Chapter 13 #2
I did, testing the restraints. They held firm but didn't bite into my skin. I could probably work myself free given enough time and determination, but that wasn't the point. The point was the choice to stay bound, to give him this control.
"Perfect," he murmured, then moved to the foot of the bed.
This was harder. More vulnerable. He took my right ankle, and I had to fight every instinct that screamed to keep my legs together, to maintain some modesty. But that's not what this was about. This was about trust. About surrender.
He bound my ankle to the right corner of the footboard, then the left, and suddenly I was spread wide. Completely exposed. Every part of me visible and accessible while he remained fully clothed, in control, deciding what would happen next.
Some part of me—the part that had survived six months of running and hiding—was screaming that this was dangerous, that I was helpless, that I needed to get free.
But the rest of me, the larger part, felt something else entirely.
Power.
Because Kostya was looking at me like I'd hung the moon.
His eyes traveled over my bound form with a hunger that bordered on worship, taking in every inch of exposed skin, every vulnerability I was offering him.
His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides like he was physically fighting the urge to touch.
"Fuck," he breathed, the profanity escaping like a prayer. "Look at you."
I felt beautiful. Spread out like an offering, wrapped in silk and trust and the weight of his gaze. My body responded, nipples hardening further, core clenching around nothing, arousal making itself known in ways I couldn't hide even if I wanted to.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. His eyes tracked every response, cataloging them the way I'd catalog symptoms. But instead of touching where my body was begging for contact, he sat on the edge of the bed, fully clothed, and placed one large hand on my ribs.
Just that. Palm flat against my ribcage, feeling my breath, my heartbeat. The touch was electric despite its innocence, making me arch slightly, seeking more.
"Patience," he said, and began to trace.
His fingers followed the ladder of my ribs, one by one, learning the architecture of my body with methodical precision.
Up to my collarbones, tracing their wings, dipping into the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered.
Along my shoulders, down my arms as far as the bonds would allow, finding sensitive spots I didn't know existed—the inside of my elbow, the delicate skin of my inner arm.
He avoided my breasts entirely, though his fingers traced around them, under them, between them.
Close enough that I could feel the heat of his hand, but never quite touching where I needed.
The denial was exquisite torture. My back arched, trying to press into his touch, but the restraints held me in place.
"Please," I whispered, the word escaping without permission.
"Please what?" His voice was controlled, but I could hear the strain in it. Could see the way his jaw clenched, the way his free hand gripped the sheets.
"Touch me."
"I am."
His fingers traced down my stomach, around my navel, along the wings of my hip bones. Each touch was light, almost reverent, but it wasn't enough. Would never be enough. I needed more, needed him to stop this slow exploration and just—
"Not there," he said when my hips lifted, seeking contact. His hand moved to my thigh, the safe territory of my quadriceps, then lower to trace the delicate skin behind my knee.
I'd never thought of the back of my knee as an erogenous zone, but when he pressed his thumb there, circled slowly, I gasped. My body was so sensitized that every touch felt magnified, every nerve ending singing.
He moved to my other leg, same slow exploration. Inner thigh but not high enough. The crease where leg met hip but not center. Around and around, narrowing circles that never quite reached where I was wet and aching and desperate.
"Kostya," I whimpered, pulling against the restraints. They held firm, silk whispering against my wrists and ankles. "Please. I need—"
"I know what you need," he said, leaning down to press a kiss to my hip bone. Then the other. Then just above my pubic bone, close enough that I could feel his breath on my core. "You'll get it when I decide you're ready."
"I'm ready now," I argued, past dignity, past everything except need.
He chuckled, dark and knowing. "Your body might be ready, kitten. But your mind?" He pressed another kiss to my inner thigh, high enough that his stubble brushed sensitive skin. "Your mind is still trying to maintain control. Still thinking, analyzing, staying one step ahead."
He was right. Even now, even desperate and bound and aching, part of me was cataloging responses, noting angles and pressure points, maintaining that clinical distance that had kept me functional for six months of hell.
