Chapter Seven #2
I don’t mean to tilt my face that last inch.
But I do.
His breath hitches. His gaze drops to my mouth. My fingers are still tangled in his shirt, my legs on either side of his hips, my body pressed full-length against his.
“This is a bad idea,” he whispers and I know he's holding back.
“Probably,” I agree, voice rough.
His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my lower lip. “Do you want to stop?”
My throat works. I should say yes. I should shove him away, scream that he’s insane, that none of this erases the fact that I woke up zip-tied in a cabin.
What comes out is, “I don’t know.”
His eyes close briefly, like he’s praying to something. When he opens them again, they’re softer. Wrecked.
“I don't think I'll be able to stop myself If we keep going,” he says.
The floor seems to tilt beneath us.
“Okay,” I breathe.
That’s all it takes.
His mouth is on mine in the next heartbeat.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s too much and not enough all at once. His lips crash against mine, hot and desperate, and I meet him halfway, fingers fisting in his shirt even though my hands are still bound together but I need to grab onto something.
The kiss tastes like salt and smoke and all the years between us.
He groans into my mouth when I open for him. His tongue slides against mine, and my whole body lights up like someone plugged me into a socket. Every place we’re touching—the press of his chest, the grip of his hands at my waist, the heat of his thighs under mine—sparks.
I shift without thinking, trying to get closer. The movement drags my core over the firm muscle of his thigh, and I swallow a broken sound.
He feels it. Of course he does.
“Meredith,” he breathes against my lips, hands tightening. “Christ.”
His fingers slide from my waist to my hips, guiding, and I realize what he’s doing a second before he does it.
He rocks me.
It’s small at first. A slow pull of my hips against his thigh. Fire shoots through me, low and sharp. My nails dig into his shirt. I drag in a breath and most of it is a whimper.
“Don't tell me to stop,” he says, voice strained, like he's scared this isn't real. Like he's afraid I'll wake up from whatever trance this is and push him away.
I clench my tied hands between us, chest heaving. My forehead drops to his, our noses brushing. “I won't,” I whisper.
His exhale is ragged, blowing hot across my lips. “Good.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, swallowing the next sound I make as he guides me into another slow roll of my hips. Heat builds quickly, a tight coil that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how long it’s been since anyone touched me like this.
I move with him, a little helpless, the friction of denim against the ache between my legs making my head go fuzzy. My thighs clamp around him. He’s hard under me, trapped against my abdomen, and some dark, traitorous part of me thrills at the proof.
“Such a good girl,” he murmurs against my mouth when I circle my hips just right. Praise wraps around me, hot and humiliating and addictive. “Always so smart. Always knew what you needed.”
“You’re—” I gasp when his hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing just under the swell of my breasts through the fabric. “You’re insane.”
He huffs a strained laugh. “Probably.” His lips trail along my jaw, down my throat. “Still doesn’t make you any less perfect.”
I tilt my head back, giving him more, hating how easy it is. How familiar even though we’ve never done this. His mouth finds the sensitive spot below my ear and sucks lightly. My toes curl inside my boots.
The cabin narrows to the couch. The couch narrows to his hands and mouth and the thick muscle of his thigh pressing exactly where I need it most. I cling to him, breathing hard, letting the rhythm drag me closer to a cliff I’m not sure I’m ready to go over.
He feels that too.
At the exact moment everything starts to white out around the edges, his hands leave my hips.
I make a sound that’s half protest, half relief. “Nick—”
He cups my face, forcing my gaze to his. His pupils are blown wide, his voice a low scrape. “I want to see you come like this,” he growls. “All tied up like a Christmas present on my lap.”
My pulse slams against my ribs. The words shouldn’t go straight between my legs, but they do.
His hand moves lower, fingers skating along the waistband of my slacks like he owns the territory and God help me, part of me believes he does.
My breath snags, half panic, half electricity.
The tiny click of the button yielding sounds loud in the quiet room. He peels the fabric down just far enough to bare the delicate line of my underwear, then stops, studying me like he’s mapping a country he’s been obsessed with for a decade.
The plastic biting into my wrists reminds me they’re still bound. He lifts them carefully, loops the tie over his neck so my arms hang there, stretched between us, my hands resting on his shoulders.
“Now you can’t fall,” he whispers. “You can only hold on.”
The words slam into me harder than his palm did. My throat works. I nod, not trusting my voice.
His gaze drops, and when his hand finally slips beneath the waistband, heat licks up my spine in a wild, helpless arc.
“Christ, Meredith, you’re soaked.” His thumb grazes my clit once—just once—and my hips buck so hard the couch creaks.
"Fuck," I choke out, thighs clenching around his hand.
His fingers slide through slick heat, gathering wetness, exploring me with torturous precision. One broad finger circles my entrance, teasing but not entering, while his thumb returns to that sensitive bundle of nerves. The dual sensation makes my head fall back, eyes fluttering closed.
