Page 107 of Jax
“You’re trembling.”
“I know,” she whispered. “It’s not bad. It’s—everything.”
I rose slowly and stepped into the space she left open for me. The rope across her chest nearly brushed mine, and heat radiated off her in steady waves. Her breath was shallow but controlled, and her eyes never left mine. I reached out and traced the rope under her breasts, slow and deliberate. The touch wasn’t about possession. It was about reverence. Her whimper slipped free, soft and needy. Her hips edged forward, but I could feel the restraint in her. She was holding herself still with nothing but willpower. That was the gift. Not the sound, not the movement, but the self-control she offered me without flinching.
“This is what restraint feels like,” I murmured, voice pitched low. “Not punishment. Intention. Purpose.”
She trembled harder, from the unbearable beauty of tension. Her jaw had gone slack, her lips parted, every line of her vibrated with effort as she stood there on one leg. But she didn’t break. Her gaze stayed locked on mine, full of something quiet and defiant.Look what I’m giving you. Look how I stay.
I reached for the final coil of jute and unhooked it, slow and measured. The motion wasn’t casual. It was ceremonial. I stepped to the rig and felt the weight of her readiness settle around us.
“I’m going to suspend you now,” I said.
She nodded, breath catching, but I didn’t move until I heard her voice again.
“Do it. Lift me.” No hesitation. Just clarity.
I moved with precision, with no pause between her consent and my response. Every pull of the rope was deliberate. Every knot, a vow. This wasn’t about sex, not in any ordinary way. I wasn’t chasing friction or climax. I was chasing reverence. Structure. Control. The kind that tames chaos instead of feedingit. I sculpted surrender with each line, weaving tension into something sacred. And as the rope pulled tighter and her body gave, inch by inch, she began to rise, not in the air yet, but in trust. Suspended in that narrow space between intention and release.
Stella had offered me something tonight that didn’t come in bows or blush. This wasn’t sweetness. It was raw surrender, precious not for what it gave me, but for what it cost her. And now it was mine to hold. To earn without breaking. Her breath had already changed by the time I clipped the carabiner to the tie-off on her back; shallow, stretched, tight with anticipation. Not fear. Not panic. Just a body flickering between sensation and meaning. Her left foot still touched the mat, but not for long.
I adjusted the mainline, fed it cleanly through the suspension ring, and began the lift with slow, deliberate tension. The rope took her weight, and her head dropped, not from dread, but from awe. Her torso tipped slightly as the harness found its rhythm across her chest and back, thefutomomorising with her right leg in a gentle arc. Her bound arms shifted, knuckles twitching, ribcage expanding for air she could almost, but not quite, reach. And still, she surrendered. The rope didn’t just hold her. It spoke to her.
“Let the ground go,” I said, my voice low, one hand braced against her belly. “I’ve got the rest.” Then she was off the mat completely, suspended, bound, floating. Her body adjusted beneath the pressure, all elegant lines and angles, the harness lifting and pressing in all the right places. Her left leg extended long, toes pointed. Her torso leaned forward slightly, chest straining beautifully against the rope, one strand nestled deep between her breasts. I circled her slowly, adjusting torsion to create a subtle twist. Her hips rotated with the motion, her head rolling back as the sensation overtook her.
She moaned, soft, unfiltered, and it landed low in my spine like a blow. Not because it was sexual, not yet, but because it was real. The sound of armor breaking. The moment when someone stops performing and simply feels. “You’re beautiful,” I murmured, letting the words fall across her skin like a second rope.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered, voice ragged. “I didn’t know it would feel like this.” I stepped closer, my palm still warm on her abdomen to keep her steady. Heat poured off her in waves. She was flushed from chest to cheekbone, pupils blown wide, body humming with tension.
“You’ve never been held like this before,” I said, adjusting the rig at her hip. “That’s why it feels like being touched for the first time.” Her eyes fluttered shut, then snapped open again. I watched the tremble build in her thighs, the way her core clenched with every slow shift of the harness. My hand slid up the inside of her leg, deliberate and slow, stopping just below the crease of her pelvis. Over the leggings. Nothing forbidden. Not yet. Just enough pressure to make her jolt midair.
Her gasp hit the air, ragged and raw, her head tipping back as the rope held her firm. I moved around her, trailing one fingertip along the band of her waistband, then down over the curve of her ass and along the exposed side of her bound leg. She whimpered, immediate and unrestrained, and I smiled.
“You’re soaked,” I whispered, letting my knuckles graze back up her thigh, stopping just shy of the heat I could feel pulsing through the fabric. “And you’ll stay like this. Suspended. Helpless. Gorgeous.”
She moaned again, more desperate this time, her body straining within the ropes, not in protest, but in need. She tried to shift, but the ties held. Her arms were useless behind her. Her legs couldn’t bend or push. All she had was her breath, and the maddening crush of sensation.
I let my voice drop, darker now. “You haven’t even touched yourself,” I said, stepping between her legs, my hand grazing the seam of her leggings, higher this time. “Look at you. Already wrecked.” Her hips rocked forward in a small, helpless thrust, instinctive and utterly out of her control.
“Jax…” Her voice was fractured, stripped of sarcasm and control, raw with want. She was trying to hold herself together, but there was nothing left to grip.
I let my hand drift beneath her waistband, just a tease at first, nothing more than the promise of contact. The second my fingers met bare skin, she flinched, a gasp tearing from her throat as her body twisted in the air, ropes creaking in protest.
I froze, hand suspended just inside the fabric, heat bleeding into her skin. “Do you want more?” My voice dipped lower, careful, coaxing, because consent didn’t vanish when control did.
She nodded, frantic, her breath catching on the edge of a moan.
“Say it.” I didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just waited.
“Yes.” The word was breathless, shaky, nearly swallowed by the tension coiling through her frame. Then softer, “Please.”
My gaze never left her face. “Please what?”
Her lips parted. She swallowed. “Please touch me.” The words landed somewhere between surrender and prayer.
I slid my hand fully inside, dipping between her thighs, groaning low the second I felt her, soaked, slippery, pulsing like her entire body had narrowed to that one desperate point of contact. Her breath hitched. Her thighs jerked against the restraints.
“I can’t, I didn’t know…” she stammered, the sentence dissolving into a moan as I found her clit and circled it slowly with two fingers.
