Chapter 23 #3
I gripped his hair and brought his head down to mine. Steel eyes widened in surprise as I bit at his lower lip, tugging it between my teeth.
“I want you to tie me up and fuck me stupid, Rowan.” I held his gaze, letting him see every ounce of desire and trust and need burning through me. “You’ll do this for me, won’t you?”
He released a breathless, “Yes.”
I smiled against his mouth. “Good.”
I kissed him then, and he met my fire with ice—a slow, deliberate dance of tongues as he tamed my wildfire with patient, methodical strokes. Taking control. Claiming dominance. Showing me exactly who would be leading this dance.
Yes. Finally.
“Take off your clothes,” he commanded against my lips.
I obliged immediately, sitting up to peel off his shirt I’d been wearing. He stepped away from the bed, and something in the corner caught my eye—my bag.
A devious smirk played across my face as an idea formed.
When Rowan returned—gloriously, magnificently naked, his cock already hardening again despite having just come—he stopped mid-stride.
I was nude as he’d commanded, yes. But I’d also pulled out my spare black stockings from my bag and wore them for him, the mid torso tights hugging my legs. I’d positioned myself in the center of the bed, legs spread wide in shameless invitation.
“I thought I said to get naked.” His voice had gone rough, his eyes locked on where the stockings ended near my navel and bare skin began.
“I thought you might enjoy these.” I traced one hand down my body slowly, over my breast, across my stomach, stopping just before reaching where I knew he was desperate to stare.
He took a deep breath, his chest expanding. He closed his eyes and nodded, looking like a man struggling for control. “Very much so. Do you mind if they tear?”
He watched me stretch my other arm over my head, my back arched and breasts lifted, as my hand continued its path past my navel. I shook my head, watching his breath quicken, as I lowered my hand to tease myself with my fingers. “Not at all.”
“Fuck, Violet.” He crossed to me in two strides, the cerulean rope dangling from one hand. His cock twitched, thick and flushed and already leaking again.
I felt gloriously unhinged, knowing I was breaking him down piece by piece.
“Do you like what you see, Rowan?”
“Yes.” The word came out grated, forced through clenched teeth. His eyes trailed down my body in a touch that felt physical, hot and possessive. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, rope coiling at his feet. “Can I?”
I widened my legs further, knowing exactly what he was asking. “Touch me, Rowan. I’m yours.”
He let out a long, drawn-out groan and buried his face between my legs.
The stockings went up to my torso, but his tongue found my center as if there were no barrier at all. He pressed against me, broad strokes of his tongue running the length of my covered slit, and I let out a moan that echoed off the bedroom’s high ceilings.
“Oh god, Rowan. That feels so good.”
He gripped my thighs, his fingers digging into soft flesh as he widened my legs even more. The stretch burned perfectly, and then my heels were hooked over his shoulders, my body completely opened to him.
I was on display—aching and needy and desperate—and he fucking knew it.
“You look so gorgeous like this, Violet.” He nipped at the stocking covering my inner thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath. “Spread open for me. Dripping.”
“You like making me beg, don’t you, Rowan?” My voice came out breathless, wrecked already.
More teeth, and I felt the stocking tear. Cool air hit newly exposed skin. “Want me to punish you when all you deserve is praise and rewards for being so fucking perfect?”
I whimpered as his thumb moved to circle my clit through the ruined stocking, the wet fabric creating delicious friction. I could feel how drenched I was, my arousal soaking through the black nylon.
“Please, Rowan. Tie me up and show me how good I’ve been.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating against my inner thigh and causing me to shudder. “You always know exactly what to say to get your way, do you not, my volchok? Showing me your teeth when all you really want is to be fucked senseless.”
“Yes,” I pleaded, past any pretense of pride. “Just for you. I need you to.”
I felt the stocking rip more—a decisive tear—and then two fingers slid inside me without warning.
I nearly vaulted off the bed, my hips lifting, a moan tearing from my throat that was half pleasure, half shock. He was thick, his fingers stretching me, curving immediately to find that spot inside that made stars burst behind my eyes.
“Such a good volchok.” His voice was pure gravel now, wrecked and wanting. “Move against my fingers.”
I didn’t need his urging. I was already moving, my body dancing with a want that felt all-consuming. He thrust into me with steady rhythm, his fingers crooking on each stroke, his thumb finding my clit and circling with maddening precision.
