realizing that nothing will ever feel this good again.
“Next time needs to be at my place, sir,” I murmur, low and sure.
I feel his breath hitch. Just a little.
“Needs?” he repeats, like he’s testing the word on his tongue.
I press a slow, lingering kiss to his jaw. “Yes, sir. That’s how this works. With me. With my family.”
That makes him tense. Ah. There it is. He thinks he’s about to get control back, but I’m already five steps ahead.
I sit up, stretching, letting him get one last good look at everything that now belongs to him. His gaze lingers. I feel the weight of it as I slide out of bed, as I move through his space like I own it. Like I own him.
Because I do.
And I know he’ll come.
You don’t fuck like that just once. That? That is forever.
I step into the other room, collecting my clothes, dressing at an unhurried pace. I don’t look back when I say it.
“Saturday.” I smooth my skirt. “Seven.”
I don’t wait for an answer.
Because there’s only one answer.
He’ll come.
He’ll fall.
And by the time the night is over, he’ll understand exactly what it means to be mine.
I step outside, inhaling the crisp night air, already buzzing with excitement.
Noah and Orion are going to love him.
I know exactly what I’m cooking.
And I’ll need to pick up some blindfolds.
For all three of my men.