Page 72 of Fearless

But he laughs when I try to close my legs. And when I throw him a panicked stare, he slides the same hand he just had inside me over the front of my throat. Instantly, I grab his wrist in both hands. It’s like holding onto a steel pole, especially when he flexes his fingers.

“I didn’t say I was done with you,” he rumbles out, giving a rueful shake of his head. “You leave when I’m satisfied.”

My body goes tight. “Let me go,” I say through a soft, forced laugh. “Please.”

“So glad you’re finally playing by the rules,” he says. He moves up on the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of my chest. When he leans over me, his crotch is right by my face. I turn away, but that just means I get to watch while he slips my wrists into the leather cuffs and buckles them tight.

Until he’s satisfied?

My eyes crawl back to the bulge in the front of his pants. When I glance up, I see him staring down at me as if he’s come to the same conclusion. But instead of easing out his cock and forcing it between my lips, he sinks his fingers into my hair and smooths his hands down my face.

“Not until I’m sure you won’t bite it clean off,” he says, more to himself than to me.

He slides off the side of the bed.

He’s leaving?

I rattle my restraints, trying to see if he left enough give for me to squeeze my hands out of the cuffs.

He slaps the side of the bed so hard I almost pee myself. “What was rule number one?” he barks.

“I don’t fucking remember!” I blurt out before my brain’s caught on.

Shit.

That…wasn’t the right answer.

He moves down to the foot of the bed, leans over, and grabs my ankle. A second later, despite how I kick and tug, he has it secured in the ankle cuff.

“Cillian, no. Please. I’m sorry!”

He stalks to the other side of the bed without as much as a glance at me.

My mind works overtime trying to remember the rules. I blurt them out. “It’s…no fighting! No running! No escaping!”

I could be shouting at a wall. When I draw my leg up close to my butt so he can’t grab it, he holds out his hand and looks up at me.

And then I nearly do wet myself, because the look in his eyes could strike down something small and fluffy at sixty yards.

Something like me.

Ever so slowly, utterly reluctantly, I give him my foot.

And yelp when he snatches it.

Then I’m spread-eagled, the two halves of his dark dress shirt not doing anything in the way of retaining my modesty. There’s enough give on the ankle cuffs that I can raise my knees a few inches off the bed, but that’s it. Not enough to build any kind of momentum capable of hurting him if I tried to kick him in the groin.

Cillian unbuttons his shirt.

It drops to the floor by his foot with a soft sound. Silence reigns for a moment, until he unbuckles his belt.

And then I can barely hear anything over the sound of my own frantic panting.

“No. Cillian.” I moan, glancing up at my bound hands, and then down at my feet, somehow expecting that a miracle happened between then and now and I’m suddenly free again.

“Please. I’m sorry, okay? Please, don’t do this.”

It makes no sense, me apologizing. It should be him, groveling at my feet. But that’s not how this works, is it?

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