52. Nell
My heart hammers so loud I swear he can hear it. It thunders against my ribs, ready to split through bone if I don’t hold myself together. He doesn’t speak as he leads me down the hallway—just silent, focused, every step a warning.
We reach his bedroom, and even though I’ve been here dozens of times before, it feels different now. The air’s heavier. The walls tighter. I can’t read his intent, and the not-knowing grips me harder than any restraint ever could.
“Wait,”
he commands, voice low as he shifts effortlessly and drops me onto the bed.
I stay put. Not out of fear—but because I know better than to test him when he looks like this. When the fire behind his eyes burns quiet and cold.
He crosses to the walk-in wardrobe—the one I happened upon before, the one that isn’t filled with suits or coats but with toys.
But they’re not really toys, they’re closer to instruments. Steel, leather, rope. Tools that blur the line between pleasure and punishment.
“Do you know how long I’ve waited to meet someone who doesn’t flinch at the darkness?”
His voice threads through the room, taut with history.
“Not even my wife could face this side of me. She hated it. Hated that it existed inside me at all.”
He pulls a coil of rope from the shelf, letting it slide between his palms with the kind of ease that only comes from repetition. It’s almost meditative, the way his fingers move.
“You don’t know anything about my marriage,”
he continues, eyes locked on mine now—ferocious and raw.
“Yes, I loved her. And I’d do anything to give her life back. But this—”
he nods toward me, gaze sweeping over my body like it’s something he’s claimed just by looking.
“this is something she never wanted to understand.”
And in this moment, I forget to breathe.
“You’re mine now, Nell,”
he says, voice low and anchored in promise.
“You might’ve crashed into my world without warning, but I’m not letting you leave so easily.”
His steps are deliberate, commanding, the rope swinging at his side like an extension of intent.
“So—what do you choose for your safe word, trouble?”
That nickname, laced with affection and threat, hits just right.
He brushes the hair from his face with one hand, and my stomach flips at his devastating beauty. This is why I’ll never find anyone who compares. Just look at him. A walking contradiction; fury wrapped in devotion, danger dipped in grace. He’s too good for me… and yet exactly what I crave.
But I don’t want a safe word.
I want to know how far he’s willing to take this.
I want to feel it all.
“Do I need one?”
I ask, letting the question hang between us like bait.
His eyebrow arches—a challenge carved into his flesh—and then he chuckles. That low, rumbling kind that stirs something wild in my chest.
He peels off the bike leathers, then slowly—excruciatingly slowly—unbuttons two buttons on his shirt. His sleeves roll up with practiced care, each movement deliberate, each second drawn out like a tease, revealing those tattoos that wrap around his body up into his hairline.
The braces slide from his shoulders and pool at his waist.
Damn.
“Not if you trust me,”
he says, voice low and steady.
“I trust you.”
There’s no hesitation—because it’s true. Whatever this is, whatever we’re walking into, I trust him with all of it.
“Stand,”
he commands, and I obey without a word.
There’s an unexpected tenderness in the way he moves—gentler than I imagined—as he eases the hoodie up and over my head. His fingers brush lightly along my sides as he works the joggers down my hips. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t turn it into a performance. Just peels me out of my layers like he’s revealing something sacred.
Then he stills.
“No underwear?”
His gaze flickers, amused. But it’s his fingers that speak louder—trailing back up my thighs, slow and deliberate. They skate over the curve of my hips, coaxing goosebumps to bloom against my skin.
And just like that, I’m wrecked inside.
Coiled tight.
Already aching.
“I… err, packed it all,”
I murmur, regretting the words the moment they leave my lips.
“Oh, right. For your little escape,”
he teases, voice curling around me, breath warm against the nape of my neck. There’s amusement there, but something darker underneath.
“Arms behind your back.”
I obey without hesitation. My body moves before thought can intervene.
I can’t see much from this angle—not until he circles me, rope in hand, passing it around my torso with practiced ease.
Each coil creates a map across my skin, a boundary.
Piece by piece, he divides me—rib from breast, breath from resistance.
He’s fast, focused, but not careless.
And by the time he finishes, I can feel it—the pressure, the heat.
The way blood scrambles to reroute beneath the tight cords now hugging my body.
My forearms are locked behind me, wrists tight, bound in a way that allows no wriggling or escape.
I test the restraint anyway, out of reflex, but there is no give.
“You thought you were the only one who could tie knots?”
he murmurs, catching the subtle tug of rebellion in my shoulders.
But it’s not rebellion.
It’s survival instinct.
Each twist of rope drags me closer to that memory—Lea.
That bed.
That nightmare.
I’m trying to stay here, in this moment, in his gaze, but pieces of me are splintering. I’m unravelling from the inside out.
