Page 52 of No Words
Not if. When. She understands already.
“When I catch you,” I say, moving closer until my lips almost brush her ear, “I’m going to tie you up wherever we are. No cabin walls to hide behind. Just you, me, and these ropes.”
A visible shiver runs through her at my words.
“The property is secure,” I assure her. “No one will see us but the birds. This is just between us.”
I step back, giving her space to decide. This has to be her choice, freely made.
“Is there a safe word?” she asks, and I feel a surge of pride at her question. She’s learning.
“Red stops everything immediately; yellow means slow down or adjust.”
She nods, processing this. Then a slow smile spreads across her face, something mischievous and provocative that I’ve never seen before.
“Thirty seconds isn’t much of a head start,” she challenges.
I match her smile with one of my own. “Twenty-nine... twenty-eight...”
She’s moving before I reach twenty-seven, kicking off her shoes and sprinting toward the tree line. I watch her go, admiring the way she moves, confident and surprisingly fast. The prosecutor I met days ago would have hesitated, questioned, analyzed. This woman embraces the game instantly, understanding its purpose on an instinctive level.
I count down deliberately, my eyes never leaving her as she disappears among the trees. When I reach zero, I begin my pursuit at an easy jog. I could track her blindfolded if necessary; the subtle snap of twigs, disturbed leaves, bent grass blades all creating an obvious trail. But I let the chase extend, enjoying the hunt, giving her the momentary illusion of escape.
Pine needles carpet the forest floor, soft and silent beneath my boots as I follow her deeper into the trees. She’s clever, doubling back once, crossing a shallow stream to try breaking the trail. Good instincts, but not enough. I follow her zigzagging path, closing the distance steadily.
I catch a flash of movement ahead. She’s circling back toward the lake, using a denser patch of trees for cover. I adjust my course, cutting across her path, and when she bursts through a clearing, I’m already waiting.
The surprise on her face when she nearly runs into me is everything I hoped for. She shrieks and tries to pivot away, but I’m already moving. My arm wraps around her waist, lifting her clean off her feet. Her spine presses against my chest, her heartbeat wild against my forearm.
“Caught you,” I murmur against her neck.
She struggles briefly, playfully testing my grip. I tighten my hold just enough to remind her who’s in control. Her resistance melts away, replaced by a full-body shudder as she goes deliberately limp in my arms.
“Now what?” she asks, breathless from the run and the anticipation.
I scan our surroundings. We’re in a small clearing just back from the shore, private but with dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. A fallen tree trunk, smooth with age, provides the perfect anchor.
I guide her toward it, maintaining my hold. “Kneel.”
She complies immediately, dropping to her knees on the soft forest floor beside the fallen trunk. I remove the rope from my pocket, letting it uncoil with a soft hiss that makes her shiver again.
“Arms behind you,” I instruct, and she positions them without hesitation, wrists crossed at the small of her back.
I bind her wrists first, creating an intricate pattern that’s both secure and comfortable. The black rope stands out against her tanned skin, each loop and knot placed with precision. With her wrists secure, I run the remaining rope up her arms, creating a ladder pattern that restricts without cutting off circulation.
“Still good?” I check, tugging gently on the bindings.
“Yes,” she whispers, and I can hear the anticipation in that single word.
I move in front of her, taking her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up to mine. “Remember, you ran from me. There are consequences for that.”
Her lips part, and her breath catches. “What consequences?”
Instead of answering, I thread my fingers through her hair, gathering it firmly at the nape of her neck. I use this grip to guide her forward until she’s bowed over the fallen trunk; her bound arms behind her, completely at my mercy.
I take my time removing her clothes, cutting away her shirt and pants with the knife from my boot rather than untying her. The sharp blade never touches her skin, but I can see her reaction to the sound of fabric tearing, the knowledge that I’m using a blade so close to her body. It’s trust in its purest form.
“You don’t get to see what I’m doing,” I say, picking up a strip of her torn shirt. “You only get to feel it.”
