Page 16 of Candy Cane Chains

I watch through heavy lids as he moves around the room, dimming lights and drawing curtains. The mattress dips as he settles beside me, pulling me against his chest. His heartbeat thrums steady and strong against my cheek.

My body melts into his warmth even as my mind races. The way he touched me earlier - both punishment and pleasure - replays in vivid detail. Heat pools low in my belly at the memory, warring with the cold fear that grips my chest when I remember that I was punished for trying to leave. That my freedom has been smothered again.

His fingers trace idle patterns on my shoulder, and I struggle to keep my breathing even. Every touch sets my nerve endings on fire, making me crave more even as I try to remind myself what he is - what he's capable of.

But as sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, I can't tell which terrifies me more - the dangerous man who holds me captive, or the way my body and heart seem to be surrendering to him piece by piece. The line between fear and desire blurs until I can't separate them anymore, both emotions twisting together in my chest as I drift off in his arms.

8

JULIAN

"Why did you insist on baking cookies together?"

The kitchen gleams, stainless steel and cold granite, but all I see is Ivy. She's wrapped in a festive apron, red with white snowflakes, cinched tight at the waist. Her long black hair is swept up in a messy bun, a few rebellious strands framing her face. The apron hits mid-thigh, leaving her long, toned legs bare. And that ass…

I might have forbade her from wearing anything under the apron when she asked me to join her in baking. Something I am very, very happy about right now.

She's trying to focus on the recipe, but my gaze is a physical touch, distracting her.

"You're in the way," she murmurs, glancing up from the sugar she's measuring. Her amber-brown eyes meet mine, and there's a spark there, something she's trying to suppress.

Over the last week, she's become more comfortable. She follows instruction well. When I'm busy she lays on my couch in her gorgeous lingerie and watches movies, looking absolutely relaxed. It seems that her punishment was all it took for her to finally relax into her role.

She shifts, pressing against me to reach the counter. I don't move.

"Am I?" I reach out, trace the line of her jaw with my thumb. She shivers, just slightly.

"Christmas movies and baking," she says, voice a little breathless. "Those are my favorite parts of the season." She moves to the mixer, flipping it on. The hum fills the kitchen, but it doesn't drown out the sound of her voice. "My mom and I used to do this every year."

I step closer, pressing her against the counter. She looks up at me, lips parted. "And now?" I ask.

"Now..." She hesitates, then smiles. "Now, I guess it's me and you." She shrugs. "Maybe we can still watch Miracle on 34th street, though."

I hum noncommittally as I reach around her, my arm brushing hers. She stills, her breath hitching as I grab the bowl of sugar. I hold it out to her, waiting. She takes it, her small, delicate hands brushing against mine.

"Keep going," I command. She nods, adding the sugar to the mixer. The room fills with the sweet scent, but it's not half as intoxicating as the vanilla smell of her skin. My bathroom is now fully stocked in soaps and lotions that keep her smelling intoxicating.

She reaches for the flour, but I beat her to it. I hold it just out of her reach, making her press against me to grab it. She does, her body fitting perfectly against mine. She's warm, soft in all the right places. I can feel her heart racing, matching my own steady beat.

"Julian," she breathes, looking up at me. Her lips are full, slightly parted. Enticing.

"Yes?" I lean down, my voice a low rumble in her ear. She shivers, her grip tightening on the flour bag.

"I can't... I can't bake like this," she admits, her voice barely a whisper.

I pull back, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated. She's flustered, but she's enjoying this. Enjoying us.

"You can," I tell her, taking the flour from her and setting it aside. I cup her face, my thumb brushing her bottom lip. "You can do anything, Ivy. And you'll do it perfectly."

Eventually, despite all my distractions, Ivy finally gets the cookies in the oven, the sweet scent of sugar and butter filling the kitchen. I've finally stepped away from her so we don't get burned.

I lean against the counter, my eyes never leaving her. She moves with a grace that's all her own, humming softly to herself as she pulls out a mixing bowl for the icing.

She adds the ingredients one by one, her small, delicate hands working with a precision that's almost hypnotic. I can't look away, my gaze tracing the line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder. She's completely absorbed in her task, oblivious to the effect she's having on me.

Until she dips a finger into the icing, bringing it to her lips. She moans, a soft, low sound that goes straight to my dick. It twitches, pressing uncomfortably against my zipper. Her eyes flutter closed, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. "Mmm, that's good."

I shift, adjusting myself discreetly. Her eyes open, meeting mine. She smiles, a slow, sexy curve of her lips. "Want a taste?"

---