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“Tell me if anything’s wrong.” Two fingers slide between leather and skin to check the fit. He does the same with the left, then crouches and does my ankles, spreading my stance just enough that I feel the pull, the way the cross opens me up. My arms stretched into a Y above my head.
He steps back.
His chest moves slow. His hands curl at his sides like he’s keeping them from shaking. His eyes travel from my fingers to my throat to my breasts to my hips to my pussy where I can feel the air hitting my wetness, and back up to my face.
“You’re fucking beautiful like this, Dakota.”
I test the cuffs. Pull against them. They don’t give. My heart kicks, not from fear, but from excitement. The cuffs hold, and the world doesn’t end. I’m spread open and helpless, and Dante’s looking at me like I’m a goddamn sunrise.
“How’s it feel?” he asks quietly.
“Safe.” The word surprises me. “It feels safe.”
His throat works. He cups my jaw.
“That’s because you are.”
He kisses me. Soft first, then deeper, his tongue tasting mine until I’m pulling against the cuffs to get closer and finding I can’t, and that helplessness sends a shock of heat straight down my spine.
He pulls back and watches my face. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That look of surrender.” His mouth moves down my throat. My collarbone. The slope of my breast. He takes a nipple between his lips, and my back arches off the wood, and a sound comes out of me that I don’t recognize.
He doesn’t rush.
This man learns me. He runs his hands along every inch I have—the inside of my elbow, the underside of my breast, the dip of my waist, the soft skin of my inner thigh. He bites once, gentle, at the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, and I gasp, and he soothes the sting with his tongue.
When his fingers finally find their way between my legs, I’m already so wet that his hand glides without resistance, and he groans against my throat.
“Christ, baby. You’re fucking soaked.”
“Dante,” I moan.
“I got you.”
He uses two fingers, slow and deep, while his thumb circles my clit in patterns that make my hips chase him. He watches my face the whole time, reading every micro-expression, every hitchin my breath. The pleasure builds steadily, a warm tide rising through my body.
When I’m close, so close I can feel it building like a wave gathering strength at my back, he slows. His fingers gentler, his thumb lifting just enough to back me down from the edge. Lets it ebb.
“No,” I breathe, hips rolling forward seeking the pressure he’s withdrawn.
“Yes. Not yet, baby.”
He starts again. Builds me back up with patient, deliberate strokes. His fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes my vision blur. His thumb returns to my clit with more pressure now, circling in tight, maddening patterns. The wave builds higher this time, cresting faster.
Right when I’m about to break, he stops again. Pulls back. Holds me there suspended at the precipice.
A sound escapes me, frustration and need mixed together.
“Again?” My voice cracks.
“Again.”
The third time, he takes me higher than before. His fingers work deeper, faster, his thumb relentless on my clit. My whole body is drawn tight, every muscle tensed toward release. I’m whimpering, making sounds I don’t recognize, my hips chasing his hand desperately.
He lets me get so close I can taste it, and then stops.
My legs are shaking violently against the restraints now. There’s wetness on my cheeks I didn’t notice falling. I’m wound so tight I might shatter from the need alone.
“Please.” It comes out broken, desperate.
