Chapter 12 #2
The knots came from muscle memory. I'd practiced this—alone, in the dark, teaching myself techniques I'd only ever read about. The kind of preparation you do when you've been waiting five months to touch someone and you want to be ready when the moment finally arrives.
I wound the cotton around her wrists. Once, twice, three times—snug but not tight. The rope was soft against her skin, leaving no marks, just the faint impression of texture.
"Too tight?" I asked.
"No." Her voice was breathy. Wrecked. "It's perfect."
I tested the slack. She could slip free if she panicked—I'd designed it that way, built in the escape route because her safety mattered more than my desire to hold her captive. But to escape, she'd have to want to.
From the look in her eyes, she didn't want to.
I looped the remaining rope through the slats of the headboard. Tied it off with a knot that would hold but not pull. When I was done, her arms were stretched above her head, wrists bound together, the rope creating a line of tension from her hands to the bed frame.
She tugged experimentally.
The restraints held.
Something flickered across her face—relief, maybe, or that pleasure of testing boundaries and finding them solid. She pulled again, harder this time, and the rope creaked but didn't give.
Held.
I stepped back.
The image before me burned itself into my brain.
Auralia—my Auralia, my little bird, my Ptichka—bound and collared and spread out on my bed like something sacred.
Her arms stretched above her head, muscles taut, the position lifting her breasts and exposing the vulnerable line of her ribs.
Her legs slightly parted, the dark hair between her thighs slick with wanting.
Mine.
The word wasn't just thought anymore. It was felt. Bone-deep, blood-deep, the kind of possessive claiming that came from somewhere primal and couldn't be argued with.
She was watching me.
Those grey-green eyes, pupils blown so wide they looked black. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly—not panic, not fear. Anticipation. The breathlessness of someone who had surrendered control and was waiting to see what would be done with them.
I wanted to paint her. Desperately.
"Good girl."
She shivered. Full-body, visible, the rope pulling taut as her muscles responded to the praise.
"Now—" I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself between her parted thighs, close enough that she could feel the heat of my body without any contact. "I'm going to take my time with you."
Her breath caught.
I watched her process the words. Watched her understand what they meant—that this wasn't going to be quick, wasn't going to be merciful. That I intended to explore every inch of her body before I finally gave her what she wanted.
What we both wanted.
The anticipation built in the space between us, thick as smoke, heavy as want. She was trembling now—small tremors running through her bound body, her skin prickling with awareness, her nipples tight and aching.
I hadn't even touched her yet.
I planned to change that very, very slowly.
I started at her ankles.
It seemed like the right place to begin—as far from where she wanted me as possible, making her wait, making her feel every inch of anticipation.
My lips brushed the delicate bone on the inside of her left ankle, and she jerked against the restraints like I'd touched her somewhere far more intimate.
Good. That was good.
I kissed my way up her calf. Slow. Deliberate. Mapping the muscle, the soft skin, the texture of her that I'd been imagining for five months. She tasted like salt and lavender—my soap, on her skin, the intimacy of that almost undoing me.
Behind her knee made her gasp. A soft sound, surprised, like she hadn't known she was sensitive there. I filed the information away and lingered, pressing my tongue to the tender skin, feeling her pulse flutter against my lips.
The trembling intensified.
I worked my way up her thighs. Inner flesh, soft and pale, unmarked except for the faint remnants of pink from earlier. I kissed there too, gentle over the tender spots, and her hips shifted restlessly against the sheets.
"Please." Her voice cracked. "Daddy, please—"
I paused. Lifted my head just enough to speak against her thigh, my breath ghosting over her skin.
"Please what?"
The question was patient. Almost cruel. I knew what she wanted—could see it, could smell it, the musk of her arousal thick in the air between us. But I needed her to say it. Needed her to ask for what she needed instead of hoping I'd guess.
"Please touch me." The words tumbled out desperate and broken. "Please—I need—I can't—"
She couldn't finish the sentence.
I gave her what she needed.
My mouth found her center and she cried out—sharp, surprised, the sound tearing from her throat as her back arched off the bed. The rope creaked against the headboard as she pulled, her body trying to chase the sensation I was finally providing.
