Page 139 of Bound By Her

A knuckle grazing her knee.

A hand resting too long on her thigh.

A whisper in her ear.

The brush of fingers against the waistband of her skirt.

And just like that, her world fell apart.

A shattering, violent destruction. A girl ripped open at the seams.

Now, standing across from him all these years later, she wanted to run. Her body screamed at her to hide, to fold in on itself and disappear from his gaze.

But then she saw Bryson.

And everything changed.

She wanted to hate him. To blame him for the day’s events. But when he lifted his head—when his hollowed-out eyes met hers—she saw it.

That same pain.

That same familiar shattering.

A piece of herself reflected back.

The pull between them inevitable. Like a pendulum swinging. Like a foot slipping off a mountain’s edge. Like gravity itself had decided they must collide.

She moved without thought. Without hesitation.

Adria framed his face in her hands. His skin was fever-hot beneath her fingertips, damp with rage. Bryson inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.

Her heart thundered as she leaned in. Like a magnet drawn to his pain, she breathed it in.

And then she kissed him.

Lips pressing against his, she stole his agony—consumed it—until there was no line between them, only a tangle of breath and heat.

A tear slipped down the side of his face, and before she could stop herself, her tongue darted out, erasing it.

She wanted more.

She didn’t just want to take his pain. She wanted to own it. Wanted to make it her pleasure. To meld their dark and light together and create something else entirely.

He trembled in her hands, and the soft murmurs and clangs of cutlery drifted away.

“I won’t need to restrain you, you can do this,” she said.

His face felt warm in her hands, and she found herself really looking at him. She said it again, softer and just for him. “You have this.”

After he was settled on the bench, Adria ran her finger along the spider tattoo he had on his left shoulder blade. His brothers bore matching marks, and she wanted to remind him of who he was doing this for.

If Jonathan didn’t feel satiated, there was no telling how far he would take things.

Moving to the implements wall, she picked a woven leather-gripped flogger. She gave it a throw, listening to it whistle as it moved. Her second choice was a one-inch wooden dowel. She was aware Bryson needed pain to move into subspace. Today, she wasn’t going to force him, she was going to guide him in.

She traced his curves and folds with the wooden dowel. Giving him a few test hits, she warmed him up. The dowel was thuddy, and his flesh would become tender from the inside out. She picked up her pace until she saw him squirm under her hand.

Switching to a flogger, she rained down hits, and watched as he shifted on the bench.

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