Page 123 of Jax
I didn’t sass or even speak. My hands moved before my brain caught up, gripping the hem of my sweat-soaked tank and dragging it over my head, damp cotton scraping over sensitive ribs. My sports bra followed quickly, a quiet surrender of everything that made me feel composed. Then the boots and socks. Then the jeans, peeled off inch by inch, catching on damp skin, taking the last of my armor with them.
I stood in nothing but thin black panties and a flush I couldn’t hide, nipples tight, thighs slick, already wrecked with want.
He watched me like a sculpture he hadn’t finished, eyes dragging across me without urgency or mercy.
I swallowed. “Are you just going to stand there, or….”
“Turn around,” he said, cutting me off.
I obeyed.
My skin prickled as I faced the warm-lit room, feeling exposed. I gathered my hair into a knot at the base of my neck, holding it there without being asked. My heart thundered in the silence that followed, anticipation coiling into something sharp and alive.
I felt him behind me, his breath first, then his presence, heat lapping at the space between us like a promise. Still no touch. Just that unbearable patience he wielded like a blade.
When his hand finally landed at the center of my back, I had to fight not to whimper. He didn’t trace or tease, just pressed his palm flat between my shoulder blades like he was testing the integrity of something he meant to climb. My lungs stuttered. My spine arched. I felt staked.
“You’re warm,” he murmured. “Sweaty. Raw. Just the way I want you.”
“Romantic,” I rasped, voice cracking. It was all I had left.
“I’m not here to romance you, Stella.” My name hit like a brand. “I’m here to shape you.”
He stepped in front of me again, hand trailing around my ribcage as he passed. My breath hitched. His chest rose with mine, bare and steady, while his fingers flexed like they already anticipated the rope.
“I’ve had you in rope before,” he said. “Seen you surrender. Seen you break.”
I swallowed hard. Couldn’t look away.
“But tonight, I want you to change. I want you to become something new. And I want you to feel every second of it.”
My thighs pressed together. My lips parted. “You’re making it really hard to play it cool.”
His gaze dipped to my mouth. “Then stop trying. Cool doesn’t suit you. Raw does.”
A pulse beat within my chest. A tingling coil lit at the base of my spine.
He stepped closer, the heat of his chest hovering just inches from mine. I didn’t move. He was already everywhere, in my breath, my blood, the throb low in my belly demanding touch.
“I’ll make it beautiful,” he said, voice low. “But you’ll come out of it wrecked.”
My throat worked around another swallow. “And if I fall apart?”
His eyes didn’t waver. “Then I’ll hold the pieces. And decide which ones you no longer need.”
I swore under my breath, not from shame, but release. A crack split down the middle of every wall I’d gripped tight. “You say shit like that and I forget how to breathe.”
“You’re not here to breathe,” he said, voice closing around me like a fist. “You’re here to feel. To become.”
I nodded, pulse quickening.
He reached for the rope, threading the first coil through his hands with practiced ease, like he was drawing meaning from fiber. His fingers moved without effort, focused and reverent. I knew those hands. I’d felt them at my ribs, my hips, my throat. But this wasn’t the slow burn of foreplay. This was a ceremony.
He looked at me again, voice low and unwavering. “Last chance.”
I didn’t flinch. “Don’t stop.”
The first rope grazed my skin, and I forgot how to swallow. It didn’t matter that we’d done this before, that he knew every slope and plane of my body. Tonight held weight. Intention. His grip on the jute was decisive, his presence different, quieter, heavier, more rooted in purpose than pleasure.