My heart thunders, but it’s not just the ache or the hunger driving it now. It’s something deeper.
A raw, desperate need to forget.
I’m trying to calm myself, but it’s useless.
My body trembles beneath his touch—every nerve lit like a fuse. He senses it instantly.
“Breathe, baby,”
he says, his voice a low, quiet storm.
His chest presses against my back, grounding me.
“You know, my father was a terrible man.”
The words crack through the haze.
“Some of the things he did to me… the things he made me do… they still haunt me.”
His breath is warm against my neck, words threading through my skin like needles.
“But you want to know what helps?”
I nod, leaning into him, needing the contact, the anchor, anything to still the chaos inside me.
His fingers begin to map my skin in that slow, deliberate kind of way—tracing invisible lines only he can see.
“Pain,”
he murmurs.
“Inflicting pain, even more so.”
His hand tightens around my upper arm, not cruel but absolute. Unapologetic. Then silently, he nudges my legs apart with a knee. My breath catches in response.
His hand drops, trailing downward, claiming the space between my thighs with quiet authority.
A moan escapes me before I can swallow it.
Unbidden. Raw.
“There you are,”
he murmurs, and I can hear the satisfied smile in his voice.
His hand dips to the unbearable heat between my thighs, but he doesn’t push further, doesn’t claim or invade. He just gathers the evidence of my need, and pulls his hand back.
“And do you want to know what I’m going to do for you, trouble?”
He reads my silence like scripture, takes it as permission.
“I’m going to help you forget him,”
he whispers.
“Forget every touch he stole.”
I try to stay present, to hold onto his voice, but my focus narrows to the slow glide of his finger—stroking, teasing, easing me away from everything I don’t want to feel. Coaxing me toward something softer. Something mine.
“If I say no?”
The words slip out before I can catch them—bare, unscripted.
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“We agreed—no safewords,”
he says, voice cool and clipped, and in the same breath he throws me onto the mattress.
I hit the bed with a soft bounce, breath jolted from my lungs, but he’s already on me again—hands firm, movements deliberate. He spreads my legs with ease, no hesitation, bending and positioning each one with surgical precision. Thigh to calf, knees folded tight like a dissected equation.
And then the rope.
It winds swiftly around each limb, anchoring me in this strange, open vulnerability—trussed up like I’m being studied, or preserved.
Spatchcocked.
I can’t fight him, my arms are tied so tightly behind my back, I’m just a fish out of water, flopping around on his bed.
But I’m not on the bed long, once I’m tied to his liking he lifts me by my arms down onto my knees. And before I have time to plan ahead, he’s already unzipped his fly, his impressive dick rock-hard, waiting to be sucked on.
I’m entirely focused on his throbbing cock, but when he lifts my chin with his other hand so our eyes meet, I see the darkness within him.
The one that was there the night I was taken, the one I know was inside him when I watched him on the footage with that other woman.
And it’s fucking delicious.
“I want you to beg for it.”
Embarrassment heats my cheeks in an instant and I avert my gaze, not that it’s going to help me much now. He’s got me right where he wants me.
“Please.”
“You call that begging?”
he scoffs, pinching my cheeks between his thumb and fingers.
“Beg, trouble. Otherwise, I’ll make you.”
And I believe him.
“Please let me suck your cock,”
I waver—and he catches it instantly. Like a firefly lured into a zapper, drawn in by the light, stunned by the voltage.
“Beg harder,”
he growls, fingers tangling deep in my hair, pinning me with a ruthless grip that sends sparks snapping down my spine.
“Please, please give me your coc—”
He doesn’t wait for me to finish before thrusting into my mouth. I can’t fit even half of him in, but I try all the same. His grip is so tight I can’t pull back, instead he pushes deeper until my air supply is cut off completely.
Tears well without permission. But it’s not from pain. It’s from the primal edge of surrender, the blur of want and memory and aching trust.
It’s messy, wet, and very fucking hot.
I’ll let this man do anything he wanted to my body if it means he will look at me like this for the rest of my life.
I blink up at him through my lashes—and instantly regret it.
He’s lethal. That face, carved like temptation, with that sculpted jaw dusted in stubble and lips parted just enough to ruin me.
I’m off my game, and he knows it.
One look and I’m molten inside—no armour, no resistance, just unravelling.
When he releases me enough for me to find a rhythm I bob my head eagerly, trying to show him how good I can make this for him, and when he fists the base of his cock I release him with a pop, running my tongue against the back of his shaft all the way to his balls.
I pay both of them attention, sucking gently on them, just enough that I notice his stomach muscles tense and bunch together.
I bet he wasn’t expecting that.
