Page 155 of Carrick
Her lips trembled. “I’m trying.”
“Don’t.”
Her breath hitched again—stopped, stuttered—and then the dam broke. Not violently, not with a scream, but with a soft,aching sound as her body gave in. The orgasm rolled through her like molten silk, smooth and surrendering, hips tipping forward, rope creaking under the strain of release. Her cry wasn’t loud. It was reverent. A quiet unraveling. Her whole body trembled, arms flexed, chest heaving, pleasure spilling over her in waves that didn’t need to shatter to be powerful. She whispered it into the ropes like a prayer.
I turned off the wand and set it aside as Jax stepped in, hands checking the tension along the upper harness. He didn’t touch her skin, just the rope. Then he leaned in, voice low against her ear, ready to speak.
“I’m going to add stimulus now,” he said quietly. “Like we discussed. If you need it to stop, say red or drop the keyring. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, Sir…er…Jax.” I chuckled quietly to myself, a look passing between Jax and myself letting him know that all was well. She was sinking so deep into headspace so quickly she couldn’t tell up from down, let alone Sir from Jax.
He didn’t need permission. He already had it.
I stayed in front of her as Jax knelt behind, hands moving slowly over the ropes binding her legs, checking the futomomo for muscle strain. His fingers adjusted tension with that quiet precision of his, drawing soft tremors from her thighs. He didn’t touch skin at first—just worked through the rope, pressing, shifting, calibrating pressure until her breath stuttered and her body started to shake.
Then his hands cupped her ass—bare, lifted, open. But instead of striking, he leaned in and breathed against her skin. Not a kiss. Just heat. Anticipation. Presence. She moaned—low, guttural, wrecked—and still, Jax didn’t speak. He moved to her hips and uncoiled a new strand of rope—silk bamboo threaded with steel fiber, electro-conductive and soft as sin. He looped itbetween her legs, snugged it against her clit, and tied it off to the suspension ring above, tension set like a loaded trigger.
He stepped back. “Ready when you are.”
I picked the wand up from the mat and leaned in, brushing Bellamy’s cheek with my free hand. “You ready to break, baby?”
She trembled—not from fear, but need. “I can’t take much more,” she whispered.
“That’s why I’m going to give you exactly what you need.”
I touched the wand to the rope now flush against her cunt. The current surged—vibration arcing through her, ruthless and precise. She screamed, the sound ripped from her throat and hurled against the walls. It was beautiful. Raw. But she didn’t come. Not yet. She was past language now—held together by sweat, breath, and the sheer will not to shatter.
Jax stepped in again, dragging his knuckles along the soles of her feet, tracing up her calves with maddening slowness, anchoring her in a different kind of sensation. Then he circled to her front, fingers ghosting over her nipples—barely a touch. Just enough to remind her she still had a body. That it still belonged to her.
“You’re floating,” I murmured, brushing hair from her face, watching her shiver with every word. “But you’re not gone. You’re still ours.”
She nodded—once, twice—eyes glassy, lashes clinging to tears. Not from pain. Not fear. From the quiet devastation of surrender. Her soul had cracked open between pleasure and trust, and whatever poured out next... it would be holy.
I powered down the wand and set it aside, its hum fading into the silence like a curtain falling on the first act.
Then I stepped in close.
The rope between her thighs was soaked—dark silk drawn tight against slick heat, trembling with each quiver of her legs. Strung high and knotted with precision, it pulsed with morethan friction. It carried tension in every strand—physical, emotional, electric. A fuse, begging to be lit. I reached down, curled my hand around it, and yanked—hard.
She didn’t scream. Didn’t breathe. She came like her body had caught fire from the inside out. Suspended midair, bound and helpless, she arched into the rigging, mouth open in a shattered cry that never made it to sound. Her muscles spasmed, jerking with the force of it, her body straining against the very thing that held her safe.
But I wasn’t done.
I gripped the rope again and pulled—once. Then again. Each tug reignited her. Her legs trembled, arms flexed, breath cracked open into something guttural and wild. Words were gone. Only sensation remained. Jax moved behind the rig, steadying the frame with one hand.
“She’s peaking again,” he said.
“I know,” I murmured.
Because I could feel it. She was blazing—every nerve pulled taut between too much and please don’t stop. And I kept her there. Not out of cruelty. But because she’d asked—with her body, her breath, her surrender—to be emptied. And I loved her too much not to give her exactly that.
So I did.
Every wave. Every tremor. Every unbearable second. Until she stopped holding on and let herself fall. Her body slumped, not broken, but released. Breath shallow. Muscles soft. Silence curling around her like reverence.
The tension fled her limbs like a tide retreating from shore; hips fell slack in the harness, shoulders sagged, breath coming in ragged, wet pulls. Her head tipped to one side, lashes fluttering, sweat clinging to flushed skin, tears sliding down her cheeks like absolution. But she wasn’t broken. She wasn’t in pain. She was unmade, beautifully, willfully, emptied ofeverything except what mattered. And God, she was radiant in it.
I stood in front of her, unmoving, heart pounding like I’d just come through a war. Because in some ways, I had—and we’d both survived it. Every sharp edge in her had softened, melted in sweat and surrender, blurred by endorphins and the hush that followed ruin. She wasn’t just hanging in rope anymore. She was adrift, floating on the high of being known, used, cherished, and utterly undone.