"Let go," he commanded softly, his breath hot against my thigh. "Stop thinking. Just feel."
His hand returned to my stomach, played over the soft skin there, and I tried. Tried to shut down the analytical part of my brain, to just exist in sensation without documenting it.
"That's it," he encouraged when my breathing changed, when the tension in my shoulders released slightly. "Good girl. Just feel what I give you."
And I did. Let myself sink into the torture of his patient touch, the exquisite denial of being explored everywhere except where I burned for him. Let myself pull against the silk restraints not to escape but to feel their hold, their promise that I couldn't control this even if I wanted to.
Let myself surrender.
When his mouth finally—finally—descended between my thighs, the relief was so intense I nearly sobbed.
That first touch of his tongue against my core, warm and wet and exactly what I'd been desperate for, sent electricity shooting up my spine.
My hips bucked instinctively, seeking more pressure, more friction, more everything.
His hands clamped down on my hip bones, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises I'd treasure later. The grip wasn't just controlling—it was possessive, claiming, holding me exactly where he wanted me while he took his time destroying me.
And he did take his time.
His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, learning my landscape like he'd learned the rest of my body. A flat press against my clit that made me gasp. A circling motion that had me pulling against the silk restraints. A gentle suction that turned my bones to liquid.
He was methodical about it. Testing different pressures, different patterns, cataloging my responses.
The doctor in me recognized the approach even as the rest of me was lost in sensation.
He was creating a mental map of my pleasure, noting what made me moan versus what made me cry out, what made my thighs tremble versus what made my whole body arch.
"So wet," he murmured against me, and the vibration of his voice made me whimper. "So ready. You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you?"
I had. Through every normal moment at PetSmart, every step on the boardwalk, every casual touch. My body had been preparing itself for this, for him.
He returned to his work with renewed focus, and I felt the orgasm building with alarming speed. All that teasing, all that denial, had left me balanced on a knife's edge. It wouldn't take much to push me over. Just a little more pressure, a little more speed, just—
He pulled back.
Completely.
Left me empty and aching with my orgasm just out of reach, hovering right there but with nothing to complete it.
"No," I gasped, the word torn from me without thought. "No, please, I was so close—"
"I know," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to my inner thigh. Almost apologetic except for the satisfaction in his voice. "That's the point."
Before I could argue, his mouth returned, and this time there was no slow build. He went straight for what he'd learned worked, tongue circling my clit with devastating precision while his lips provided just enough suction to make me see stars.
The orgasm rebuilt even faster this time, my body desperate for the release it had been denied. Every muscle tensing, every nerve ending firing, that coil in my core winding tighter and tighter. I could taste it, that moment of release, could feel myself racing toward—
He stopped again.
This time I did sob. A broken sound that would have embarrassed me if I'd had any dignity left. But dignity had fled somewhere around the second time he'd traced my ribs without touching my breasts. Now there was just need, overwhelming and absolute.
"Please," I begged, the word breaking on a sob. "Daddy, please, I need—I can't—please let me come."
He lifted his head to look at me, and his face was wet with my arousal, his gray eyes dark with hunger and something else. Pride, maybe. Satisfaction at reducing me to this—bound and begging and completely his.
"You need what I give you," he said, repeating his earlier words. Then his voice softened slightly. "You're being so good for me, kitten. So patient. Just a little more."
A little more turned out to be torture of the most exquisite kind. He brought me to the edge over and over, learning exactly how far he could push before pulling back. Three more times. Four. I lost count, lost everything except the desperate need for release.
"Please," I sobbed, past pride, past everything. "Please, Daddy, please. I'll do anything. Anything you want. Just please let me come. I can't—I need—please."
He moved up my body just enough to kiss my stomach, my ribs, reaching my face to kiss my tears. Actually kissed them from my cheeks, tasting my desperation, drinking it in like wine.
"My perfect girl," he murmured against my cheek. "So beautiful when you beg."