TWO
‘Sit,’ he ordered, a whisper that bled into a growl.
The single word ignited a spark that danced through my nerves.
My body obeyed, sinking into the cool leather of the chair as if it had been waiting for me all along.
It felt both firm and yielding beneath me, a sensation that mirrored the conflict in my veins. And I needed that.
The moment I was down, Ghost was there, a six-foot-five wall of heat and discipline. His fingers hovered over my wrist, brushing against my skin as though seeking permission. The pause was deliberate, as though he were asking a question with only his touch.
When I didn’t pull away, his grip tightened, the request suddenly hardening into demand.
It surprised me that my body didn’t recognise it as force – it was my surrender, willingly given.
He reached for one of the straps, the leather supple in his hands as he wound it around my wrist and pulled it tight.
My heart jolted once, my skin prickling with awareness. The way he worked was mesmerising. Slow, methodical, savouring every second.
‘You’ve done this before,’ I whispered, my voice shaky despite the attempt at levity.
‘Many times,’ he admitted darkly.
Pausing, his eyes locked on mine. ‘This isn’t just about your body.
’ His voice dipped lower. ‘I want the moment you stop fighting yourself. The breath you hold before you beg. The stillness when you realise there’s nowhere left to run—’ Then he stepped closer, leaning over me, his mask hovering just beside my ear. ‘—only into me.’
My throat struggled to make way for the air.
‘I want your surrender…’
‘Why?’ I croaked.
‘Because you want to give it.’
Looming over me, inhaling my scent without even touching me, he waited until I said something more. But words wouldn’t form.
‘Now,’ he murmured inquisitively, ‘pick something from the bag.’
The bag?
The answer surged before I could stop it as my gaze instantly landed on the gleaming silver in the duffel behind him.
A flash of memory hit me – my ex, his blade against my thigh. Not in play, but in punishment.
‘Knife,’ I whispered, eyeing the sheathed Bowie tilted just enough to warn.
His head angled, reading more than I said. But he simply nodded once, slowly. ‘Good choice,’ he said. No weight of judgment in the notes.
I shuddered slightly when he bent to reach for it, the instinctive flicker of fear mingling with something else. My heart pounded in my ears, the sound drowning out everything in the room.
Wiping the knife clean with a sterile cloth in a way that had me staring, he made it seem as if the ritual mattered to him as much as the edge.
He stepped around me, securing my other wrist with the same measured attention, his knuckles brushing against my skin just enough to make my breath catch. His forearm muscles flexed, setting anchors, helms, compasses, and all manner of nautical ink into motion beneath my gaze.
Bending his knees, he reached for the straps at my ankles. When he lifted his gaze, his face was level with my knees, close enough for his breath to fan over my skin and send a slow, decadent heat curling straight through me.
His fingers lingered for a brief moment, as if testing my reaction, before looping the leather around my ankles and pulling. The restraint was snug but not painful – more like a silent reminder of the control I was handing him.
‘I want you to feel what is about to happen,’ he whispered. ‘Every touch, every pull. I want you to remember that it’s your choice to feel it.’
I inclined my head. Words were too heavy for my tongue.
When he reached for the strap across my thigh, a breath stuck between my teeth. His hands skimmed along my legs, as if carefully measuring me. He wound each strap just above my knees, and as he pulled tight, they did more than secure me.
The leather forced my legs apart with a slow stretch that left me utterly exposed, and it made my cheeks flush and my heart race. I felt the cool air creep along my skin, a contrast to the heat building between us.
My tight black dress rode up my hips until it exposed more than it should have.
Ghost flattened his back, his heavy, black gaze dragging over me like a caress. He stood close enough for the warmth of his body to seep into mine.
‘Safe word—’ he murmured, his voice dipping into a dangerous purr that sent a shiver sliding down my spine, ‘—red to stop. Green to go.’
I offered a quiet nod, as the faint, masculine scent of leather and something darker – something wholly him – clouded my thoughts. He bent closer, his shadow swallowing me, his scent brushing against my skin like a forbidden promise.
‘Say it,’ he drawled, the vibrations of his voice forcing my eyes closed and my thighs to spread further apart.
‘Red to stop,’ I whispered, my voice trembling, ‘green to go.’
‘If your voice fails you, you tap twice.’
My eyes widened, caught on every imagined reason why my voice might fail. But that flicker of doubt was enough to tip me forward.
