Page 25 of No Words
From the cabinet, he removes a black leather case. My pulse quickens as he sets it on the table and opens it. Inside lies an array of items I’ve only seen in movies or late-night internet searches I’d never admit to: blindfolds, restraints, objects whose purpose I can only guess.
“What is this?” I ask, though I know exactly what it is.
“Training,” Cole says simply, “but of a different kind. The prosecutor who entered this cabin five days ago is ruled by control. Always calculating, always three steps ahead.” His finger traces the edge of a silk blindfold. “That woman will get caught because she can’t adapt. Can’t surrender.”
I should take offense. Should remind him I’m a federal prosecutor being hunted by killers, not someone looking for sexual experimentation. Instead, I hear myself ask, “And this helps how?”
“Identity is performance. Performance requires vulnerability.” He lifts the blindfold. “Do you trust me, Molly?”
Five days ago, I didn’t know this man existed. Now, he’s the only thing standing between me and death. But this request goes beyond protection.
“Yes,” I say, surprised by my certainty.
“We need to talk about limits first,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “The safe word is ‘courtroom’. Use it, and everything stops immediately. But I also need to know what you absolutely don’t want.”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Then we start slow and build. If something feels wrong, you tell me. Your body, your boundaries, your choice.”
“And if I use it?” I ask.
“Everything stops immediately. No questions, no negotiation. We check in, make sure you’re okay.” His expression grows serious. “This only works if you trust that I’ll stop when you need me to.”
He steps behind me, the silk of the blindfold cool against my face as darkness envelops my world. The soft material caresses my skin, blocking out the cabin’s dim lighting and leaving me in a sea of blackness. My other senses immediately heighten, the crackle of the fireplace, the scent of pine and leather, the sound of Cole’s steady breathing behind me. His register lowers, taking on a quality I haven’t heard before, commanding and certain.
“Hands above your head.”
I comply, feeling exposed even though I’m fully clothed. He guides my hands to an exposed ceiling beam. Something soft but unyielding wraps around my wrists, not tight enough to hurt, but secure enough that I can’t easily free myself.
“Control is your safety net,” Cole shifts from instructor to predator as he circles me like prey. “I’m going to teach you to fly without it.”
I feel him moving around me, the rustle of clothing suggesting he’s removing his shirt. His hand brushes my cheek, and I intuitively turn towards his touch.
“Good,” he praises. “Following instinct rather than calculation.”
His fingertips trail down my neck to the buttons of my borrowed flannel shirt. One by one, he undoes them with deliberate slowness. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin, or perhaps it’s anticipation. He doesn’t remove the shirt, just lets it hang open.
“Your body is honest even when your mind resists,” he observes as his fingertips trace my collarbone. “The prosecutor hides behind suits and formality. What does Molly hide behind?”
“I don’t—“ I begin.
“Don’t lie,” he interrupts, a hardness entering his tone. “Not to me. Not here.”
The reprimand sends an unexpected thrill through me. I swallow hard. “Control. I hide behind control.”
“Better.” His reward is a caress down my sternum, stopping just above my breasts. “And what happens when you lose that control?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper truthfully.
“We’re going to find out.”
His touch vanishes. I strain to hear where he is, what he’s doing. The anticipation is maddening. Then something warm drizzles onto my stomach, scented oil, heated to just above body temperature. I gasp at the sensation.
“Every nerve ending is enhanced when you can’t see,” Cole explains, his hands spreading the oil across my abdomen in slow circles. “When you surrender one sense, the others compensate.”
His hands are strong, confident as they work the oil into my skin. He avoids my breasts at first, building anticipation. Whenhe finally cups them, the slick glide of his palms against my nipples pulls a moan from somewhere deep inside me.
“Listen to your body,” he instructs. “Not your thoughts.”
