Page 105 of Reckless: Corruption

“No coming without permission,” I recite, the familiar restrictions grounding in their clarity. “No breaking position without direct order. No holding back sounds.”

“Very good.” His approval washes over me like physical touch. “And?”

“I use my safe word if anything becomes too much,” I complete, acknowledging the ultimate boundary that exists even in our deepest play. “Physical, emotional, or psychological.”

“Perfect.” He rewards the correct response by finally—finally—touching me with intent, hands mapping my chest with proprietary satisfaction. “Now lie still and take what I give you.”

What follows is a fucking religious experience in controlled torment. Heat fever’s practically radiating off Theo in waves, but he never surrenders to it—instead he channels all that biological chaos into turning me into his personal art project. His teeth find my skin with surgical precision, each bite a deliberate claim—connect-the-dots of pain and pleasure that map a constellation of ownership across my chest, my shoulders, that sweet spot where neck meets collarbone that makes my toes curl like I’m being electrocuted.

His mouth blazes southward like a forest fire, stopping to turn my nipples into hypersensitive torture points until I’m making sounds I’ll definitely deny later. His nails follow the path his teeth started, raising scarlet lines that crisscross with the flogging marks, transforming my skin into his living canvas. This is Theo in his element—creating art with pain and pleasure like they’re just different shades in his palette.

Meanwhile, his scent’s going nuclear—that dark vanilla morphing into something that smells like sin and midnight and sex, the jasmine notes turning headier than any drug I’ve ever sampled. Slick darkens his pants where he straddles me, biology betraying his iron control. He’s fighting a losing battle against his heat, but goddamn if he isn’t making the surrender look like victory.

When he finally strips down, I swear my brain short-circuits like someone poured water on a circuit board. Theo’s always beautiful—that’s just objective reality—but Theo in heat is fucking devastating. Skin flushed pink and gleaming with sweat,cock hard and leaking against the tattoos on his stomach, thighs literally shining with slick that catches the light every time he moves. Poetry in motion, if poetry could give you an erection that could cut diamonds.

“Stay still,” he warns as he positions himself over me, one hand holding my cock steady as he begins to lower himself with agonizing slowness. His slick soaking the sheets and my cock.

The first touch of his body to mine nearly blows the top of my head off—heat and pressure and slick tightness that makes my vision blur at the edges like a bad acid trip. He takes me inch by careful inch, his heat-ready body accepting me easily despite the significant size difference between us. When he finally settles fully, my cock buried to the hilt inside him, we both release shuddering breaths like we’ve been underwater.

“Mine,” he says again, voice rougher now but no less commanding. “Mine to use. Mine to control.”

“Yours,” I agree, the word barely recognizable through the haze of pleasure that’s turning my brain to mush.

He begins to move with deliberate precision, rising and falling with the same fluid grace he brings to everything. Each movement is calculated for his pleasure rather than mine, using my body as a tool for his satisfaction like I’m just his favorite sex toy with a pulse. The position forces me to remain passive—to accept his pace, his rhythm, his complete control over our connection.

“You don’t come until I permit it,” he reminds me, voice steady despite the flush spreading across his chest, the sweat gleaming on his skin. “Not until I’ve taken what I need.”

The dual sensation of being physically dominant while psychologically submissive creates an exquisite mindfuck that pushes me toward the edges of control. Each time he rises and falls, taking me deeper into his heat-slick body, the need to thrust up—to take control of the rhythm—grows stronger. Butthe ropes around my wrists and the command in his eyes hold me in place, surrendering to his pace, his pleasure, his absolute dominance.

I feel my knot beginning to swell at the base of my cock, the biological response to his heat as automatic as breathing. Each time he drops down, he takes a little more of it, stretching himself further around the growing bulge. The sensation is maddening—pressure and release, pressure and release, never quite enough to satisfy the primal need to lock together.

“Please,” I finally gasp, the word forced from me as he grinds down with deliberate cruelty, stimulating himself on my cock without allowing the friction I desperately need. “Sir, please?—”

“Not yet,” he denies, voice still infuriatingly composed despite the heat flush painting his skin, the slick evidence of his need coating my thighs like warm honey. “I’m not done with you.”

The denial should frustrate. Instead, it sends me deeper into submission, into the space where my chaotic energy finally finds peace through absolute surrender to his will. My world narrows to just this—the sensation of his body around mine, the weight of his commands, the desperate need to please him despite my own physical demands.

His movements grow more deliberate, more focused, as he chases his own pleasure. One hand braces against my chest while the other works his cock in time with his riding. The pressure of his body increases as he takes my knot deeper with each downward motion, the tight ring of muscle stretching to accommodate the growing swell until I’m seeing stars behind my eyelids.

When he finally—finally—allows his own orgasm to overtake him, the sight is glorious enough to make my heart stutter like a failing engine. His head falls back, exposing the elegant line of his throat as pleasure transforms his features. His body tightensaround mine in rhythmic pulses, his release painting my chest in pearlescent streaks that seem deliberately placed despite being biologically driven.

With a final, decisive movement, he drops down fully, taking my entire knot inside him. The pressure sends stars exploding behind my eyes as his body locks around me, creating the perfect seal that biology demands. Theo in full artistic flow is breathtaking; Theo in heat, taking my knot with deliberate precision, is a religious fucking experience.

“Now,” he commands, voice rough with satisfaction. “Come for me, Jinx.”

Permission granted, my body responds instantly—release crashing through me with enough force to arch my back off the bed despite my bonds. The sensation is almost overwhelming, blurring the edges of consciousness as pleasure and submission and service all merge into a single perfect moment of fulfillment.

As our breathing slowly returns to normal, Theo maintains his dominant position—still straddling my thighs, still connected by my knot, still in control despite the biological satisfaction evident in his relaxed posture. With methodical care, he begins untying my wrists, checking circulation and skin condition with the same focused attention he brings to every aspect of aftercare.

“Good?” he asks, the single word carrying multiple layers of meaning.

“Fucking transcendent,” I assure him, no room for my usual irreverence in this vulnerable space between us. “You?”

“Better.” He massages feeling back into my wrists with gentle efficiency. “The spike is receding. The suppressants seem to be reasserting control.”

I study him with critical assessment, noting the reduced flush, the steadier hands, the clearer eyes. “How long do you think they’ll hold this time?”

“Not long enough,” he admits, the rare vulnerability touching something protective in my chest. “A day, maybe two if I’m lucky.”

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