Growing in confidence, I continue on my path, running my lips and tongue all over him, desperate to learn every inch of his body. When I swallow him in lips, tongue and spit, I gently graze my teeth against the back of his shaft.
His teeth bare, a low, feral growl erupting from deep in his chest. And in the next breath, I’m airborne.
He hurls me onto the bed with brutal ease, my limbs landing in a tangled heap of rope, skin, and breathless surrender. There’s no chance to brace, no hope of composure. I can’t untangle myself, not from the bindings, not from him.
I’m caught. Exactly where he wants me.
He positions me face down, my arms bound tight behind me, leaving me no way to brace, no leverage to steady myself.
All I can do is sink into the sheets—his scent clinging to them like memory, invasive and intoxicating.
My body is his to command now.
His hands grip my hips, rough and sure, and he drags me backward with a force that strips the air from my lungs. My feet no longer touch the bed, they no longer graze the silk below.
I can’t see anything, but when the heat of his breath saturates my inner thighs, I can only guess what he’s doing.
He’s skilled with his tongue, flicking it against my swollen, needy clit that drags delirious moans from my lips.
This man, between my legs. Eating my pussy.
But he doesn’t stop there, the hot lashes of his tongue glide further back, teasing my ass, preparing me. And for once it’s not my uncle I’m thinking about while he works his magic.
It’s him—stalker boy—rewriting my pain and fears whilst showing me just how good it can feel.
When his thumb joins in the action I’m overwhelmed, on a sensory overload. His mouth returns to give my clit attention, but his thumb is circling my other hole, applying pressure and releasing again until he’s worked himself inside, holding me steady.
My body arches into his touch before I can stop it—reflexive, raw, undeniable.
And then I hear it.
That low, guttural laugh rumbling from his chest, all heat and satisfaction.
“Needy little thing, aren’t you?”
It’s not a question, not really.
But yes, yes I am.
He pulls away, and the sudden absence is brutal.
Cold air lashes at my flushed skin like punishment, dragging goosebumps across every inch he left exposed. I ache for the heat of him, for the weight that held me down and stripped me bare.
All I want now is to be claimed again
“Over my lap, trouble,”
he commands, slapping his trouser clad thigh with heavy expectation.
“I promised you pain, remember?”
Right.
There was me thinking the ropes were as far as this would go.
I trust him. That’s all that matters.
With a firm hand, he lifts my upper body, guiding me toward him. I shuffle forward, breathless, until I collapse into his lap like a boneless, spent mess.
But he doesn’t let me linger.
Without a word, he begins to reposition me, reshaping me with confident precision. Hands on hips, then thighs, adjusting each angle until I’m arranged exactly how he wants—obedient, exposed, surrendered to the unspoken geometry of his desire.
“This might sound strange,”
he murmurs, tone dark but steady.
“but I’m going to remind you to breathe. And when I do, you need to listen. Understand?”
“I think breathing is kind of hard to forget,”
I joke, grasping at levity—but he doesn’t laugh.
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even smile, not that I can see much from this angle.
I barely have time to register the shift before his palm lands with a sharp, unforgiving crack across the curve of my ass.
Air rushes from my lungs. The sting blooms like fire, hot and deep, lingering far too long.
The second strike follows fast.
Just as brutal.
Just as consuming.
And now I understand why he warned me.
Again, he delivers another with brutal precision, landing just shy of the first.
He’s painting my skin with his handprints, but this time his hand lingers, softening the blow slightly.
“Breathe,”
he orders, and I comply, sucking in a jagged gasp of air.
“Do you know how long I’ve imagined having you over my knee like this?”
Another blow, and another.
Off instinct I scrunch my face up, bracing for the next wave of heat to sting my ass cheek. But this time he presses into my lower back with one hand and eases two long fingers inside my soaked pussy, commanding my G-spot to do exactly what he wants.
“Fuucckk,”
I moan, trying to fight the way my channel tightens.
“Breathe,”
he commands again.
I fear now, without him instructing me of this basic function that I’d already have passed out.
“Breathe, Nell,”
he says, voice low and patient.
“You didn’t breathe.”
He doesn’t move—just holds his fingers still, a quiet threat layered in restraint.
I gasp, panting and flushed, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. “I did!”
His gaze darkens.
“That’s not how you speak to the man who decides whether you cum or not.”
I swallow hard.
Because damn it—he’s not wrong.
But if he doesn’t, my little battery-operated friend is definitely making an appearance tonight… as long as I can retrieve my suitcase from the hedgerow first, that is.
He massages my sensitive spot inside again, working me like putty in his hands. God, his fingers are doing something to me I’ve never experienced!
“Cam… I… Holy shit!”
The words freefall from me, but other than pressing down into his thighs, there’s nothing I can do.
