Epilogue Jillian #3
He flips me onto my back and slowly takes off my blindfold.
It’s dark, but I can see just enough to take my breath away.
He’s huge and irresistible above me, a giant, my master.
I can feel the weight of him settle between my spread thighs, the smooth wool of his suit pants against my bare skin, the stiff edge of his jacket brushing my stomach.
He’s still fully dressed, mask included.
I’m naked and bound and pinned. The power imbalance is glaringly obvious.
All I want to see, though, all I need to see, is those eyes on me.
Those eyes tell me everything.
Because that’s what people don’t understand about the fantasies I have, the scenes I act out with my man night in and night out.
It’s that he loves me enough to destroy me.
He’s a dangerous person with violence in every cell, but he loves me enough to use that violence to take me right where I need to go and not one inch farther.
He gives me the power to say when. I give everything to him and he gives it all right back.
That’s the kind of love we have. Dark. Twisted. Jagged. Bloody.
But oh so fucking real.
“Please,” I whimper again. “I need you so bad.”
He reaches between us, tugs down his zipper, and frees his cock. Even in the gloom, I can see how huge and hard he is. The glistening drop of precum at his tip shines in the light through the gap in the window curtains.
He coaxes my knees a bit farther apart, then steps closer. I feel him line up, the blunt head pressing against my opening.
Then he pushes in. Slow. One inch. Stop. Another inch. Stop. Lets me adjust. My bound hands dig into the mattress beneath me as I sputter wordlessly and soundlessly. He feeds himself into my wet greediness with agonizing patience until he’s all the way in, buried to the hilt.
Then he pauses again.
He stays right there. Bottomed out. Full.
Heavy. Filling every inch of empty space I have and then some.
The sharp flash of stretching pain comes and goes quickly, and when it’s gone, all I can think is how complete I feel with him like this.
I’m home. Safe. Cared for. On the verge of my most beautiful oblivion.
His hand finds my throat, but it’s the first thing he’s gotten wrong tonight, because it’s gentle. Too gentle. I want more. I need the squeeze, the blur, the soft cotton edges of the world curling inward. So I tuck my chin down and arch up into his grip.
Take what you want, the gesture says. I’m giving you permission.
His fingers tighten. Not all at once. It’s gradual, degree by degree, until the pressure builds on both sides of my windpipe and the room gets warm, distant, and perfect.
Yes. Yes. That’s right. Kill me, then bring me back to life, baby. I’d say it if I could, but I only have air to whine and nod.
Then he moves.
The first thrust is slow and deep, dragging out and pushing back in until I feel him everywhere. He does it again. Again. Finding the rhythm, letting it build. My legs wrap around his waist and I pull him closer, though closer is never quite close enough with us.
He picks up speed. The bed frame protests. His hips snap harder and the sound of skin hitting skin fills the dark room and I’m gone, I’m just gone.
“Give me everything, little fox,” he growls above me. “I want all of it.”
The dam breaks.
I cum twice in the first two minutes he’s fucking me.
Normally, I’d want him to throw me around.
I like being manhandled, moved from my knees to my back to on top to my knees again.
Bent over this chair or that desk, spread, tortured, worshipped, broken.
But tonight, by unspoken agreement, we’ve both decided that we don’t have the patience for anything more than what we’ve already done.
Now, we’re in the home stretch, hurtling down to the black hole at the bottom, hand-in-hand.
At some point, he reaches down below the small of my back and undoes the knots. The blood rushes back into my fingertips as the rope comes free. And thank God for that, because I need to touch his hard, hot body or I might just perish.
My freed hands fly to his back, nails digging in, pulling him deeper. He responds by driving harder. I feel every inch of him tonight in a way I haven’t before. He’s so deep it borders on too much. There’s no room in me for anything that isn’t Kir’s thick cock. Not fear, not doubt, not the past.
Just him. Only him. Only ever him.
Then my hands get a new idea, all on their own. They travel up his chest, over the stiff collar of his jacket, along the cords of his neck, until my fingertips find the bottom edge of the mask. Kir freezes. His hips stop mid-thrust. His hand loosens on my throat.
I pull the bottom hem up slowly, past his chin, just far enough to see his mouth and his jaw and the faint scar near his lip. Just enough to make him a person.
“I don’t need it anymore,” I whisper. “I just need you.”
He hesitates for a moment longer. Then his mouth is on mine, and he’s kissing me so deep I taste salty tears, though I’m not sure whose they are.
Growling into me, he starts to move again.
This is not our normal animalistic fucking now.
This is something else. There’s only one thing you can call this, his whole body pressed to mine, forehead to forehead, his breath in my lungs, his heart in tune with my heart.
This is making love.
“Cum inside me,” I beg against his mouth. “Please. I want all of you.”
He drives deep one final time and I convulse around him.
His name tears out of me. “Kir!” Not the Masked Man, but Kir, the person, the man, my lover, my king.
He buries his face in my neck and groans “Jillian” against my pulse, and I feel him let go, hot and gushing inside me.
The orgasms roll through us both in one long, united, devastating wave that leaves me shaking underneath him for a very long time once it’s all finally done.
We might’ve forgotten about the Halloween party altogether and laid there for the rest of time if, at that moment, the lights hadn’t turned on.
My whole apartment hums to life, flooding the room with warm glow.
I squint against it and find Kir already looking down at me, mask bunched up around his forehead, hair wrecked, pupils blown wide, grinning.
“I set it on a timer,” he explains.
“You are an absolute psycho,” I inform him.
He laughs. Then he pulls out of me, and before I can even register the loss, he’s gathering me against his chest and rolling us both onto our sides.
His bare hands find my wrists first. He turns them over, studying the red lines the rope left behind.
His thumbs graze over the marks, kneading the tender skin in small circles, working blood back into places that have been squeezed and starved.
He lifts my left wrist to his mouth and kisses the inside of it, right on the rope burn. Then the right one.
“Does this hurt?”
“A little. Few more kisses might fix that, though.”
He nods solemnly and kisses it again.
He checks my thighs next. His palm cups the worst of the welts, the crease where my thigh meets my ass, and he frowns like he wants to kill the man who did this to me. Then his mouth follows in another healing kiss.
“You were so good tonight,” he murmurs against my skin. “So fucking good for me.”
I shiver. It is not cold in here at all anymore. I’ve got my own personal furnace to huddle against. I might never be cold again.
Kir works his way back up, touching me here and there, kissing, stroking, loving. His bare hands are so different from the gloved ones. Tender, not harsh. Kind, not cruel.
“You’re perfect,” he says into the curve of my neck. “Every single part of you.”
I close my eyes and rest my head on his chest. His heartbeat is steady under my ear.
Strong and even, the way it always is after.
The way it always is, period. The man runs on a rhythm that never wavers, not when he’s furious, not when he’s tender, not when he’s buried inside me.
It’s the most reliable sound in my universe.
I press closer and let it fill up all the quiet spaces in my head.
I spent so many years afraid of the dark. I had my heart shoved inside a locked room, dead-bolted and barricaded and sealed shut for five long years.
But there’s a man in the shadows now, and he’s watching over me.
He found a way in through the window.