Page 163 of Lost Then Found
“Lark, fuck. We have to stop. I wanna come inside you,” he rasps.
I stop just long enough to let my tongue flick over the tip of him, slow and deliberate, before I lift my gaze. His eyes snap open—wild and dark, filled with that thing I can’t name but feel all the way in my bones.
Need. Want.Me.
Boone bends to dig through the pile of his clothes, and when his hand comes back with that rope—the thick, scratchy one I clocked earlier—my heart stutters. My cunt clenches, like it’s already dripping in anticipation of being split open and completely fucking used.
And then it hits me—what he’s about to do. What that rope’s for. What I’m for.
Holy shit.
He’s never tied me up before. Never restrained me. But he doesn’t ask if I want it. He knows. He sees it all over my face, in the way I suck in a breath and sway toward him like a goddamn heat-seeking missile.
There’s no fumbling. Just Boone grabbing my wrists and pressing them together like he’s been fantasizing about this very moment. His hands are steady, rough as he starts to loop the rope. Each pull of the fibers scrapes against my skin, the friction biting, digging in, making my skin burn and my pussy ache.
It’s not gentle.
It’s ownership.
Once he’s done wrapping, he tugs my arms up and ties the end to one of the beams overhead. My whole body stretches with it—breasts rising, stomach pulled tight, legs instinctively spreading because there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. I’m on display, just for him.
And God, I love it.
I should be embarrassed. Scared, even. But all I feel is this wicked rush—hot and sharp and curling low in my belly like I might combust if he doesn’t do something soon.
I’ve never let anyone see me like this. Never trusted someone enough to be so bare. But Boone? Boone’s not just someone. Boone knows me—knows how I breathe, how I break, how to hold all the shattered pieces together and still make me feel like fire.
His fingers skim the rope, tugging, checking. “Too tight?”
It is. It burns in the best way. I can feel my heartbeat in my wrists.
But I shake my head, lips parted, breath catching. “No.”
His mouth curves, slow and smug, like he knows damn well I’m lying but loves that I’m willing to take it anyway. “Of course it’s not,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my collarbone. “Because you’re my good girl, aren’t you?”
Fuck. That tone. That voice. I swear I could come from that alone.
His hands run down my arms, over the swell of my breasts, fingers teasing, tugging, taking. Not asking. Claiming. He palms one breast, then the other, thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard and aching, until I’m arching into his touch like some shameless thing begging to be used.
Then his mouth is there—hot and wet and hungry. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling before his teeth graze over it, and I whimper.
The rope digs into my skin as I strain against it, my whole body desperate and writhing, but I don’t want to escape. I want to drown in this. In him.
Boone pulls back, lips shiny, eyes dark. “You feel how wet you are for me?” he growls, slipping his hand between my thighs and cupping my cunt like it’s his favorite fucking thing. “You’re soaked. Fucking dripping, baby.”
I choke on a gasp as his fingers slide through the mess he’s made of me. I can hear it—the wet, obscene sound of my body begging.
“Goddamn, look at you,” he says, thumb brushing over my clit like he owns it. “Tied up, tits out, your pretty pussy leaking all over my hand.”
I moan. Loud. Shamefully loud. I don’t even care.
Because here, like this—with rope on my wrists and Boone’s voice in my ear—I don’t feel weak. I feel indestructible. I feel like the center of the universe. Like I’m his whole world, and he’s mine.
And I’d let him ruin me a thousand times just to feel this again.
I shiver, hard. Can’t help it. My skin’s already hypersensitive, and the second Boone drags his teeth across my stomach again, I swear I forget how to breathe. He chuckles—low, cocky, dark—and it vibrates straight through me like a fucking weapon.
And then he does it again. Teeth. Lips. That scrape of stubble that should hurt but doesn’t—it just lights me up.
