Page 71 of Knife Volume 2

He stayed inside her for a moment, then kissed her shoulder.

“You may use the bathroom, then brush your teeth and hair, and come to the kitchen. You’ll want your hair in a ponytail.”

He jammed the plug back into her ass, untied her, and left.

She didn’t dally in the bathroom, and he was organizing breakfast when she made it downstairs.

“On the island, on your knees,” he said, nodding toward it.

He didn’t help her up this time, but she jumped up to sit on the side, and then scooted to the center and went to her knees.

“Same position as yesterday morning. No ropes. Figure it out.”

Her stomach tightened, but she slid her right leg back, reached up and back, and then fought to grab her ankle.

She couldn’t quite make it, and had to twist to grab her ankle with just her right hand, and lift her leg enough with her arm muscles so she could reach it with her left.

It pulled her spine into the same brutal arch, but worse. She’d had several inches between her wrists and ankles the day before.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

His voice altered to more of a command than a conversation. “Stay.”

Then he started cooking.

The position was hell without the ropes to help hold her. Her thigh burned. Her hip screamed. Her abs and lower back trembled with the effort of maintaining the extreme arch.

Every time her muscles started to fail and she sagged, dread and shame flooded through her. She had to force herself back into position, gripping her ankle tighter, breathing through the shaking and the deepening ache.

“You don’t have permission to come,” he reminded her calmly while he chopped mushrooms. “Same rules apply until four o’clock this afternoon.”

That might’ve meant something if she knew what time it was. Based on the daylight, it was clearly well into morning. At least eight, maybe as late as ten, but she didn’t think so.

He didn’t ignore her while he cooked — he kept fucking edging her.

His fingers would slide between her legs, rubbing her swollen clit in slow, perfect circles, dipping into her pussy, occasionally tugging on the plug in her ass. He brought her right to the edge again and again, until she was shaking and whimpering, only to stop the moment she got too close.

He minced garlic and set it to boiling, and she had no idea what he was doing with it.

He seared every side of a roast before placing it in the slow cooker. Peeled onions and potatoes, rough-cut them, and added them along with carrots and mushrooms. She scented the savory spices for a roast, and then he got started on breakfast. He made pancakes, scrambled mushrooms and onions into eggs, and — of course — he seared and grilled steaks.

And through it all, her leg muscles burned, her thighs and core trembled, and her arms hurt more than anything else while her devastating, denied need pulsed between her legs.

She was so close to breaking, so close to begging for mercy, but she held the position.

Because he’d told her to.

He plated the food and jumped up to sit on the island just in front of and beside her. “You may let go of your leg and straighten your spine. Right leg goes straight behind you with your knee bent, so the foot is in the air.”

When she complied, he said, “Excellent. Grab your elbows behind your back.”

She obeyed instantly, locking her hands behind her.

And then opened her mouth to accept the first bite of steak, offered with his fingers.

The garlic water was still in the small saucepan, the heat off. He’d never used it, and she desperately wanted to ask what it was for, but he hadn’t given her permission to speak.

Breakfast was heavenly, and the whole milk offered right after the pancake with maple syrup exactly hit the spot.