Page 154 of Carrick
“You feel how your muscles pull against the futomomo?” Jax said, his voice clinical. “That burn in your thigh is your body adjusting to compression. Tell Carrick if the fire becomes numbness.”
“I will,” she breathed.
I swapped the mushroom bulb for the finer comb tip—this one left a trail of stinging fire behind it. When I dragged it up the inside of her thigh, her whole body jolted, twitching like a live wire caught in silk.
“Oh, fuck,” she gasped, breath hitching.
I chuckled, low. “Language,” I murmured, brushing my mouth near her ear. “Unless you want Jax to punish that mouth.”
Her lips parted. Desperate. “Yes, Sir.”
There it was—her slip, her surrender, raw and unguarded.
I stepped in closer, touched the wand to the tender edge beneath her breast, just where the skin thinned. She gasped again, body jerking within the ropes, her chest arching as far as the bindings would allow. The sound she made was half shock, half prayer.
I smiled, slow and wicked, then set the wand aside. Let her wonder why.
My hand drifted down, fingers tracing her sternum in a path of fire and restraint, slow as smoke. I didn’t rush. I wanted her to feel it—every inch, every pulse of want behind my touch. The control that wrapped around her tighter than the ropes.
She was spread open, held wide and slick and trembling. I cupped her—full, firm, claiming. Her whole body seized in response, hips snapping forward with a cry she couldn’t bite back. I slid two fingers through her folds, slow and indulgent, circling her clit with the lightest brush before dipping low to find her pulse deep inside.
Her head dropped back. The ropes groaned. Her body clung to my hand like it had always belonged there.
“That’s it,” I murmured, reverent now, fingers sliding through her slick heat. “You feel that? How ready you are? How fucking perfect?”
She whimpered—high and broken, the sound shattering from her lungs like it hurt to keep it in. Every muscle in her body shook. The rigging held, but her need trembled deeper than anything we’d tied. I didn’t give her what she wanted. Not yet.
Instead, I stilled my hand—right there, between her thighs—and let the silence stretch. Let the ache rise and the tension wrap around her like a noose. The denial soaked into her bones, hot and pulsing.
“You don’t get to chase it,” I said, pulling away. My fingers left her bare, wanting. “Not yet.”
Her cry was immediate—soft and sharp, laced with disbelief. She shuddered in the ropes, hips jolting forward like her body hadn’t gotten the message that my hand was gone. That I’d taken the heat with me.
I stepped back slowly, the gentle thud of my footsteps across the floor the only sound for a beat, then reached for the wand again—cold metal humming to life with a flick of my wrist.
“You want to cum?” I asked, keeping my tone low and calm, as if we were discussing the weather instead of the brutal tease of her body unraveling.
She nodded frantically, wild-eyed and panting.
“Beg.”
Her mouth opened—then closed again. Words caught somewhere between breath and instinct, too tangled by sensation to form.
I moved closer and lowered the wand just above her clit. Not touching. Just hovering—close enough that the heated arc fromthe current made her jump. Her hips jerked against the ropes, and her thighs trembled like they might snap.
“I said beg.”
“Please,” she gasped, voice cracking. “Please, Sir, I need it. I need to cum. I can’t—I can’t hold it anymore.”
Still, I didn’t grant it. I dragged the current in slow arcs over her lower stomach, delicate sparks blooming just above where she needed release most. Her breath hitched at every pass, her body vibrating with the tension of pleasure held just out of reach. The wand hummed against her skin, teasing her without tipping her over, coaxing out whimpers that sounded torn straight from her core.
“You’re not allowed,” I murmured, voice low, even. “Not yet.”
She whimpered again—gut-deep, desperate, like something breaking open. Behind her, Jax spoke quietly, his voice silk over steel. “Your physiological responses are flawless. But more than that—you’re enduring this beautifully.” Another cry slipped from her lips, sharper this time, soaked in need. I slid the wand lower, letting it trail down the inside of her thigh, watching the way she twitched, jerked, strained against the ropes.
She was soaked. Not aroused—ruined. Drenched in it. Her body was trembling, breath shuddering with every inhale, her thighs slick and parted, suspended in restraint, slicked with want and restraint and something deeper. I traced one more line of current across her, then paused, watching the tension coil tighter inside her, coiled and waiting.
“You’re fighting it,” I said softly, fingers still firm on the wand.
