Page 108 of Jax
“Shhh,” I murmured, reverent and dark. “Don’t think. Just feel.” She let out a sound that might’ve been a sob. Her hips rocked forward, grinding against my hand with no leverage, no control, but her body fought for more all the same.
“That’s it,” I said, matching the rhythm she carved from tension. “Grind on me. Let me feel how wrecked you are.” Her cry cracked the air wide open; raw, wild, and so unfiltered it stole my breath. I looked up and watched her head fall back, lips parted, body quaking, suspended, restrained, unraveling beneath every inch she’d given me. And I knew I could undo her completely. Not with force or pain, but with precision. With patience. With the ache she’d begged me to build. And we weren’t close to being done.
She couldn’t see herself, stripped of control, suspended in pressure and permission, rocking into my hand like nothing else mattered, but I could. And I’d remember it until the day I stopped breathing. Her arms were bound behind her, one leg folded high in rope, the other hanging just enough to offer motion but deny escape. Each thrust met resistance, the rope catching her, amplifying her need.
She was soaked, panting, lips trembling, her moans stripped bare by the harness pressing into her ribs. Every roll of her body drew tighter, desperation bleeding through every sound, and still, I didn’t let go.
My thumb stayed on her clit while my middle finger grazed her entrance, a tease, not a claim, while her body shook hard enough to jolt the suspension line. I pressed one hand to her belly, grounding her. “Easy. You don’t have to fight it. You’re already mine.”
“I can’t,” she choked, head lolling forward like gravity had claimed her. “Jax, I can’t…”
“Yes,” I murmured, brushing my lips against her temple. “You can. You are.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from losing it. My cock was hard behind my fly, pulsing in time with the rhythm of her hips, but I didn’t move. This wasn’t about me. Not yet. This was her fall. Her rise. Her undoing.
I slid my hand lower and cupped her fully. She cried out like I’d lit a fuse, like no one had ever touched her this way. Reverently. Deliberately. Destructively.
“You asked me to show you,” I said, voice thick with heat and reverence. “This is it, Stella. Power and patience. Precision and ache. I build you, and I choose when you break.”
Her eyes snapped open, glassy, dark, then shut again as her body bucked in a desperate, rhythm-less thrust. She was right there.
“Please,” she gasped, breath ragged. “Please don’t stop…please, Jax…”
“I’m not stopping until you cum,” I growled, then added, “And maybe not even then.” She sobbed a moan, grinding harder, chasing it with everything she had left. Her body was all tension and need, trembling in the ropes like she wanted to shatter the air itself.
“That’s it,” I whispered, mouth brushing her jaw. “Use me. Take it. Let go.” My fingers moved faster, firmer, two working her entrance while the heel of my hand pressed against her clit. I couldn’t see her face; her head was too far back, but I could feel her. Every pant, curse, and moan soaked into my skin and turned me feral.
She trembled, wrecked and suspended, strung so tight it was a miracle she hadn’t already come. Then her breath hitched once, and her whole body locked before it shattered. Her orgasm tore through her, hips jerking forward, then back, then forward again, like every nerve was caught between surrender and escape. Her scream, my name, hit the air with no echo, the kind that carves itself into you.
But I didn’t stop. My fingers kept circling, relentless, reverent, as she cried out again, twitching, sobbing, undone in the crossfire of a release so deep it peeled her open down to the soul. Her orgasm didn’t fade; it evolved, cresting again and again, drawn out by the rope, the helplessness, the exactness of my hand. I stayed close, whispering filth and reverence against her skin, how good she was, how stunning she looked strung up and soaked, chasing sensation like it was salvation.
When her knees finally faltered and her body sagged in the harness, I caught her, steadying her against my chest. She was somewhere softer now, unguarded, undone, impossibly real, and I felt something shift in my chest as I held her. Something that might’ve been love, raw and rising, too big to name, but impossible to ignore.
