Page 50 of Bound By Crimson
And then it hit her.
She had surrendered everything to him. And somehow, she had never felt more alive.
Chapter Fourteen
Bound Becomes Her
The scent of roses lingered in the cool morning air. Satin sheets clung to her bare skin, soft as a memory. The night before felt like a fever dream—his touch, the way he had helped her out of the corset with slow, patient hands while sleep clung to her limbs. The brush of his lips at her temple, a quiet promise she couldn’t quite recall.
Now, pale light spilled across the room. The bed shifted as she stirred, and when her eyes fluttered open, a sharp breath escaped her.
For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then it hit her—every breathless second of the night before. Still pulsing beneath her skin. Still echoing in her bones. Heat flushed her cheeks, the weight of everything that had passed between them pressing against her ribs. She suddenly felt bare—not just in body, but in truth.
The soreness between her legs reminded her that everything had changed.
Her pulse quickened.
What did I do?
The memory of his hands, his mouth, his voice—all of it came rushing back. Vivid. Wild. Her stomach twisted with both thrill and uncertainty.
She had given herself completely to him.
Did she even really know him?
What kind of girl does that?
She glanced around. He wasn’t there.
Of course he wasn’t.
She clutched the sheet to her chest, and sat up, trying to steady her breath.
The soft morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, illuminating carved moldings and gilded furniture. The grand, decadent room that had felt like a dream now felt exposed. And so did she.
And then—his voice.
“Good morning.”
She startled slightly.
He was leaning against the doorway, watching her with that same unreadable intensity. Bare-chested, hair tousled—like sin itself wrapped in golden light. He stood near the balcony, barefoot, a coffee mug in hand, looking as if he’d lived a thousand mornings before this one.
The sunlight poured over his sculpted chest, down his torso, catching on the chain around his neck. He looked relaxed. Dangerous. Unapologetically beautiful.
Lyric’s throat tightened.This was real.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
He crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. “I didn’t mean to disappear. I didn’t want to wake you. You looked… peaceful.”
She nodded, fingers tightening on the sheet. “I should go. The store—Velora’s expecting me.”
His gaze darkened—not with anger, but something deeper. Possessive. Certain.
“I meant what I said last night.” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous whisper. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Her pulse raced as he climbed onto the bed, bracing himself on either side of her. The sheet slipped from her fingers.
