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“I do,” she said.
If she didn’t trust him she wouldn’t be here.
“I need you to trust me,” he said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I know what I am. And I know what you are. You’ve never done a damn thing wrong.” He moved to her, and she didn’t look at him as he gripped her chin and slid his thumb over her bottom lip. “You’re such a good girl. You always have been. Until me. I made you bad. And I made you mine. Anyone could trust you. But not me. I was in prison. I was a criminal. That’s who I was. That’s still in me. I need you to understand that.”
She nodded. “I do.”
“And I need you to trust me anyway. I need it.”
She felt compelled to look up at him. “I do,” she said.
He squeezed her chin. “Good.”
Then he reached down toward the bed and picked up the length of silk, wrapping it around his hand as he’d done with the belt earlier.
He took the silk and draped it around her neck, crossing it at the front, pressure on her throat sending a thrill through her body. And then he moved it down the length of her arms, wrapping it around her forearms and wrists in an intricate design that left her hands bound together. It was comfortable. Soft. Nothing about it was painful. And no part of her was afraid.
She was his, though. Wrapped up like a gift with a bow on the end.
Just for him.
“Lay down on the bed.”
“Of course.”
“Hands above your head.”
She obeyed. And as she did, lifting her hands up tightened the silk just a bit around her throat. Just that edge of danger. That little bit of a rush that she got with him.
It was easy to trust him. He didn’t need to do this, but he could. She would do whatever it took to prove that she trusted him. That she was his. Always.
She lay there, and he moved his mouth to her nipples, sucked them in deep. She gasped at the friction of his bristly jaw against her soft skin.
He kissed her. Everywhere. And then moved between her legs, taking one long stroke through her woman’s flesh with his tongue.
He consumed her, until she couldn’t breathe. Until she couldn’t speak. Until everything was him, and he was everything.
She reached down to grab him, but couldn’t quite because of the way her hands were tied.
“Above your head,” he ordered. And so she did.
It was like having his hands on her, even as he gripped her hips. On her throat, pinning her wrists. It was a way for him to keep control even while he concentrated on giving her pleasure.
And he did give her pleasure. Until she was sobbing with it. Mindless with it.
And then he gripped her hips, and positioned himself at the entrance to her body, thrust home.
She was lost in it. The wildness of it. Of him. The sound of their bare flesh meeting, the hoarse, animalistic cries they made.
She had never had shame with him. And she knew that she never would.
And it wasn’t enough.
Somehow this wasn’t enough.
Pleasure began to build within her, building, to a peak. The very top point of a wave. And she knew that it had to break. Because that was how all things in nature worked.
There was an end.
