Page 242 of Fractured Loyalties
My pulse kicks hard. I give him the truth he’s trained out of me, one confession at a time. “I want to be held down. I want you to set the rules. I want to stop thinking about anyone but you.”
His eyes sharpen. “Color.”
“Green.”
“Good girl.” His knuckles slide along my jaw. “Turn around.”
I do. He gathers my wrists behind my back, not harsh, not kind, exactly measured. The belt from his trousers hangs on the chair beside the dresser from earlier; he threads the leather through my wrists and cinches until the restraint reads as permanent in my nerves. My lungs drag in air that tastes like him. Clean skin. Steel. The faint bite of soap that couldn’t erase the day he brought home.
“Testing,” he says.
I tug. The belt holds. The hum under my skin turns into a climb.
“Too tight?”
“No.”
He guides me to the foot of the bed and bends me forward over the mattress, cheek to the cover, hips angled for his hands. The position steals the last of my pride and replaces it with need. I can hear Lydia’s soft shoes in the hall, then nothing but him.
“Count,” he says.
“For what?”
“For control.” His palm comes down, firm, precise, not a strike for pain but for place. “One.”
The sound inks through me. My voice answers on instinct. “One.”
Again. “Two.”
Heat spreads. My skin sings and settles at the same time. The numbers become a path I can walk with my eyes closed. By five, my throat is tight with wanting. By six, my spine curves for his hand and not away from it. He strokes the marked skin after the sixth and the praise lands where my shame used to live.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “My focus.”
I blink hard. “I’m here.”
“Look at the wall. Stay with me.”
I hold the line he sets. When his fingers slide lower, not inside, just a promise, my knees almost give. He makes a satisfied sound that spears straight through control.
“Ask for it,” he says.
“Please.”
“Please what.”
“Please touch me.”
“That’s vague.”
I grit my teeth. My face burns. “Please touch me where I can’t think. Please make me forget everyone but you.”
His hand closes on my hips. He lifts me, sets me on the mattress on my side, then drags me back until my spine aligns with his chest. The belt bites when I move. He kisses the place behind my ear that makes my thoughts blur. His other hand slides to my throat, not squeezing, just cradling the column like a reminder of who anchors me.
“My rules,” he says. “You follow. You don’t chase. You let me take you there.”
“I’ll try.”
“You won’t try. You’ll obey.” A pause. “Color.”
