Page 44 of The Puppet Master
Sawyer’s arm releases. Air springs into my lungs so viciously I choke on it, hacking through each frantic exhale.
His presence leaves, but I don’t think to move. I’m too struck—to run, to question where he went, what he’s doing…
Mistake.
A polyester strap drops over my head and tightens like a noose. It fastens me to the pole. I grasp the material, my breath cutting off mid gasp as it squeezes.
“You can think of this like a seatbelt. If you move, it’ll tighten. Already, you’re suffocating yourself.” Sawyer’s warm breath ghosts the tender lobe of my ear. The quiet of his voice is a sharp contrast to the panicked ringing behind my eyes. “I’m going to loosen it, but only this once. After that, it’s up to you whether or not you breathe. Understood?”
I kick the pole while yanking at the belt, but Sawyer’s right. It only gets worse. I’m only certain he isn’t pulling it himself when he steps in front of me, his hands resting at his sides.
“Is that understood, Luna?” He sounds so innocent. So level. Like this really is my fault.
My nod tightens the strap. Polyester digs into my flesh, already rubbing my skin raw.
His chin bobs with a curt nod. “Good.”
My eyes squeeze shut as he steps around me and loosens the belt. The moment there’s slack, I drag in a harsh, almost painful breath. My neck arches, back sliding up the pole as I rise onto my toes—like someone drowning, mouth straining toward the surface.
“Ready to try again?”
“No.” I shake my head before remembering what it’ll do. He must be holding the choker in place because it doesn’t tighten. Not yet.
I flatten myself against the pole—body going rigid—and still for a game I never agreed to play. “Sawyer, please. You made your point.”
“This isn’t about proving a point.” He adjusts the belt so it’s snug then comes around to stand in front of me.
When his hand lifts, I flinch—a mistake I pay for with a quarter sized shrink in the polyester. I draw in huge gusts of air just to make sure my lungs still work.
They do.
Minimal friction.
Thank God.
Sawyer’s knuckles skim my jawline with a caress so unwarranted, it pulls a pathetic whine from my chest.
“This is about you learning to accept physical touch while feeling discomfort.”
His knuckles travel lower, his first two fingers cutting a slow path through the valley of my breasts before finding the hem of my sweater.
He gives a little tug … why? Testing me? Announcing himself before he commits his next sin?
“Does this normally work for you?” I ask, ignoring the warmth of his hand crawling beneath my sweater.
He smiles—sadistic—as his knuckle lightly carves a four inch path on my waistline; a cruel back and forth just above the button on my jeans. Suggestive. Taunting. Aninvitationfor me to cinch his wrist and choke myself with the movement…
Now I realize why he didn’t tie my hands.
“Like a charm.”
I open my eyes when he pulls away abruptly, back to me as he walks to the workbench. I sigh—relieved, stupid.
My palms plant on the cool padding by my hips while my breaths even.Deep…Slow…
This is fine.
I’m fine.