Her body hung slack, not limp, but loosened. Unbound from resistance. Stripped of everything but breath and sensation. Her cheek rested against the inside of her shoulder, lips parted, lashes damp. And I watched her float in the afterglow like she was suspended by more than just rope, like she was floating in mercy. Not the kind you beg for, but the kind you don’t believe you deserve until someone gives it to you anyway.
I moved slowly, reverently, hands on the lines as I began the descent. One pull, then another. Tension released like an unspooling promise. Her torso dipped first, legs still curved and bound in thefutomomo, body arched as I guided her back to earth, inch by inch. I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to. Her exhales came staggered, body swaying with every shift, hips trembling, skin glistening with sweat and something softer, something dangerously close to surrender.
She landed with the barest sound. First her foot. Then her hip. Then the rest of her, slow and aching and so goddamn beautiful it nearly split my chest open.
I knelt beside her. Not like a Dominant. Not like a man ready to gloat or tease or drag another orgasm from her just because I could. I knelt like someone who had just witnessed divinity and didn’t know what to do with the miracle in his hands.
Her legs twitched. Her arms were still bound. Her hair had fallen across her face, damp and curling, stuck to her cheek like flotsam washed up on shore in the aftermath of a storm. I reached up and tucked it behind her ear, letting my fingers linger just long enough for her to feel me. She didn’t flinch or pull away. Her eyes fluttered; hazy, dazed, but present.
“Color?” I asked, my voice barely more than a breath. Her lips parted.
“Green.” It was so quiet I almost missed it.
I let the word settle, simple and whole, before reaching for the knot at her ankle. The rope released with quiet sighs, each coil slipping free like a kiss in reverse. Her thigh twitched as sensation returned, and I worked slowly, tracing circulation, watching pink bloom where jute had pressed. She was marked and magnificent, glowing with the aftershock of chosen pain.
At her chest, I kept my hands steady. Rope had mapped her body in ridges and curves, geometry drawn in tension. I unraveled it with care, feeling her begin to sink with every breath. The rope slipped away like silk relinquishing its hold, and when her arms fell to her sides, she exhaled - fuller, freer. A deeper kind of release passed through her, like she’d finally stopped bracing for something that never came. She hadn’t shattered. She’d let go.
I leaned in, pressed my forehead to her shoulder, and breathed her in, sweat and surrender and that last spark still alive beneath her skin. Then I whispered, “I’m going to show you what it means to be worshipped.” She didn’t speak, just tipped her head back and opened her legs, not because I asked, but because she wanted to be seen. To be taken. To be devoured.I moved between her thighs, lifting her hips into my hands with quiet reverence, easing her leggings down inch by inch, my mouth trailing heat along every strip of skin I revealed. When the damp fabric peeled from her core, she gasped, still trembling, still aching. I didn’t hover. Didn’t tease.
I kissed her like she was sacred. Like she was the answer to every question I’d ever asked about power freely given. My tongue moved in slow, purposeful strokes, savoring the taste of surrender. Her thighs opened wider, fingers drifting to my shoulders, not to guide, only to hold. She was quiet, grateful, unraveling again. I moaned into her. She cried out. And when I sucked her clit into my mouth, when I matched the rhythm of my tongue to her breath and pulse, she came, softer this time, but deeper. Her body curled around it like an exhale she’d held too long, and she sobbed my name. Not because she was breaking, but because she’d survived the fall. And I had caught her.
She lay still, luminous in the aftermath, chest rising in slow, shallow breaths, legs parted from the way I’d worshipped her. Her fingers curled against the mat, hands open, like even gravity knew not to rush her return. The ropes were gone, but their imprint remained, reddened lines across her skin, like echoes of a language only her body could translate. A poem under pressure. A story no one else had the right to read.
I sat beside her without trying to fill the quiet. There was no need to ask how she felt, no impulse to offer water or wrap her in a blanket. Not yet. She wasn’t ready for warmth. She wasn’t in pain. She was in mid-transformation. So I waited, silent, steady, as her breath slowed, her pulse settled beneath flushed skin, and awareness returned in soft waves. Her lips twitched first, just barely, a flicker of something tender surfacing from below.
