Page 47 of Windlass

Slowly she dragged Angie’s arms up until they were level with her head, then above it. A crosstie hung there, the cotton rope resting loosely as it waited for a horse. Her mind made the joke automatically: she could give it something else she wanted to ride. But the idea lodged in her throat. Of course, she’d fantasized about binding Angie. Fantasy was very different from reality, however.

Besides, it was probably too soon. Maybe she should wait, beginning slowly, teasing Angie into desperation—unless waiting gave Angie time to reconsider.

She wished she could just ask,How do I keep you? Caution, or the leap?

Angie whined under her breath. An instinct Stevie didn’t have a name for lunged for the reins, shoving the more cautious side of her to the ground. Locking eyes with Angie, Stevie brought both Angie’s hands to bear beneath her left in order to free her right, which grabbed the rope.

Angie was gorgeous, lost in lust like this. Stevie wasn’t sure she’d ever have a coherent thought again, not with this image imprinted on her memory.

Binding Angie’s hands was a matter of a few loops and a quick-release knot, which Angie could easily get out of if she wanted. “Quick release okay?”

Angie panted and nodded.

She could not see Angie’s pupils in the dusk, but she heard her breathing go ragged and the soft whine at the edges.

Stevie wanted to swear. Her whole body shook with the effort of restraint, with the effort of not ripping off Angie’s shirt, of not sliding her pants over her glorious hips and kissing her way down until she could take Angie in her mouth and end them both. Would that really be such a bad idea? It seemed worth the risks right now.

She slid her hands beneath Angie’s shirt, this time unable to suppress a groan of her own. Angie’s skin was sofuckingsoft. Her thumbs traced the scars along her belt line, evidence of a past Stevie wished she could undo, and dug into the hollow of her hips. Angie’s knees softened. She fell slack, her breath catching on a whimper, only the binding holding her up.

Stevie traced a line up Angie’s spine next, her other hand curled around Angie’s belt buckle and pulling her toward her as she lightly counted the vertebrae, barely touching her skin. She was rewarded by Angie’s shudder. She twisted the belt as she whispered her fingers across the small of Angie’s back, drawing quick, tight circles and lazy spirals while Angie writhed, lower lip between her teeth, arms straining against the rope.

“Careful,” Angie said, her voice breathless and high, “or you’ll make me come.”

A phrase that absolutely murdered her.

“I’m not even touching you.”

“You don’t need to.” A sharp inhale finished Angie’s sentence as Stevie tugged upward on her belt, aware of the friction this created against Angie’s clit. “Stevie—”

She slid her palm up Angie’s back, this time allowing herself the luxury of contact. Angie’s muscles contracted beneath her touch.

So little separated their lips. She’d intended, in a half-formed mockery of a plan, to leave Angie tied like this and walk away, just as she’d left her in the living room. Angie could get herself out of the binding easily. By the time this happened, however, Stevie could be safely someplace else, away from temptation.

That ship, as they said, had sailed. Instinct obliterated fear.

She jerked Angie’s belt, bringing them together nearly hard enough to bruise her hand. Angie needed to wear belts more often, even if leggings showed off her ass. The little gasp she made each time Stevie jerked her was narcotic. If she kissed her now—

Angie used the crosstie to leverage herself into the air and wrap her legs around Stevie’s waist.

Stevie had been going to do something. She’d had a plan. She’d been . . . she didn’t know what she’d been. Angie’s legs around her waist grounded her fully in her body. Desire filled her up to her pores. There was no room left over for thought, only the certainty that they’d always been going to end up here no matter how hard Stevie tried. She was done with denial. Pushing Angie up against the beam was the only option. She didn’t care that this crushed her other hand. There was still enough room for her to rip it out, splinters be damned, and tangle it in the hair at the nape of Angie’s neck.

Angie pushed against her with her hips. Stevie pushed back, pressing their foreheads together, watching, transfixed, as Angie bit back a scream.

Thiswas what she’d wanted.Thiswas what she’d been missing her whole life. Angie’s thighs trembled as they squeezed Stevie tight enough to bruise. She hoped it did. She ground Angie against the beam, the trembling in her wrapped legs turning into a full body shudder. The hand not wrapped in Angie’s soft waves stroked her ass—clawed really, no artistry, just need. She slid both hands down Angie’s thighs, abandoning her hair for the thrill of ravaging those curves. The way Angie filled her hands was pure decadence.

Her lips were right there. God, Stevie wanted to kiss her.

Not yet. Not like this.

She didn’t know where the thought had come from or how it had snuck its way in. Holding it still enough to process was difficult with Angie pulling herself with the rope, arching her back, breasts rising to the level of Stevie’s face. She nipped one through Angie’s shirt.

If she kissed Angie, that would be it.

She’d take her to bed. They’d fuck all night, and it would be heaven, and in the morning . . . in the morning Angie would slip out of the room before Stevie woke up, and nothing in her life could ever hurt like the possibility of Angie leaving. Better not to have ever had her at all.

But she wanted to have her. So badly. Lust was the smallest fraction of that wild longing. She needed to melt every particle between them until they lay atom to atom. She pinned Angie hard against the wood. Her forehead now leaned against Angie’s collarbone, and her lips grazed the plunge of cleavage.

“Stevie—”

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