Page 156 of Carrick
Jax moved first, stepping into the space between us with reverent quiet. No words. Just motion. He approached like entering a chapel, hands already working the uplines, ready to bring her back down, one careful tether at a time.
He untied the crotch rope gently first, careful not to jolt her overstimulated body. The jingle of the carabiners was the only sound in the room, followed by the gentle sigh of the rope as it slackened. Her body dipped inch by inch—no sudden movements, no jolts—just a careful return to earth.
One line at a time, Jax gave her back to gravity. She didn’t speak, didn’t stir—just let it happen, breath soft and shallow as her body rediscovered weight. Her knees brushed the mat first, and I saw it hit her—the shock of sensation, of groundedness, of muscle and bone remembering how to bear her. Her legs trembled, buckling under her, and then she slumped forward.
I caught her before she could fall even an inch. My arms wrapped around her instinctively, cradling her against me as if she might break—though I’d just watched her endure more than most people ever could. She didn’t crash from height. She crashed from surrender, from the freefall that came when everything she’d held tight finally let go. Every wall. Every defense. Every breath of control she’d carried into the ropes. I held her like she was made of something sacred.
“You with me, sweetheart?” I asked, brushing my knuckles across her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open, slow and heavy, a blink… then another. A soft nod followed, barely there. “Color?”
Her voice came back raw and gorgeous, gravel and honey. “Green,” she rasped. “Fucking green.”
Relief, awe, and something deeper cracked open inside me. I smiled, everything in my chest going warm and wide. “She’s good,” I said quietly to Jax, even though he hadn’t asked. He didn’t need the confirmation.
He’d read her body the whole way through—every tremor that meant come closer, every exhale that meant give her space. He knew the difference between pain and surrender, panic and peace. But still, he waited. That one extra beat. That quiet second just to be sure. Because that’s what good Tops did. They didn’t just tie. They listened.
When I gave him the nod, he moved without a word—kneeling behind her with calm, practiced care. His fingers worked through the futomomo with reverence, tracing each knot, loosening each band of jute until the tension melted away.
His fingers worked expertly at the ropes around her upper arms, loosening each knot with slow, practiced precision.
As the bands unwound, they left behind a map—deep red imprints etched into her skin, trails of heat and pressure drawn in the shape of where she’d been held. Not just restrained. Held. Marked in the language of trust, of surrender, of the impossible strength it took to let go. It was beautiful in a way most people couldn’t begin to understand—those vivid lines across her body a testament to everything she’d given, everything she’d survived.
When the last wrap slid free, Jax steadied her arms with quiet care, guiding one, then the other to her sides as she exhaled a shuddered breath. Her body sagged forward—boneless, undone—and I caught her instantly, my arms already there before gravity had the chance. She didn’t fall. I held her.
Her lashes were wet and clinging, eyes barely open, but she found me through the haze. Still tethered. Still floating. But with just enough anchor to recognize where she’d landed.
I sank with her to the padded mat, pulling her into my lap, her limp body settling against mine, skin damp with sweat, limbs weightless in the aftermath. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her face tucked into the curve of my neck, breath hitching softly against my skin—warm and uneven, not panicked, just emptied. Spilled out. Hollowed and safe.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, lips brushing her temple. My hand stroked slowly down the length of her spine, grounding her with every pass. “You’re okay. You’re home.”
She trembled once. Then again. Aftershocks rippling through muscle and memory. And then… she melted.
Sank fully into me, her body going pliant, trusting me to hold all of her weight. I shifted slightly, rocking her gently, matching her breath with my own. Creating rhythm. Reassurance. Something steady she could cling to.
Jax approached from the side, knelt beside us, and held out a bottle of water. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
I took it, twisted the cap with one hand, and brought it to her lips.
“Drink for me,” I said, voice soft but firm.
She obeyed without hesitation.
Her lips closed around the bottle, throat working as she swallowed slowly. A few sips. Then a pause. Then a few more.
I watched her jaw flex, the muscles tight as she held something in—grief, maybe, or the last threads of control. The hollow of her throat shifted as she swallowed hard, then finally let out a long, shaking exhale.
Then she curled in closer—pressed herself into my chest like she couldn’t get deep enough, like she needed the contact to stay whole. Like maybe, if she got close enough, she could stitch herself back together using my skin. And I let her.
I pulled her tighter, one arm wrapped around her back, the other cradling the nape of her neck, anchoring her to me. I pressed my cheek to the top of her head and closed my eyes, breathing her in, letting her weight settle like a promise.
Because this—this was what mattered. Not the rope. Not the edge. Not the climax. This. The aftermath. The stillness. The safety.
“I’m here,” I whispered, lips brushing her temple.
“You didn’t leave,” she murmured, voice frayed and paper-thin but sure.
“I never will,” I said. And I meant it. Every word. Every breath.
Jax stood from where he’d knelt, quiet and watchful the whole time. He gathered the ropes in his hands, coiling them methodically, reverently. Without a word, he moved to the far corner of the room, giving us space without needing to be asked. He didn’t interrupt the silence, didn’t try to offer comfort. That wasn’t his role. He knew the scene was over—and the aftermath belonged to us.
