Chapter 19 #2
“We did,” I whisper.
I squeeze his hand back. And don’t let go.
Dante
There are no words when we reach the penthouse.
Only the pounding of our hearts. The echo of destruction still thundering in our blood. I strip out of my gear in the hall.
She moves beside me, silent and fluid. Still riding the high.
I watch her.
Her boots come off first. Then the utility belt, unbuckled with one flick of those thief-trained fingers. She peels off her body armor, layer by layer, until only the collar remains.
And then she turns.
Dark blue eyes—haunted and blazing. Full lips swollen from the stress-bite she always gives herself when she's deep in code.
“Master,” she says. Then, “Fuck me.”
She says it like a command.
Like a plea. Like something holy.
And I’m undone.
I lift her—because kneeling would be too small for this moment.
I carry her into the playroom like she’s fire and salvation all at once. My arms full of the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted to protect.
I don’t speak as I strip the last of her clothing away. Don’t order her. Don’t bind her.
Not yet.
Tonight isn’t about ownership.
It’s about worship.
Dahlia
The straps of the leather swing are cool beneath my skin.
Familiar.
But tonight, there’s no edge to it. No punishment in the air.
Just him. His hands and his mouth.
Every stroke is reverent. Every kiss a thank you and a warning and a benediction all rolled into one. His fingers trail down my spine, slow and aching.
They pause at the plug he insisted I wear through the heist, keeping me his even in enemy territory.
He leans in, breath hot against my ear.
“You were perfect,” he murmurs. “So fucking perfect. And mine.”
The words crash through me, making my breath stutter.
I nod. I tremble. I feel .
“I love you, Sir. Yours. Always. Completely,” I whisper. And I mean it.
He binds my wrists high—not tight. Just enough. Just so I know it’s real.
The soft leather cuffs wrap around me like vows.
Then he takes up the flogger.
Not to punish but to bless.
Dante
I touch her like a prayer. Like she’s something holy.
Something I have no business kneeling before—but do anyway.
She’s bound, but not to break. Her wrists hang above her, soft and willing, cuffs snug but not cruel.
I watch her body—lush, trembling, flushed with heat and high from the win—as she melts beneath every inch of my focus.
Her dark hair spills down her back, damp with sweat.
Her breath is shallow, but steady. Expectant.
The flogger falls in a gentle rhythm, leather whispering across the curve of her ass, the backs of her thighs, her calves. A hairsbreadth from her slick and shining pussy.
No pain—just the bite of sensation. The gift of presence.
Her moans come softly at first, then louder as her body sways into it, surrendering deeper with every stroke.
She spreads her thighs wider without being told.
She knows what’s next.
And so do I.
But I don’t rush.
I drop to my knees behind her, between her splayed legs. I press my mouth to the skin just above the plug keeping her open for me—claiming her again, reminding her she’s still mine. Then lower.
I kiss the inside of her thighs, nipping, teasing, tasting the sweat and surrender there until she’s sobbing , gasping out half-formed pleas.
Then I lick her.
Soft and slow at first. Then deeper. Then crueler .
I edge her once, twice, a third time—until her body is thrumming, her voice wrecked and hoarse. Her safe word dances behind her teeth, but she never says it.
Because she trusts me.
Because she wants this.
Because she knows I’ll never take her further than she can go—but I’ll damn well take her to the edge.
When I finally rise, I drag my cock over her slick folds, teasing her entrance, rubbing metal against skin, feeling her tremble. The way she arches. The way she gasps. Begs.
I push inside her ass. Slow .
Deep.
Possessive.
Heaven.
My cock sinks into her inch by inch, and I swear—God help me—I feel it in my soul. She’s tight and wet and clutching at me like she needs this as badly as I do. Like she’s taking me in everywhere —mind, body, fucking soul.
She throws her head back, dark blue eyes glassy with need.
“Say it,” I growl, one hand curving gently around her throat—take her breath just enough to make her feel it. “Say you’re mine.”
Her whole body clenches as she cries out, “ I’m yours. Always.”
It flays me.
The sound of her. The feel of her. The way her body opens for me, bare and fearless and mine .
I thrust harder, deeper, unable to hold back the growl that rips from my chest. My control frays with every stroke. I feel her clench around me, hear her whimper and gasp, her pleasure building again like a wave.
I press my forehead to hers, our breaths tangled and labored. My thrusts slow—not out of mercy, but awe. Reverence.
“And I’m yours,” I whisper, barely able to speak. “God help me, Specter. I’ve always been yours.”
Dahlia
When I come, it’s with his name torn from my throat like truth.
My body convulses around him, every nerve lit like the last star in a dying sky. His cock throbs inside me, buried so deep I don’t know where he ends and I begin. And for a long, suspended moment, he doesn’t move.
He just holds me.
Like I’m the only thing in this fucked-up world he can’t rebuild if it got damaged.
Like letting go might break him more than it breaks me.
His breath shudders out. His arms tremble around my hips, his forehead pressed against mine like a prayer, or maybe a promise.
I lift my bound wrists. I mean to touch his jaw. To anchor us both. But he leans in first and kisses the inside of my elbow. Soft. Gentle. Like it’s sacred.
Like I am.
Neither of us says anything for a long while. We don’t need to.
Eventually, he unbinds me with fingers that linger too long on every strap. Then he lifts me, carries me to bed like the end of a ritual, and tucks me against him as if sleep were safety, as if the world could wait.
We curl together like we’re learning each other all over again.
His breath at my temple.
My hand splayed over his chest.
No more contracts. No more commands.
Just this. Just us.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t dream of loss and guilt and ghosts.
I dream of forever .