Page 126 of Carrick
And when he leaned in, voice low and steady at my ear, it landed like gravity in my chest.
“Of course I will help you forget for a little while, kitten,” he murmured. “You’re not going to think at all tonight.”
And I could breathe again.
I didn’t move when he circled the bed like a man claiming sacred ground. Didn’t flinch when he opened the drawer and pulled out a coil of black rope, every movement quiet, reverent, sure.
He set the rope on the mattress without fanfare, then reached for the lockbox tucked against the wall. I watched, heart hammering with anticipation. The kind of trembling born from the anticipation of being seen too clearly. Touched too deeply. Held without apology.
He opened the box with deliberate care, retrieving each item like a man laying out tools for an intimate war. A violet wand. Polished glass attachments. A lacquered cane, thin and flexible. A leather-wrapped flogger, heavy and worn. A coiled vibrator. Lube. Condoms. A blindfold. A precisely folded towel. Nothing flashy. Nothing rushed. Just ritual. And I was at the center of it.
My breath hitched. Arousal pulsed low, insistent, blooming between my thighs. He hadn’t touched me, not really, but my body was already answering him, already falling into rhythm with his restraint.
“Take your shirt off,” he said, voice low.
I obeyed, peeling the fabric up and over my head. The air hit my skin like a blade, cool, electric.
“Bra, too.”
I held his gaze as I unclasped it, let it fall. He didn’t reach. Didn’t smirk. Just looked. And somehow, that was more intimate than anything else could’ve been.
“Shorts off.”
I rose to my knees, stripping them down slowly, left in nothing but damp panties. And even that felt temporary.
“Lie back. Arms over your head.”
I obeyed, spine sinking into the mattress, arms stretched long across the pillow, heart pounding. Carrick picked up the rope.
“You don’t have to count tonight,” he said. “You don’t have to speak. You don’t have to think.”
I exhaled, the weight already leaving my limbs.
“You just have to stay still. And feel.”
He wrapped the first loop around my wrist, fingers warm, deliberate. The knot came fast—secure, practiced. Then the next. I was tethered before I even had time to flinch. And that was the point.
When he moved to the foot of the bed and reached for my ankles, I nearly arched off the mattress—but his voice came low and firm, anchoring me again.
“Breathe.”
I did.
I let go.
He fastened each ankle with the same deliberate tension, spreading me open, my legs parted wide enough to leave nothing to the imagination. I felt the first pang of vulnerability crest in my chest, threatening to rise. But his hand came to rest on my thigh—heavy and warm andgrounding—and the panic melted back into heat.
“Good girl.”
Two words.
That was all it took to light the fire in my belly.
He reached for the blindfold and held it up.
“Green?”
“Very,” I whispered.
