Twenty-six
She lets Jason drift in the aftershock—but not for long.
“Stand up,” Brielle says, voice gentle but giving no room for argument.
Jason does, shaky at the knees, pants half-on. She turns the chair—a big leather executive model, meant for dominating conference calls and contract signings—and guides him into it.
She kneels, tugs the pants and briefs all the way off, folds them with an absentminded care, then rises, pushing the shirt off his arms so he’s bare from the waist up, chest heaving, sweat at the sternum. He’s never looked less like someone in charge.
She opens her bag—her real bag, not the yoga one, but the one she keeps for nights when the script requires props. She sets out a blindfold, satin, black, nothing theatrical, and two soft cuffs—red, because it matches her mood.
She holds up the blindfold. “Yes?”
Jason nods, but she waits until he says, “Yes. Please.”
She slips it over his eyes, adjusting the strap so it’s snug but not pinching. He shudders, breath going shallow.
“Color?” she asks.
“Green,” he says, and the word sounds foreign in his mouth.
She crouches, straps one cuff around his left wrist, then threads the other around the armrest. She doesn’t lock them tight—just enough to keep his hand in place, to remind him. She repeats on the right, then stands back, arms folded, surveying her work.
She can feel Leo’s eyes on her, waiting for direction. She gestures to the edge of the desk. “Sit,” she says.
Leo perches there, hands in his lap, watching every move.
Her fingers trail over his shoulders, down his chest, along the inside of his arm—enough to raise goosebumps everywhere she touches.
“Do you know what you want?” she asks, mouth at his ear.
He shakes his head, mute.
She brushes his jaw, thumb along the cheekbone. “Then let me show you.”
She moves slow. She unbuckles his shoes, slides them off, massages the arch of his foot, then works up, kneading the tension from his calves, his thighs. With each touch, she feels him unravel. He’s soft now—but that’s not the point.
She leans in, bites his shoulder, not hard enough to break skin but enough to leave a mark. He jumps, gasps.
“Good?” she asks.
He grins, relief in it. “Yes.”
She climbs into his lap, knees on the cushion, straddling him.
She isn’t gentle, but she isn’t cruel. She grinds against him, for herself.
The friction wakes him—she can feel him getting hard again, feel the way his whole body wants to move, but the cuffs keep his hands from grabbing her, from taking.
She rocks against him, slow at first, then faster. The fabric of her jeans is rough, almost painful, but she wants to feel it, wants to leave her own mark. She kisses him, nipping at his lower lip, then drags her mouth down his neck, to his chest, to the nipple. She bites there, too.
He moans, louder than he means to.
She glances at Leo, catches his eyes, then turns back to Jason.
She unzips her jeans, not taking them off but lowering just enough to free herself. She’s wet, and she wants him to know it. She lifts up, guides him inside, and sinks down, slow, letting the stretch last.
Jason arches, hands straining at the cuffs, desperate to touch her.
She pins his wrists harder. “No,” she says. “Not until I say.”
He groans, and she knows he’s close already. She rides him, not fast, but with a rhythm that’s designed to torment. She clenches around him, leans back, lets her own body take over.
She doesn’t let herself come. Not yet. She wants to see him break.
She stops moving, waits.
“Tell me what you want,” she says, voice sharp.
He’s panting, blindfold soaked with sweat, hands curled into fists.
“I want to finish,” he says, voice ragged.
She shakes her head. “Not good enough. Say it.”
He can’t. She lets the silence sit, then starts moving again, grinding hard enough to make her own thighs burn.
“Say it,” she demands. Her hand closes around his throat—steady, not tight.
He whimpers, and the sound is so raw, so honest, she almost loses it.
“Say it,” she repeats, and this time Leo echoes her, voice steady.
“Say it, man. No shame.”
Jason breaks. “I want to be used,” he says, and the words are ugly and perfect. “I want to be wrecked. I want to be nothing but—” he can’t finish, but Brielle knows.
She starts moving again, faster now, riding him hard, feeling the wet heat build between them. She doesn’t let go of his throat, doesn’t ease up until his body starts to shake, until the only sound is his panting and her own pulse pounding in her ears.
She comes first, loud, body locking around him, nails raking his chest. She wants him suspended inside her pleasure until he can’t separate it from his own.
She rides the aftershocks, then lets herself soften, lets him fill the space.
“Now,” she says, and Leo slides off the desk, kneels between Jason’s legs, and drags his tongue up the length of him, from base to tip, then sucks the head into his mouth.
Jason loses it. He comes so hard he almost blacks out, body seizing, hands tearing at the cuffs. Leo keeps going, mouth and hand milking every last drop.
Brielle lets go of his throat, runs a hand through his hair, then kisses him, messy and deep.
When it’s done, she undoes the cuffs, removes the blindfold, and holds Jason’s face in her hands.
He’s shaking, but it’s not fear. It’s relief.
She kisses his eyelids, his cheeks, his mouth.
“You did so good,” she says.
Leo stands, wipes his lips, and grins. “Damn,” he says.
Jason blinks, still coming down, but the way he looks at her is new. Whole. Like he’s finally found the part of himself he was looking for.
She hugs him, lets him bury his face in her neck.
“I got you,” she whispers, and she means it.
Leo wraps an arm around both of them, and for a minute, they just breathe.
No one is trying to win. Just a circuit, unbroken, holding.
When Jason finally speaks, his voice is so soft she barely hears it.
“Thank you,” he says.
She squeezes him harder.
“Anytime,” she says, and knows it’s true.