CHAPTER 6 #3
"I'm not running. I'm not scared. I'm not confused." I pressed my palm against his bare chest, feeling his heartbeat accelerate under my touch. "She said it was mine. This room. Whatever's down here. She said it's always been mine."
"And you believe her?"
"I believe she knew about a hidden door that you didn't. I believe she knew about a chest behind a stone. I believe—" I took a breath. "I believe I want to know what this room can do."
He was quiet for a long moment. His gaze moved over the tables, the tools, the swing suspended from its iron beam. I could see him calculating—the same way he'd calculate a fire's spread, a building's collapse, a victim's odds of survival. Weighing risks. Measuring outcomes. Deciding.
"How much do you trust me?" he asked.
"More than I've ever trusted anyone."
"Then take off the shirt."
I didn't hesitate. The cotton pooled at my feet, and I stood naked in the center of the mosaic floor, the black and white tiles cold under my soles. Cole's gaze traveled down my body—throat, breasts, belly, thighs—and I didn't flinch. I didn't cover myself. I let him look.
"Do you see anything you like?"
His laugh was low and rough. "I see everything I like.
" He stepped closer, his jeans brushing my bare hip.
"But this room isn't about what I like. It's about what you want.
The swing. The restraints. The—" His hand gestured toward the chest. "Whatever else is in there.
You tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you. "
"Anything?"
"Anything."
I walked to the swing. The leather was cool and smooth under my fingers, oiled to a supple richness. The stirrups were adjustable, the chains solid, the carabiners rated for a weight far heavier than mine.
"This," I said. "I want this."
"Then get in."
He helped me into the harness—first the thigh straps, then the waist band, then the stirrups that cradled my calves.
The leather was buttery against my skin, soft where it needed to be, firm where it needed to hold.
When he was done, I was suspended maybe six inches off the floor, my legs spread wide, my arms free to brace against the chains or reach for him or simply hang loose at my sides.
The vulnerability was immediate and absolute. I was exposed. Open. Wet—I could feel it, the slickness between my thighs, the evidence of my arousal on display. There was nowhere to hide. Nothing to hide behind.
"Okay?" Cole asked.
"Better than okay." My voice was steadier than I felt. "What now?"
"Now I make you feel good." He retrieved something from one of the tables—a blindfold, black silk, soft as water. "Close your eyes."
The darkness was velvet. Without my sight, the other senses sharpened. The cool air on my exposed sex. The faint creak of the chains as the swing swayed. The scent of old stone and oiled leather and, underneath it all, the cedar-and-coffee smell of Cole's skin.
His mouth found my throat. Not a kiss—a brush of lips, barely there, tracing the line of my carotid artery. Down, to the hollow between my collarbones. Down again, to the swell of my breast, where his tongue flicked against my nipple and made me gasp.
"Good?"
"God. Yes."
He moved to the other breast, giving it the same attention—the light touch, the flick of tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth. My hips bucked in the swing, seeking friction, finding only air. The stirrups held me open, held me helpless, held me exactly where he wanted me.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please touch me. There. Anywhere. Everywhere."
His mouth continued downward—ribcage, belly, the crease where my thigh met my hip. He kissed the inside of my thigh, just above the leather strap, and I made a sound I didn't recognize. A whimper. A plea. A prayer.
"So wet," he murmured, his breath hot against my sex. "I could make you come just by talking to you. Do you know that? Do you know what it does to me, seeing you like this? Open. Waiting. Trusting."
"Cole—"
"Shh." His thumb grazed my clit—once, feather-light—and my whole body convulsed. "Not yet. Not until I say so."
"You're going to kill me."
"I'm going to worship you." His mouth replaced his thumb, and I stopped thinking.
The first orgasm built slowly, teased out of me by the patient work of his tongue.
He knew exactly where to press, exactly when to pull back, exactly how to keep me suspended on the edge without tipping over.
When I finally came—shuddering, gasping, the chains rattling with my convulsions—he didn't stop.
He gentled his mouth, softening the pressure, drawing out the aftershocks until I was limp in the harness and begging for mercy.
"More?"
"No. Wait. Yes." I laughed, breathless. "I don't know."
"Then let me decide."
He left me hanging—literally, the swing swaying gently as he moved away. I heard him at the tables, the clink of metal on wood, the soft sound of him examining the tools the room had offered us. When he returned, something cool and smooth pressed against my inner thigh.
"What is that?"
"One of the glass pieces. The cobalt one."
The curved one. The g-spot toy. My breathing hitched. "Is it—"
"I warmed it in my palm. It won't be cold."
He was right. The glass slid against my folds with the warmth of skin, tracing circles, spreading my wetness.
When it pressed inside me—slow, so slow—I felt every curve, every ridge, every deliberate inch.
My back arched. My hands gripped the chains.
The swing creaked, a low sound of leather and steel and anticipation.
"How does it feel?"
"Full." The word came out strangled. "Deep. It's— God, Cole, it's—"
He twisted the toy, finding angles I didn't know I had, and I forgot how to speak.
The second orgasm was sharper than the first, a spike of pleasure that made me cry out, my voice echoing off the stone walls and the velvet curtains.
The glass toy moved with me, riding my contractions, and Cole's free hand steadied my hip, keeping me from swinging too wildly.
"Beautiful," he said. "You're so beautiful like this."
"Your turn." I reached for the blindfold, pushing it up just enough to see his face. His expression was intent, focused—the same look he'd worn when he'd first kissed me, when he'd first entered me, when he'd told me he loved me. "I want to see you. I want to watch."
"Then watch."
He stripped off his jeans. His cock was rigid, flushed dark, the head slick with pre-come. I wanted him in my mouth. I wanted him inside me. I wanted everything, all at once, and the swing made that impossible—and that was the point, wasn't it? The restraint. The surrender. The trust.
"Condom?" I asked.
"In the chest. There's a box." He retrieved one, rolled it on, and stepped between my spread legs. "Ready?"
"Always."
He entered me in one stroke.
The angle was different in the swing—deeper, more intense, the stirrups holding me open while he thrust. I clutched the chains, my knuckles white, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
The glass toy was still somewhere on the table, but I didn't need it anymore.
Cole's body was enough. Cole's rhythm was enough.
The relentless drive of his hips, the grip of his hands on my waist, the sound of his breathing growing ragged—all of it was enough.
My third orgasm caught me by surprise. One moment I was riding the edge, and the next I was gone, spiraling into a climax that made the first two feel like warm-ups.
I screamed—actually screamed, a raw, animal sound that bounced off the domed ceiling and came back to me distorted.
Cole followed moments later, his groan a low counterpoint to my cry, his body shuddering against mine.
We hung there, suspended, breathing hard. The swing swayed gently. The chains creaked. Somewhere above us, the bar was still and dark, the turntable silent, the morning hours ticking toward dawn.
"That was—" I started.
"Yeah." He pulled out carefully, steadying the swing with one hand. "Yeah."
"We should do that again."
"Give me ten minutes."
"Five."
He laughed. The sound filled the stone chamber, warm and real and present. "You're insatiable."
"Apparently." I looked around the room—the velvet curtains, the mosaic floor, the tables laden with tools we hadn't tried yet. "She said it was mine. This room. Whatever's down here."
"The woman with your face."
"Yes."
He unstrapped me from the swing, easing my legs free from the stirrups, catching me when my knees buckled.
His arms were steady. His chest was warm.
"Maybe it is yours. Maybe it's been waiting for you.
" He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "But right now, I need water.
And sleep. And maybe some of that bourbon Marcus didn't drink. "