The orgasm built fast, racing towards me like a freight train. I couldn’t help the way his name tore from my lips in ragged pants. “Rowan, I’m close—”
He removed his fingers abruptly, leaving me empty and gasping.
“Wait, no. Why?” I pleaded, my voice breaking.
“Someone asked for rope.” He stood, leaning over me to shove his fingers into my mouth. “And I want you to come on my cock, not my hand.”
I choked as he pushed them deep enough to make my throat convulse, my body struggling for air. But I took it, tasting myself on his skin—salt and musk and something uniquely mine.
“Good volchoks get rewarded when they listen.” He removed his fingers slowly, and I gasped for air. “Now sit up and be still.”
I nodded mutely and sat as commanded, my body thrumming with anticipation.
He tilted my head up to look at him, and slowly—deliberately—licked the fingers he’d used inside me. My eyes fluttered, my body going molten as I watched him taste both my saliva and arousal like it was the finest delicacy he’d ever encountered.
“Fucking delicious,” he muttered, confirming my thoughts.
He leaned forward and began the tie, his movements deft and confident. The rope was soft against my skin—not scratchy like I’d expected, but smooth. He worked with practiced efficiency, wrapping and knotting, his breath warm against my collarbone as he concentrated.
I relaxed into his touch, into the ritual of it.
He paused at one point, assessing his work, then moved behind me to finish. I felt strong arms wrap around my chest as he pulled me deeper into the bed, positioning me exactly how he wanted me.
Then teeth sank into my shoulder—a sharp, claiming bite that pulled a moan from somewhere deep inside me.
The pain was hot and unrelenting and exactly what my body craved.
I cried out, the sound echoing off brick and glass, as he pulled back and gently ran his tongue over the mark he’d left.
My legs quivered, the orgasm that had been building threatening to crest if he continued this perfect torture of pain and pleasure.
“One more tie. Be patient, volchok.”
I let out a whimper as he kissed my temple, the tenderness at odds with the bite mark throbbing on my shoulder.
He moved back in front of me and began working on my hands, lifting them above my head.
He was careful of the small tattoo on my forearm—a pair of yin and yang snakes wrapped around a moon.
“I would wrap this if I could, but for now, this will keep you still.” He secured the rope to something above me—the headboard, I realized—and moved out of the way to assess his work.
I squirmed slightly, testing the restraints. Despite being bound, I was comfortable. The rope held me firmly but didn’t bite. My arms were positioned in a way that didn’t strain my shoulders. My legs were free to move.
As always, he’d been careful with me.
He stood beside the bed with a hungry look in his eyes—his gaze like hot trails of desire raking across my skin—as he slowly palmed himself.
I rubbed my thighs together, bucking my hips in wordless plea. “Rowan, don’t leave me waiting.”
He looked down at me with half-lidded eyes, his hand still moving over his length in slow, deliberate strokes. “Oh? Tell me, how badly do you want it?”
Oh god, how the tables have turned.
“Why don’t you taste me again, Rowan?” I opened my legs for him in invitation, relishing how wet I felt—arousal dripping down my thigh onto the bed below me.
I’d always been self-conscious about how wet I got, convinced something was wrong with me.
Every partner in this life had commented on it, some with appreciation, others with discomfort.
But now? Now I reveled in it. Reveled in knowing I was soaking his expensive sheets with evidence of exactly how much I wanted him.
“Shove your tongue in me, Rowan.” The words poured out uncensored, unfiltered. “Spit on me. Tell me how good I’ve been before you slide your cock into me.”
I couldn’t help how sublime the words felt, how right.
“I want to be spread open and used by you.”
“Fuck, Violet.” His hand moved faster against his cock—thick, flushed dark at the head, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. “You have got a filthy mouth on you.”
My eyes were glued to his length, cataloging every detail. The prominent vein running along the underside. The way it curved slightly upward. How it bobbed with each breath he took.
I want that inside me. Now.
“The safe word is red,” he said, his voice taking on that commanding edge that made my core clench. “Yellow if you are feeling unsure and I will slow down. I will not risk hurting you, so you had better use them if needed. Do you understand?”
“Okay.” I was aching for him, barely able to form words. “Complaints against my mouth?” I asked, suddenly unsure of myself.
He raised an eyebrow. “I love how filthy you are. Though I might use a ball gag if you keep talking, else I might embarrass myself again.”