Page 118 of Fractured Devotion
She just steps forward, holding a velvet scarf between her fingers, soft and controlled, like she’s offering a secret.
And all I can do is look at her without being able to look away.
She doesn’t speak. She just crosses the space between us, slow and measured, until she’s standing right in front of me.
I tilt my chin to meet Celeste’s gaze, her eyes glinting with a hunger that sets my blood ablaze.
Her fingers grip the hem of her oversized shirt and tug it over her head in one fluid motion, the fabric pooling on the floor next to the couch. She’s bare beneath—no bra, no pretense—just pale skin glowing in the dim lamplight, the hollows of her collarbones sharp as carved marble.
A scar traces beneath her ribs, jagged and intimate, and I ache to drag my teeth along it, to taste her secrets. But I don’t move. Not until she commands it.
“Sit back,” she says, her voice low, an invisible chain that binds me.
I obey, sinking deeper into the leather couch, the material creaking under my weight, cool against my heated skin. She climbs over me, claiming me like a queen ascending her throne, one knee pressing into the cushion on either side of my thighs.
Her hands brace on my shoulders—not to caress, but to pin, her nails biting into my skin through my shirt. The pressure is a warning, a promise.
“You don’t get to touch,” she murmurs, her breath hot against my jaw. My pulse spikes, a wild rhythm echoing in my chest. She leans closer, her lips grazing my ear, each word landing with weight. “You don’t get to speak. You don’t get to lead. Not tonight.”
Her hands move with purpose, retrieving the scarf from the armrest. She loops it around my wrists, her fingers deft and unyielding, binding them tightly behind me to the couch rail.
The velvet scarf bites into my skin, a sensual restraint that leaves me exposed, my arms locked, my body hers to command. I inhale sharply, the air catching in my throat, unsteady and raw.
“You think this is about sex?” she whispers, her voice a dark caress, her eyes searching mine for surrender.
I shake my head, my jaw tight, my cock already straining against my pants. She smiles, crooked and knowing, a predator’s smirk that makes my blood roar.
“Good,” she purrs, and then her mouth finds my throat, her teeth sinking in hard enough to bruise, to mark. The sharp sting sends a jolt straight to my groin, and I stifle a groan, my body taut with need. She drags her teeth down my neck with the certainty of a claim being laid, then kisses my collarbone with a roughness that’s not affection. It’s ownership, a claim etched into my flesh.
Her fingers slide down my chest, unbuttoning my shirt with agonizing slowness, her gaze locked on mine, watching every flicker of my reaction.
The fabric parts, exposing my skin to the cool air, and she doesn’t caress. She marks. Her nails rake down the center of my chest, leaving shallow, burning scratches that make me hiss. The pain is sharp and alive, and I crave more, my body arching toward her despite the restraints.
Without breaking eye contact, she reaches into her discarded shirt pocket on the couch, pulling out a small, gleaming scalpel. She holds it delicately between two fingers, its blade catching the light like a wicked promise. My heart stutters as she presses the tip just below my collarbone, the cold metal a kiss against my heated skin.
“You’ll flinch,” she says, her voice firm and commanding, “but you won’t ask me to stop, will you, Kade?”
I shake my head, my breath ragged, but she tilts her head, her eyes narrowing. “Words,” she demands, her tone a whip that cracks through the haze of my desire.
“No, I won’t stop you,” I rasp, my voice thick with submission. “I’m yours.”
Her lips curve, satisfied, and she drags the scalpel slowly, carving the first letter of her name into my skin. It’s not deep but just enough to burn, sting, and draw a single bead of blood that wells up like a dark offering.
She leans in, her tongue flicking out to lick it away, and the wet heat of her mouth against the wound makes my cock throb painfully hard in my pants. The sensation is exquisite, a blend of pain and devotion that has me trembling beneath her.
“You’re not in control tonight,” she says, her breath hot against my ear, her words sinking into my soul. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I choke out, but she shakes her head, her fingers tightening on the scalpel.
“No,” she corrects, her voice like a velvet leash. “You don’t speak unless I allow it.”
I nod, my jaw clenched, my body hers to command. She sets the scalpel aside on the couch, its glint a reminder of her power, and her hands move to my belt, unbuckling it like she’s savoring the opening of a gift she already owns.
Every movement is measured and ritualistic, as if she’s rewriting my existence with each touch. She tugs my pants down just enough, and my cock springs free, thick and flushed, aching for her. But she doesn’t touch it, not yet.
Instead, she retrieves a black satin blindfold from the couch cushion. I didn’t notice it when she came in, so it was probably hiding within the velvet scarf.
She leans over me, her breasts brushing my chest as she ties it around my eyes, plunging me into darkness.
