Page 2 of Beckoning Liam

For a moment, Liam considered his next step. Then, with the weight of his past an anchor he wanted to release, he met Fitz's gaze and answered with a nod.

"I am."

Becks

Later that evening, at the exclusive lifestyle club known as Baker Street, the dim light of the private room cast flickering shadows on the walls. The shadows danced like the silence of secrets yet untold. Dr. Rebecca Ashworth—Becks to those who knew her—stood with her arms outstretched, bound to the St. Andrew's Cross. Anticipation thrummed through her veins as much as it did through the pulsing beat of the music that filled the space.

"Ready?" a deep voice with an Irish accent resonated from behind her, a voice she didn't recognize—just as she had requested.

"Yes, Sir," Becks replied in an aristocratic British accent, her tone steady despite the accelerating drum of her heart. She wanted this, needed the release that came from the dance of leather against skin. The anonymity of her Dom added an edge of excitement and yet safeguarded her own.

The first impact came without warning, a thud reverberating through her flesh, echoing in her bones. Her body sagged into the embrace of the cross, yielding to the rhythm that started building, each strike a note in the music only they could hear.

Thud—thud—thud, the sound blended with the music, a dark cadence that matched the complicated melody of her own desires. With every hit, her world narrowed down to sensation and sound, the flogger an instrument played by a master musician.

The Dom moved with a fluid grace, wielding two floggers—one in each powerful hand. He choreographed his strikes with the music, the tempo dictating the pace. His wrists flicked withprecision, the falls of the floggers painting strokes of fire across the canvas of her skin.

"Feel the music," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the crescendo of the falls. "Let it consume you."

She found herself swaying slightly, her breath syncing with the pulse of the song, the push and pull of the floggers guiding her into a trance-like state. It was a dance, and she surrendered to the lead of her anonymous partner, trusting in the ebb and flow of controlled intensity.

Suddenly, the floggers stilled, and a large palm caressed her heated back gently, a stark contrast to the previous assault. She shivered at the touch, the sudden cessation of movement leaving her adrift in a sea of sensation.

"Your submission is exquisite," he said, his breath warm against her ear as he leaned close, the timbre of his voice wrapped in mystery.

His hand cupped the nape of her neck, fingers splayed wide, possessive and reassuring. She couldn't really see him, but she felt his presence enveloping her, a force as compelling as the gravity that kept her grounded even as her mind floated free.

"Thank you, Sir," she breathed out, her voice laced with the vulnerability that came from standing at the precipice between pain and pleasure.

"Trust me to take you further," he stated, more command than request, a challenge that beckoned her to the edges of her limits.

"I would like that, Sir. I need it," she said softly, the words slipping from her lips like a sacred vow. In this space, with this man, Becks found an echo of the belonging she craved, the intricate puzzle of her existence finding a piece that fit just so, even if only for the duration of a scene.

The silence stretched taut between them, charged with unspoken understanding, before the music reclaimed its hold, and the dance resumed.

The Dom retreated with an unspoken promise of escalation, and the air seemed to thicken with anticipation. Becks waited, her breath held in the calm where her mind floated, the tender ache on her skin bearing the marks of the deerskin flogger’s touch. The St. Andrew’s Cross held her upright, her body open and receptive to whatever the Dom chose to bestow upon her next.

He returned, not with the thudding harmony of leather, but with an implement that held secrets of tactile contradiction: vampire glove. Its appearance might be mundane, yet its purpose was sinister in its gentle torment. The black fur, soft as midnight shadows, brushed against her sensitized flesh, painting strokes of paradoxical pleasure.

"Feel," he commanded, his voice a velvet darkness that curled around her senses.

The glove glided over her back, a feather-light touch that belied the potential for sharpness beneath. Becks leaned into it, a sigh escaping her lips, a sound that was both release and invitation. She shivered, the sensation rippling through her like the prelude to a storm, her body trembling with a moan that was akin to a melody only she and the Dom could hear.

He paused, allowing the moment to swell and saturate the room. With precision born of experience, he placed the glove aside and selected another tool from his arsenal. A flogger with a darker intent—the leather pure and unyielding, the knots promising a sharper dialogue between Dom and sub.

"This will be different," he warned, his tone threading the line between caution and thrill.

"Please, Sir," she responded, her voice a blend of trepidation and yearning.

The air shifted as the Dom prepared, his movements deliberate, an artist selecting the perfect brush stroke for his canvas. The first strike was a declaration, a stinging kiss against her skin that sent a jolt of pain laced with pleasure coursing through her veins.

He paused for a moment, waiting for her to tell him to stop. When she said nothing and merely nodded her head, the reassuring rhythm resumed. The Dom’s command over the flogger as innate as his breathing, each impact a note in the symphony of their scene. The strikes were metronomic, precise, a language spoken in the lexicon of sensation. And Becks, bound to the cross, became the willing instrument on which he played his rhapsody of dominance and submission.

The next lash ignited Becks' nerves with an acute clarity that bordered on transcendental. Her entire body tensed, muscles coiled like springs, yet she held back a cry, permitting only a long, shuddering breath to escape. The air in her lungs tumbled out as her head bowed forward, an unspoken gesture of submission to the pain, to the Dom, to the cathartic release he orchestrated.

"Let go," his voice was soft but commanding, a gentle push for her to surrender to the intricate ballet of the psyche, a communion of souls through shared intensity.

And she did. With each subsequent strike—a rhythmic cadence of thuds against the supple canvas of her flesh—Becks melted further into the experience. Her shoulders, once rigid, now rolled with each impact; her ass, once braced, now swayed to meet the leather's bite; her hamstrings, once knotted, now relaxed into the embrace of each controlled strike. The Dom was fluent in the language of her body, a skill that as a translator and linguist she could easily respect.

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