I dipped my head in agreement, watching his gaze fall to my knees that were trying to press together, but the leather mocked the effort.
His approval hummed low in his chest, a sound that quivered through the air between us. He pulled away just enough to let me breathe again, though the space he left behind felt achingly empty.
My gaze travelled to his waist, to the telltale strain of fabric against the zipper. Curiosity rushed up my neck, and before I could stop it, my tongue slipped out to wet my lips – as if already craving the taste of him.
What was wrong with me? I wasn’t into one-night stands. Not really. But something about this damned anonymity, his voice… his body… just—
The motion didn’t go unnoticed.
Silver flashed in my vision, and in the next moment, cool steel pressed against the underside of my chin. My breath caught in my throat as he tilted my head up with the flat edge of the large, serrated knife. Despite the fear, the way he wielded it was almost tender. A paradox of control and care.
I was responding to it too well.
‘Hungry, little angel?’ he asked.
The side of the blade pressed into my soft skin, tilting my chin further up, and forcing my gaze to lock with his shadowed mask.
‘Eyes on me at all times,’ he rumbled.
I exhaled the breath I’ve been holding.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. ‘Tell me, angel—’ he slanted his head, the mask casting shadows that seemed to move with him, ‘—are you scared?’
My breath stuttered, my lips parting as the heat of his words wrapped around me.
‘Yes,’ I admitted, the word trembling between us, as raw as the desire coiling in my stomach. Though it wasn’t the entire truth. I was scared of the knife. But not of him.
Why?
He froze. The knife lingered under my chin, the flat of it still pressed to my skin. For a moment, the air turned too heavy, and I reminded myself: red. Say it and it stops. The thought pulsed like a heartbeat, a small light in the thick dark.
Adrenaline surged through as the silence drew out. He waited. And in that unbearable pause, it hit me—
He might stop. Walk away – because I couldn’t handle it. Because I’m weak.
No!
Don’t stop. Don’t retreat. If he pulled away now, I would shatter. I wasn’t done.
I wasn’t done!
But he didn’t. Mercifully.
His slow, careful movements gave me every chance to retreat. Each inhale rattled in alarm, but the way he held the blade was controlled, almost reverent. And while it kept my fear alive, it also held it at bay.
‘Safe word?’ he reminded. He must have seen something on my face to have asked that. The question hung between us, a tether back to safety that he offered without hesitation.
‘Green,’ I whispered, surprising myself with the strength in my voice. ‘More.’
He waited for a breath longer, as if to make sure I really meant it. Then angled the blade away from my throat, ensuring my eyes remained locked on him.
My heart skipped a beat as my eyes caught my reflection in the gilded mirror behind him.
The light softened my features, casting me in a haze that felt almost surreal.
The woman staring back wasn’t the broken woman I remembered.
She wasn’t the one who flinched at every shadow or wilted under a man’s touch.
No, this woman…
Could she really be me?
I blinked once, then again. Her eyes gleamed, but my fingers trembled against the armrest. She looked powerful, her cheeks flushed with desire. But I still looked like a mirage to myself.
My body… it was working against me. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was memory. A reminder of who I used to be – before I offered up that version to Ghost.
‘Scarlett,’ he prompted.
I turned my attention back to him. The knife was tracing a path down my collarbone and past the curve of my breast before dipping lower.
His hand pressed lightly against the inside of my knee.
Then the steel replaced it, sliding up the softer flesh of my thigh with unhurried precision.
The contrast between the biting chill of the blade and the heat pooling in my core made my skin pebble.
It climbed higher, teasing, grazing against the delicate fabric covering my most sensitive spot.
The pressure was fleeting yet devastating, and I couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped my lips. The sound echoed between us, and his head snapped up quickly, the weight of his attentiveness pinning me in place.
His shoulders tensed, his fingers flexing as if to ground himself. He moved the blade again, this time slower.
I felt it – the moment he ran the flat of the blade along my folds, cold metal tracing wet heat.
A gasp slipped from my lips, my hips twitching as shame and arousal collided in the space between breaths.
He stilled. Just for a moment, tilting his head to the side. That black and white, unreadable mask, those endless eyes caught the next tremble that his steel drew out of me like a reluctant confession.
When he retreated, the knife glistened faintly, catching the soft light in a wet sheen that had nothing to do with polished steel.
My cheeks burned.