Page 125 of Jax
“Balance is the key,” he murmured. “Even in agony, we find balance.”
I had no words. My grounded leg felt abandoned, the rest of my body already lifting. I ached for symmetry, for the next press of tension. When he clipped the rig, the rope above creaked, slow and sure, and then I was rising, first the bound leg, then the harness pulled tight from my sternum, each inch stealing breath. My spine arched. My toes left the floor.
Then there was nothing but air, and rope.
I hung suspended, tilted and trembling. One leg bent, the other stretched. Arms behind me. Chest exposed like an offering. My breath broke in ragged pulses, mouth open but empty. He wasn’t touching me, but I was still entirely his.
Jax stepped forward, slow and silent, until he stood before my shaking chest. I nearly sobbed.
“Gravity is cruel,” he said, dragging his knuckles between the ropes stretched across my ribs. “But I’m worse.”
I whimpered.
He cupped my jaw. “You good, wicked girl?”
“So fucking good,” I gasped, eyes stinging. “Please. Don’t stop.”
His thumb brushed my lower lip. “That is the one thing I will not do.” Then he moved to the rig, adjusted the suspension ring, and twisted me, hips one way, chest the other, until my whole body lit up in a scream of sensation. My shoulders stretched taut, ribs compressed, thigh spasming under the strain. Breath shattered. Heat bloomed like wildfire beneath my skin.
And he watched. Not idle. Not detached. Obsessed. His gaze burned over every inch of me, cataloging the rope, the tremble, the way my body clung to every cruel line of tension like it was holy.
Breathing turned vicious, every inhale a fight against the rope cinched around my chest, ribs, arms pinned, leg bound, body twisted midair like sculpture strung up in need. Each exhale made my nipples throb, hips twitching, every brush of jute a cruel tease over skin stretched and aching. I was soaked. Suspended. Starving. And he hadn’t even touched what throbbed hardest.
Jax circled slowly, not reverent, not kind, just deliberate denial wrapped in heat. He studied every twitch, traced every gasp, until I was no longer a woman, but a pure expression of rope-bound reaction and need. I was his. Nothing else.
When his hand finally dragged across my stomach, steady and slow, gliding from under my ribs to the waistband of my panties, it ignited every nerve like fire to fuse. I gasped, thighs jerking, core clenching around nothing. My hips chased the contact instinctively, but I couldn’t move. I was bound. Exposed. Already there.
And when he paused, just let his hand settle, heavy and certain, I nearly came from that alone.
“You’ve soaked through these,” he said, voice dark and calm and devastating. “Dripping like a good little rope slut who doesn’t even need her pussy touched to beg for it.”
My head fell back as a broken sound tore free, breathless and wrecked. I couldn’t answer him. Words were gone, carved away by a need so sharp it tasted like metal. He hadn’t even touched me properly, but slick already coated my thighs, every breath dragging heat across raw skin, every heartbeat tangling hunger and humiliation until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
He slid a finger beneath the waistband, eased the fabric aside with obscene care, and let cold air rush against soaked skin. I shivered, helpless.
“Goddamn,” he murmured, voice thick and reverent. “You’re fucking drenched.”
His fingers drifted over my folds, not inside, just a ghost of contact, enough to part me, enough to drag across every pulsing inch without pressure. Just a reminder of how bare I was. How little I had left to hide.
“You want it that bad, don’t you?” he asked, calm as sin, like he was offering coffee instead of the ruin I was begging for.
“Yes!” I gasped. “Fuck, yes. Please.”
He didn’t move. Just let his fingers hover at the edge of my slit, close enough to burn.
“You want my fingers in you?” His voice dropped, thick with cruelty. “Want me to fingerfuck you midair like the needy little cunt you are?”
This was a side of Jax he had not let me see before, and it set my entire body on fire. I whimpered. My head thrashed. My whole body bowed toward him, toward friction, toward mercy.
“Please,” I choked. “Jax, please….”
But he didn’t slide in.
He traced one slow circle around my clit, maddeningly light, just enough to spark nerves, not enough to feed the ache.
“You think you’ve earned that?” he asked, and the edge in his voice cut like glass. “You think just because you’re dripping and twitching and so fucking desperate, you deserve to cum?”
His fingers barely moved. A whisper. A threat. I sobbed, quiet, broken.
