Page 13 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

My legs barely work, but I rise—still trembling, lips swollen, his taste thick on my tongue.

He follows.

Slow. Controlled. Like he already knows exactly what he's going to do to me—and he's savoring every second before he makes good on every filthy word he's promised.

I back toward the bed, heart pounding, thighs slick. My dress is still bunched around my hips, everything about me wrecked and wanting.

He doesn't tell me to fix it.

Instead, he stops a few feet away, eyes dragging over every inch of me.

"Take it off," he says. Quiet. Commanding. Like fact.

I freeze.

Not because I don't want to obey.

Because the way he says it makes my knees weak.

His voice drops lower. "All of it."

My breath catches. Heat floods between my legs.

I reach for the zipper, hands shaking. Slide the dress down my body inch by inch, watching the hunger build in his eyes as each new strip of skin is revealed.

Bra next. Then panties.

By the time I'm bare, standing at the foot of his bed, I can feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.

He steps forward, one hand grazing my hip, the other curling around my wrist.

"Now," he murmurs, "lie back. Arms up."

He pulls rope from the chest at the foot of the bed—like it was already waiting. Like he knew this would happen.

He probably did.

He binds me fast, wrists secured to the rings at the headboard. The rope is smooth, tight, perfect—like he's done this before. Like he's an expert at tying up women and pulling every last scream from their throats.

"You have no idea what you've asked for," he murmurs, working the knots precisely, like a man about to destroy a thing he treasures.

The rope bites deliciously into my wrists, bound tight above my head. My legs are spread, restrained against the posts. I'm completely exposed. Helpless.

And he hasn't even touched me yet.

Lucas starts slowly.

Not gentle. Not hurried.

He teases. Nips. Licks.

"Already dripping," he murmurs against the inside of my thigh. "And I haven't even told you to beg yet."

Then he does. His tongue. His fingers. The low rasp of his voice commanding me to say what I want, to own it.

"You like being tied up like this?" His thumb circles my clit—barely there, maddening. "Like being spread for me… knowing you can't stop me?"

I writhe. Arch. Moan.

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