"Look at me," he commands, voice rough. "I want to see your face when you feel this."
I force my gaze back to his. The intensity there steals my breath, hunger and tenderness twisted into something almost religious. His finger finally pushes inside, just to the first knuckle, and my inner walls clench greedily around the intrusion.
"That's it," he praises, working deeper. "Taking me so well. So perfect for me."
Heat floods my cheeks. Part of me wants to hide from this—from him witnessing how easily my body betrays me. I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't arch into his touch like I'm starving for it. My brain screams that this is wrong, but my hips rock down against his hand, chasing more.
"I've thought about this for years," Nick murmurs, adding a second finger with agonizing slowness. "Touching you. Making you fall apart." His thumb draws lazy circles around my clit, building pressure without quite giving me what I need. "Dreamed of how you'd sound, how you'd feel."
The stretch burns so good that I gasp, my thighs tensing around his wrist. The zip-ties cut into my skin as I instinctively try to reach for him, but I'm caught, arms looped around his neck, trapped and exposed.
"You're so tight," he breathes, voice tinged with awe as his fingers work deeper. "So wet for me and I'm just getting started."
His thumb finally—finally—presses directly against my clit, and the sensation jolts through me like lightning. My hips jerk forward, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him. A moan tears from my throat.
"That sound," Nick groans, his own breathing ragged. "Fuck, Meredith. Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
His fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. I cry out, unable to hold it back, my body clenching around him. Pleasure builds in tight, hot waves, each one higher than the last.
"You're mine," he whispers, mouth at my ear. "Always have been. Always will be."
The possessive words should repulse me. They should remind me that I'm here against my will, that this man kidnapped me, tied me up, spanked me like a child. Instead, they send another rush of wetness coating his fingers, my inner walls fluttering around the intrusion.
What's wrong with me?
Heat floods through me, not just from his touch but from the naked adoration in his eyes. His fingers move deeper, stretching me wider, and a strangled sound escapes my throat.
"Nick," I gasp, my bound hands clutching desperately at his shoulders.
"I know, baby. I know exactly what you need." His voice drops lower, rougher. "I've spent years imagining how you'd sound when I touched you. How you'd feel squeezing around my fingers."
My inner walls clench at his words, and shame washes over me. I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't be rocking my hips to meet each thrust of his fingers. Shouldn't be so wet that I can hear the slick sounds of his movements.
"Please," I whimper, not even sure what I'm begging for.
"Please what?" His voice is velvet-rough against my ear. "Tell me what you need."
My hips rock helplessly against his hand, chasing the sensation. "I need—I need more."
He rewards me by curling his fingers deeper, pressing firmly against that spot that makes my vision blur. "Like this?" His thumb circles my clit in tighter, more deliberate strokes.
Electric heat shoots up my spine, pooling low in my belly. My thighs start to tremble around his hand. "Yes," I gasp, "God, yes right there," I breathe, my voice breaking on the words as the tension coils tighter, tighter.
The pressure builds until I'm balanced on a knife's edge, every nerve ending alive and screaming. Nick's fingers work relentlessly inside me, thumb circling my clit with perfect, maddening pressure. His eyes never leave my face, drinking in every hitched breath, every flutter of my eyelashes.
"You're so beautiful like this. Falling apart just for me, Sugarplum."
The orgasm hits like a thunderclap, sudden and overwhelming.
My body seizes, inner walls clamping down on his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me.
I cry out, the sound echoing in the cabin as my hips buck wildly against his hand.
My bound wrists pull tight against the back of his neck, forcing our foreheads together as I shatter.
Nick's breath catches, his pupils blown wide as he watches me come undone. "That's it baby," he whispers, working me through each pulse, each tremor.
I collapse against him, trembling and boneless, as aftershocks ripple through my body. His fingers still move lazily inside me, drawing out every last shudder until I whimper from oversensitivity. Only then does he slowly withdraw, leaving me empty and aching.
He brings his glistening fingers to his mouth and licks them clean, eyes locked on mine. The sight sends another jolt of heat through me, even as disgust and shame flood my system.
What have I done?
I just came on the hand of my kidnapper. I just begged for it.
"You taste even better than I imagined," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my temple as I struggle to catch my breath.
My cheeks burn with humiliation, with pleasure, with confusion. I can't look at him. Can't face what just happened. Can't reconcile the storm of contradictions raging inside me.
Nick gently lifts my bound hands from around his neck and cradles them in his palms. His thumbs stroke over the angry red marks where the zip ties dug into my skin.
"You did so well," he says softly, pressing his lips to my wrists. "My perfect girl."
I should hate those words. Should recoil from his touch, his praise. Instead, my traitorous body melts into him, craving the comfort even as my mind screams in protest.
I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline crash hits hard, leaving me hollow and wrung out. Nick seems to sense it. He tucks me against his chest, one hand stroking my hair as he murmurs soothing nonsense into the crown of my head.