Chapter 11
SERAPHINA
Power is intoxicating.
I've never understood it before—not really.
Luke is always the one in control, always the one orchestrating our scenes, always the one who decides when and how and how much.
I've loved every second of it, surrendering to him, being taken apart by someone who knows exactly how to put me back together.
But this? Having him tied up and helpless beneath me, his muscles straining against restraints he can't break, his eyes dark with want behind that mask?
This is a new feeling entirely.
I select a grape from the platter, rolling it between my fingers the same way he did hours ago. He watches every movement, his chest rising and falling with quickened breaths. The mighty Luke Morrison, reduced to tracking fruit with hungry eyes.
I could get used to this.
"Open," I command, and the word feels strange in my mouth. I've never been the one giving orders.
He hesitates for a short second, a flash of his usual dominance surfacing, and I raise an eyebrow.
"I said open."
His jaw unclenches, and his lips part. The sight of my husband obeying me sends a rush of heat straight between my thighs.
I trace the grape across his lower lip, slow and teasing, watching his tongue twitch with the urge to chase it. But he doesn't. He waits, letting me control the pace, and the submission in that small act makes me want to devour him.
I press the grape between his lips, and he bites down. Juice runs down his chin—just like it ran down mine—and I lean in to lick it away.
He groans at the contact, his hips jerking up involuntarily. His cock is fully hard now, straining toward me, and I deliberately don't touch it. Not yet.
"Patience," I murmur against his jaw. "Isn't that what you told me?"
"Seraphina." My name comes out a strangled growl.
"Yes, husband?" I pull back, reaching for another grape. "Did you want something?"
"You know what I want."
"Do I?" I circle the grape around his mouth, watching his lips try to follow it. "Why don't you tell me? Use your words, like you always make me do."
The look he gives me is equal parts frustration and admiration. He's not used to this—being the one who has to ask, to articulate, to beg. It's a language he's made me fluent in, but he's barely a beginner.
"Touch me," he finally says. "Please."
"Touch you where?" I let the grape drift down his neck, across his collarbone. "Here?"
"Lower."
I trail it down his chest, circling one nipple, then the other. "Here?"
"Seraphina." There's a warning in his voice, but it's toothless. He can't do anything to back it up.
"That's not an answer." I continue my slow path downward, tracing the lines of his abs. "Be specific, Luke. Tell me exactly what you want."
I watch him wrestle with the pride that doesn't want to submit, the need that's demanding he give in. It's the same battle I've fought every time he's had me tied up and begging. I know exactly how it feels to want something so badly that dignity becomes irrelevant.
"I want you to touch my cock." The words come out rough, almost defiant. "I want your hands on me. Your mouth. Anything. Please, Seraphina."
There it is. Please.
"Good boy," I say, and his eyes flare with something between shock and arousal.
I've never called him that before. It's always been good girl on his lips, not the other way around. But the way his cock stiffens at the words tells me he doesn't mind the reversal.
I set the grape aside and wrap my hand around him.
He hisses through his teeth, his whole body going taut. He's so hard it has to be painful.
"Is this what you wanted?" I stroke him slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure. "My hand on your cock?"
"Yes." It comes out as a groan. "Fuck, yes."
I work him with deliberate strokes, learning the rhythm that makes his breath catch, the pressure that makes his hips buck. I've touched him countless times before, but never with him completely at my mercy, unable to grab my hips or flip me over or take control.
He has to lie there and take whatever I give him.
The power of it is dizzying.
I stroke him faster, watching him climb toward the edge. His jaw is clenched, his arms straining against the restraints, every muscle in his body tight with building tension. He's close—I can feel it in the way he's thickening in my hand, and I can see it in the desperation on his face.
And that’s when I stop.
"What—" His eyes fly open, wild with frustration. "Seraphina, don't you dare—"
"Don't I dare what?" I release him completely, sitting back on my heels. "Edge you? Deny you? Make you feel exactly what you made me feel?"
He's breathing hard, his cock bobbing against his stomach, angry and neglected. The look he gives me could melt steel.
"You're evil."
"I learned from an expert." I reach for the wine glass, taking a leisurely sip while he watches with murder in his eyes. "Do you remember what you said to me earlier? 'You can come as many times as I want you to.' Well, guess what, husband?"
I lean down, my lips brushing his ear.
"You can come when I want you to. And I'm not done playing yet."
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a curse. I've never heard him so frustrated, so desperate. It's addictive.
I take my time with him. Wine poured across his chest, licked away with slow strokes of my tongue.
Grapes traced across his abs, his hip bones, everywhere except where he really wants them.
My mouth on his neck, his jaw, the sensitive spot below his ear—everywhere except his lips, his cock, the places that would give him real relief.
I bring him to the edge three more times, and each time I stop just before he can fall over. By the third denial, he's actually shaking, his body covered in a sheen of sweat, his voice hoarse from cursing and begging and threatening all the things he's going to do to me when he gets free.
I love every second of it.
