Page 135 of Jax
“Remember, you only get to cum when I say,” I murmured, threading the first length through my fingers, gauging its pace against her breath. “Not before. Not after. Only when I’ve carved the noise out of you and filled you with nothing but me.”
She shuddered, her head tipping back, mouth parting on a sound so raw it felt stolen. “Yes, Jax. Please.”
That sound, wrecked, reverent, filthy, was the first true chord of surrender.
I wrapped the first pass above her breasts, snug and certain, each line a conversation written in pressure and need. Heat followed, blooming beneath the tension, silent, molten, and alive.
Her next breath was thick. Slow. The kind a body takes not out of need, but memory. Recognition. As if she’d stopped bracing and finally remembered what she was made for.
I fed the rope behind her back, hands steady and reverent. My mouth hovered near her ear. “This line holds the ache,” I said, cinching her higher. “It shapes the silence.”
The second wrap came beneath her breasts, a mirror to the first, tighter this time, coaxing her breath higher until everyinhale lifted her like prayer. The symmetry was brutal in its beauty. She arched into the pressure unconsciously, chest rising. Another sound escaped her lips, sharper this time. Cracked. Shuddering.
“You okay?” I asked, though her body had already answered. Not in resistance. In reverence.
“I think I’ve been waiting for this since before I met you,” she whispered, and God, that hit deeper than arousal. It was an ache. Ancient. Sacred. The kind that lived in bone.
I draped the verticals over her shoulders, knuckles grazing the delicate curve of her collarbone. Her skin jumped beneath the contact, alive with anticipation. I traced downward, connecting the strands to the bands beneath her breasts, adjusting each pull with precision. Her chest was framed like a sculpture. Every line coaxed into form by pressure. Breath. Willing surrender.
Her rhythm shifted again, faster, shallower, tethered now to the rope rather than fear. A new pulse. A new god. One I’d carved into her skin with patience and force. “You’re beautiful like this,” I said, the words raw with awe. “A work of purpose. Pressure. Poetry.”
She laughed, soft and stunned. The sound of a girl, unraveling and becoming at the same time. “You talk like you’re building a temple.”
I stepped in, thigh brushing hers. “I am,” I said, voice low. “And you’re the altar.”
She didn’t answer, just exhaled a breath full of heat and hunger, lips parted, eyes glazed. And still, I hadn’t really touched bare skin, only rope. But she reacted like fire had kissed her. When I anchored the verticals at the small of her back and tied them off, her breath caught hard, not from pain, but release.
She looked down, dazed, trying to process the frame I’d built from jute and worship, her breasts lifted, caged, the rope biting just enough to claim. She wasn’t simply held. She was shaped.
“God,” she whispered, reverent and trembling. “I didn’t know I could look like this.”
“You don’t,” I said, stepping back to see the full effect. “You look like more.”
She blinked at me, expression torn open by wonder and disbelief. “Like what?”
“Like someone who stopped pretending she was ordinary.”
I moved behind her again and pressed my palm flat against the rope over her sternum. Her heartbeat thundered beneath it, steady and strong. “Feel that? That’s not panic anymore. That’spower.”
Her knees trembled as she absorbed the weight of my words, and my hand slid to cradle the side of her breast, fingers grazing the swollen peak framed perfectly in the top line of rope. She gasped, sharp and clear. Her body arched instinctively toward the pressure.
“Too much?” I asked, voice low against her skin.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not enough.”
My cock throbbed behind denim, every sound she made striking sparks through me, but I didn’t move to claim her. This wasn’t about my need, no matter how sharp it felt. It was about discipline. The control that came from power exchanged in reverence, not demand. Hers, offered. Mine, earned.
I dragged my thumb over her nipple through the rope, just once, just enough to send a tremor down her spine. “You’re already this responsive,” I murmured. “And I haven’t even lifted you yet.”
“Then do it,” she said, voice shaking with anticipation. “Show me what I am.”
She had no idea what that did to me. That voice. That plea. That spell she cast without meaning to. I leaned in close and gave her the truth she was aching to hear.
“You are a vision of triumph and tension. Art and aching. And I’m going to make you feel every line of it.”
She whimpered, head tipping back, lips parted. I could feel the heat rolling off her, her body alive now not with fear, but with the full weight of sensation.
I reached for the next coil and dragged it down her spine in a slow, sensual stroke. She moaned, hips tilting, chasing more.