She tasted like salt and honey. Like wanting. Like mine.
I didn't rush.
I learned her instead. Long, slow licks from her entrance to the swollen bundle of nerves at the top. Exploring the geography of her—the folds, the textures, the spots that made her whimper versus the spots that made her moan. Every response catalogued. Every reaction memorized.
She was so wet. Slick against my tongue, against my chin, her body weeping with need.
I found a rhythm. Slow circles around her clit, never quite touching it directly. Dipping lower to taste her entrance, then back up. Building the pressure gradually, methodically, the way I built surveillance patterns—patient, thorough, leaving nothing to chance.
Her breathing changed.
I felt it—the tension that meant she was close. The way her thighs trembled against my shoulders, the way her stomach muscles contracted, the pitch of her moans climbing higher.
I pulled back.
"No—" The word was almost a scream. "No, Daddy, please, I was so close—"
"I know." I pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. Let her feel my smile against her skin. "But I'm not done with you yet."
Her head fell back against the pillows. A sob worked its way up her throat—frustration and desperation and that particular edge of something that looked like it might break.
I let her cool down.
Counted the seconds while her breathing slowed, while the flush on her chest faded slightly, while the tension in her bound arms relaxed. Just enough. Just enough to bring her back from the edge.
Then I started again.
This time I was less gentle. My tongue found her clit directly, circling with firm pressure, and she keened—a high, broken sound that went straight to my cock.
I was painfully hard now, straining against my jeans, but I ignored it.
This was about her. About taking her apart piece by piece until she forgot her own name.
I added my fingers.
Two of them, sliding inside her easily—she was so wet, so open, her body clenching around me like it was desperate to hold onto anything it could get. I curled them forward, found the spot that made her whole body jolt.
"Oh God—Daddy—please—I can't—"
Her words were losing coherence. Fragmenting into sounds and pleas and half-formed syllables that might have been my name.
I brought her to the edge again.
Felt the clench of her walls around my fingers, the tremble of her thighs, the catch in her breath that said now, right now—
And stopped.
She screamed this time. Actually screamed, the sound raw and desperate, her body writhing against the restraints. Her hips chased my mouth as I pulled away, seeking contact, seeking relief, seeking anything.
"Please." She was crying now. Tears tracking down her temples, disappearing into her hairline. "Please, Daddy, please let me come, I'll be so good, I promise, please—"
The begging broke something in me.
Not my resolve—that held, barely. But something else. Some wall I'd built around the part of me that wanted to worship her, that wanted to give her everything, that wanted to spend the rest of my life making her cry from pleasure instead of pain.
"One more time, Ptichka." My voice came out rough. Destroyed. "One more, and then I'll give you everything."
She sobbed.
But she nodded.
I lowered my mouth again. Found her clit with my tongue, her g-spot with my fingers, and set a rhythm designed to shatter her. Hard and fast now, no teasing, no building—just relentless pressure that pushed her toward the edge like a wave crashing toward shore.
Her whole body went rigid.
Every muscle locked. The rope pulled taut. Her back arched so high I thought she might hurt herself, and the sound she made—a single, broken note of pure need—
I stopped.
The scream that followed was wordless. Animal. The sound of someone being broken open by their own desire.
She was crying in earnest now. Tears streaming down her face, her body shaking with sobs, her wrists pulling uselessly at the rope binding them. The collar rose and fell with her heaving breaths, the silver ring catching light with every desperate inhale.
She was destroyed. Ruined. Taken apart and left in pieces on my sheets.
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
I crawled up her body. Kissed the tears from her cheeks. Tasted the salt of her surrender, the desperation of her need, the particular sweetness of someone who had given me everything and was waiting to see what I'd do with it.
"Such a good girl," I murmured against her wet cheek. "Such a brave, beautiful, perfect girl."
She turned her face into my kiss. Seeking comfort. Seeking more.
I wasn't done with her yet.
I reached for her wrists.
The knots came loose easily—I'd designed them that way—and the rope fell away to reveal faint pink lines on her skin. Nothing permanent. Nothing that would mark. I pressed my lips to each wrist, kissing the traces of restraint, and she made a small sound that might have been gratitude.
"You'll need your hands for this," I said quietly.