Page 136 of Jax
But I didn’t give it.
“You’ll get more,” I murmured, voice dark with control. “But only if you stay exactly where I put you.”
“I’m trying,” she whispered, breath hitching. “You’re just…”
“Too much?” I asked, my voice barely more than a breath.
She met my gaze, eyes wide and lit from within. “You’re exactly what I need.”
I pressed my forehead to hers, one second, just long enough to anchor her to me, to this. Then I moved behind her, breath shallow, chest tight. The first leg folded under without protest, heel to ass, foot arched in offering. That shape, elegant and defenseless, cut through me like reverence soaked in lust.
The rope moved through my palm like memory. Thick. Warm. Broken in by years of want. I wrapped her slowly, ankle to thigh, knuckles grazing overheated skin, muscles twitching beneath every pass. Each pull of tension was a poem. Each cinch, a stanza she answered in breath and body.
I added verticals, locking her knee at a precise angle. Form met function in perfect symmetry, but her reactions, that soft hitch in breath, the restless way her hips chased more, those were art. Living. Gasping. Begging art.
The second leg nearly broke my restraint. She bent it for me, exposed the soft crease behind her knee, and I bound it, not to restrain, but to remind her what she’d given me.
She moaned when the knot bit deep. Not for me. From her core. My body answered. Jaw clenched. Control fraying. Every nerve lit.
She didn’t need to speak. Her skin said everything. Slit soaked. Nipples drawn to peaks. Thighs parted. She was trembling and slick, shaped by need and steadied by surrender.
I added a crossbar down her thigh, a line that would press into her with every twitch. She shivered, breath catching, and the sound I made wasn’t human. It was hunger.
My jeans were a punishment. I was too hard to think straight. Every knot I tied was foreplay. Every length of rope, a pulse.
I dropped lower, fingers gliding along the inside of her thigh, grazing wet folds. The heat of her nearly undid me. She jerked as if I’d lit her skin on fire.
I caught the groan in my throat, fisted the next coil like it could save me. She was soaked and shivering, tethered and trusting, and every inch of her begged to be ruined with care.
She whimpered, head bowed, breath snagging on the edge of restraint. I leaned in—not touching, just close enough to let my breath ghost over her temple. The heat of it made her shiver.
“You don’t want to run,” I murmured, breath catching on the truth. “You just want to feel.”
Her head dipped in a slow, helpless nod. “Yes.”
One word. Barely voiced. But it detonated inside me. My hand traced up her side, slow and reverent, thumb grazing just below the rope cinched around her ribs. Her skin was slick with heat, electric with tension. My control stayed focused, exact, but fuck, it was a miracle I wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t just reactive. She was voltage personified.
“Good girl,” I said, darker now, and watched her melt.
It was in the trembling of her knees. In her breath. In the quiet tilt of her head. That unspoken submission, offered without command, landed like a prayer. My cock pulsed, sharp and savage, but I didn’t chase relief. I finished the final wrap and slid my palm over the curve of her ass. Not to tease. Not yet. Just to anchor. To claim.
She was art now. Legs bound. Chest open. Pulse fluttering. Every rope was a line of praise. She knelt in perfect stillness, and I matched her quiet, breath for breath, until the only motion between us was the hum of need. When I reached for the next coil, my fingers shook, not with hunger, but with reverence.
I stood slowly, keeping one hand on her shoulder, grounding her as I rose. No words. No noise. She was already halfway to subspace, her breath a slow litany of surrender. And that trust steadied me. It moved through my spine like gravity, anchoring every motion in something deeper than control.
The suspension rig hung above the bed, bolted into the ceiling beam months ago. I hadn’t installed it for play. I’d installed it out of necessity, without knowing then it would be for her. But some part of me must have. Even before I touched her, I knew what kind of weight she’d carry, and what kind of frame she’d need to hold it.
I reached for the first suspension line and clipped it into the center of herShinju. The rope felt alive in my grip, dense, obedient, and humming with intent. When the carabiner locked into the harness at her sternum, the sound echoed between us like a bell. Low. Resonant. Ceremonial. A sound made for submission.
I drew the slack slowly. Nothing rushed. With every inch, the line gave her lift, her chest rising, posture opening, shoulders rolling back as if her body had been waiting for this ache to return. Her ribs pushed into the rope as if it were the only thingholding her together. Maybe it was. Her fingers twitched. Chin lifted. Throat bared. But her breath stayed even. She was made of tension, like a violin string just shy of snapping.
Suspension wasn’t chaos. It was calculus. Every knot held a purpose. Every cinch created balance. Every angle demanded faith. And she’d given me all of it.
I moved to her hips, threading the lines through the bands behind her thighs. The double dragons had shaped her already—knees bent, thighs spread, spine curved like an offering. Now it was time to lift her.
I raised her slowly. Hips first. Letting the rope take her weight so her muscles didn’t have to. Her knees rose from the mat, and with them, the air changed. She didn’t resist. She rose, quiet and sure, like her body had always known it was meant for this.
When her thighs floated, I adjusted her hips just above her sternum. Not by much, just enough to tilt her into torsion. Her spine curved like punctuation, and the sight of her knocked the breath from my lungs.