"Please." The word is wrecked, barely recognizable. "Seraphina, please. I can't—I need—"
"What do you need?" I'm straddling his hips now, his cock pressed against my stomach, so close to where we both want it. "Tell me."
"I need to be inside you." He's given up on pride entirely. "I need to feel you, love. Please let me fuck you."
Love. Even now, even desperate and denied, he calls me that. The tenderness beneath the need makes my heart squeeze.
"You don't get to fuck me," I tell him, and I watch the devastation flash across his face before I continue. "I'm going to fuck you."
Before he can respond, I rise up and sink down onto him in one smooth motion.
We both cry out at the sensation. He's so hard, so thick, stretching me in that perfect way that always makes me see stars. And he's been denied so long that just being inside me is probably overwhelming—I can feel him throbbing, his desperate need to thrust.
But he can't thrust. He can only lie there and let me ride him.
"Oh fuck." His voice is guttural, animalistic. "Oh fuck, Seraphina, you feel—"
"Shh." I start to move, rolling my hips in a slow rhythm. "No talking. Just feeling."
He obeys. For once in his life, my controlling, commanding husband does exactly what he's told.
I ride him slowly at first, finding my rhythm, taking my own pleasure. The angle is perfect—every downstroke hits so perfectly. I brace my hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath my palms, and let myself get lost in the sensation.
His eyes never leave my face. Even through the mask, I can see the intensity of his gaze—watching me move, watching me take what I want from his body, watching me use him for my own pleasure.
"You're so beautiful like this," he breathes.
"Like what?"
"In control." His arms strain against the restraints, like he wants to touch me so badly he might break free through sheer will. "Powerful. Taking what you want."
His words push me higher, and I move faster, chasing my own release. The velvet beneath my knees is soft, the candlelight warm, the music pulsing through the cellar like a heartbeat. Everything is a sensation—his cock inside me, his eyes on my face, his voice telling me I'm beautiful.
"I'm close," I gasp.
"Then come." Even tied up, even denied, he can't help trying to give commands. "Come on my cock, Seraphina. Let me feel you."
The orgasm builds from deep in my core, coiling tighter with every roll of my hips. I'm chasing it, riding him harder, faster, using his body to push myself over the edge.
When I come, it's with his name on my lips.
The pleasure crashes through me in waves, my inner walls clenching around him, my whole body shuddering with the force of it. I hear him groan beneath me, feel his hips jerk up as much as they can, feel him fighting not to follow me over.
Because he knows he doesn't have permission.
I ride out the aftershocks, my rhythm slowing, my breath coming in ragged gasps. He's still hard inside me, still desperate, still denied. The thought makes me smile.
"Please." It's barely a whisper. "Seraphina. Please."
I look down at my husband—this man who has given me so much pleasure, so much love, so many incredible experiences. This man who planned an entire Valentine's Day kidnapping just to make me feel desired. This man who, even now, is letting me have this power over him without complaint.
He's given me everything tonight. It's time I gave him something back.
"Come for me," I whisper, and start to move again.
It doesn't take long. After all the edging, all the denial, he's so primed that a few more strokes are all he needs. I feel him swell inside me, his whole body going rigid, and then I hear my name tear from his throat as he finally—finally—lets go.
The orgasm seems to last forever, his cock pulsing inside me, his hips bucking against my weight, his voice breaking on sounds that aren't even words. I've made him come before, countless times, but never like this. Never with him so completely undone.
When it's over, he sags against the chaise like all his strings have been cut.
I collapse on top of him, both of us breathing hard, neither of us capable of speech. His heart is racing beneath my ear, and mine is doing the same. The cellar is quiet except for our ragged breaths and the soft music still playing in the background.
After a long moment, I reach up and release the restraints.
His arms come down immediately, wrapping around me with a desperation that makes my chest ache. He holds me so tight it's almost hard to breathe, his face buried in my hair, his whole body trembling.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly.
"I don't know." His laugh is shaky. "I think you broke me."
I lift my head to look at him. He's still wearing the mask, and so am I. We should probably take them off now but neither of us moves to do it.
"Good broken or bad broken?" I ask.
"Good." He cups my face with one hand, his thumb stroking across my cheek. "Definitely good.”
We lie there tangled together, both wrecked in the best possible way. The candles have burned low, the music has shifted to something softer, and the world outside the cellar has ceased to exist.
"I can't believe you drugged me," he says suddenly, and when I look up, he's grinning.
"I can't believe it worked." I prop my chin on his chest. "I was so nervous. I thought for sure you'd figure it out before the sedative kicked in."
"I was too busy feeling smug about my brilliant plan." He shakes his head ruefully. "I walked right into it."
"You really did." I lean up to kiss him again. "Happy Valentine's Day, husband."
"Happy Valentine's Day, wife." His arms tighten around me. "Thank you for the best surprise I've ever had."
We fall silent again, but it's a comfortable silence. The silence of two people who have just shared something extraordinary and don't need words to acknowledge it.
The night isn't over yet—there's still so much we haven't explored—but for now, this is enough.
For now, we just hold each other and breathe.