The stray hand wanders to my throat, engulfing my entire neck he squeezes, gently at first, more guiding and threatening. But as soon as my body threatens to erupt, he pauses, fingers still inside me but motionless.
As soon as my breathing returns, he starts again, building the same damned desire to the surface.
“Don’t stop,”
I whisper, grinding against his hand, pleading with my body for him to finish the job.
But he does the opposite.
His fingers vanish, replaced by the sharp crack of his hand against my skin—this time, harder.
I expect to recoil. To flinch. But the sting doesn’t repel me—it ignites something deeper.
Instead of retreating, my body arches into it.
The heat, the burn, it intensifies everything.
And instead of crying out in protest, I moan—loud, guttural, unstoppable. So loud, I swear the whole neighbourhood can hear me unravel.
And then he’s right back inside me, only this time my body coils quicker, desperate to reach the finish line.
“You want this?”
he growls, voice thick with heat.
“You want to cum?”
I nod, desperate, twisting in his lap until I’m looking up at him
God—he’s coming undone.
His lips are parted, chest heaving with the kind of breath that shakes control loose.
Those laboured rises of his chest mirror my own desperation—like we’re both teetering on the edge, suspended between restraint and collapse.
“You know what you need to do then,”
he teases.
I immediately shuffle back, reaching with my mouth for his cock that he’s tucked back away.
“I didn’t mean that,”
he grumbles, but he doesn’t stop me.
If anything, he encourages it—his hands working deftly to free what I couldn’t, then settling behind him, body relaxed, eyes locked on me.
He leans back, the picture of patience and quiet dominance, watching every move I make like it’s a performance he’s been craving all night.
But he said he likes the pain…
And right now, I’m giving him none of it.
The thought twists through me, unwelcome and urgent. I need to make him feel something. Something sharp. Something mine.
Driven by need, I shift in his lap, lower myself to the V carved into his hips where his shirt has risen up. My tongue trails the vein pulsing just beneath his skin—mapped like a path I’m desperate to follow.
Then I bite.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
My mouth seals over that stretch of muscle, sucking down hard, marking him with purpose.
A flare of heat rises between us—proof that now, I’m giving him exactly what he wants.
He lets out a triumphant hummpft but I don’t stop my tirade, I’m all over him, sucking, biting, nibbling, taking whatever I can get.
His cock jerks when I suck down on his thigh, so close to his balls, and I think I unravel him completely.
He tosses me aside like gravity doesn’t apply—one fluid motion and I’m flat on my back, breath knocked loose before I can find words to protest.
But he’s already there, overwhelming every inch of me. His body closes in—heat, weight, intent—until I’m surrounded and claimed.
His teeth graze down the curve of my neck, each drag sparking a trail of fire in its wake.
Then his hands deliberately part my thighs to their limit, opening me wide without pause, without question.
And I don’t even want to resist.
“My little sinner,”
he grunts with a smile, crooking his fingers inside me again.
This time, he pushes me right to the brink—so close I can taste it.
My body coils, every muscle drawn taut, breath held hostage to the climax I’m chasing.
But just before I fall—he stops.
The sudden absence crashes over me like a rogue wave, flooding every nerve with aching desperation.
I’m left trembling, undone, hovering in the space between pleasure and punishment.
“Please, Cam,”
I whisper—no, beg—my voice raw, splintering under the weight of everything I can’t say.
Tears press hot against my lashes, the kind that burn from frustration, not fear. I blink fast, trying to hold them back, but they cling.
My body trembles, racked with full-body shivers. Pins and needles sting my hands and feet, buzzing like static beneath the surface. I’m overstimulated, stretched to the edge—yet I crave more.
I want this.
No—I need this.
There’s nothing I desire more than what he’s offering.
“Beg,”
he orders again, holding my gaze as his fingers work back at the promise he’s withholding.
“Please, please, please. Let me cum. I’m begging you.”
With a cocky half-smile, he leans over me in that confident, wicked, and devastatingly dangerous kind of way. And this time, when my body tightens around him, trembling on the edge, he doesn’t pull away.
He drives deeper, relentless, riding the wave of my unravelling with precision and power.
Pleasure surges through me in a gush of release—raw, euphoric, unstoppable. It floods between us, soaking skin and breath and every inch of restraint we left behind. I lie here, panting—spent, drenched in the aftermath of pleasure that still pulses beneath my skin.
But instead of reaching for his own release, instead of chasing the end I expected him to take, he surprises me.
He kneels quietly in front of me, his touch unhurried. And with a grace that cuts deeper than dominance ever could, he begins to unbind my legs—rope by rope, knot by knot.
Each motion is careful and reverent. Gentle in a way that catches me completely off guard.