Page 124 of Jax
He began at my chest, wrapping high across my collarbones while I stood still, arms bent behind me, offering myself, not out of fear but hunger. The rope rasped over bare skin, each pull sending sparks up my spine. His tension wasn’t cruel. It was precise. Tightened with care. Another line wrapped just beneath my breasts, framing them until every breath pushed harder against the fibers. My nipples peaked from the heat of exposure. From the thrill of being claimed.
My chest rose. The rope held. It didn’t yield. It redefined.
He stepped behind me without a word, his breath brushing the back of my neck, his body close enough to blur every thought. He attached a rope to the center of the harness, between my shoulder blades, and then ran it up and through one of the carabiners in the middle of the rig. He pulled it just taut enough that I felt it, but not so much that it lifted me. Then he slid an arm around me from behind, following the line of rope across my ribcage.
“This knot here…” His voice slid against my ear like smoke. His fingers pressed just over my sternum, touching the cross-point of tension and control. “This is where I’ll pull when I want your breath to catch.”
My eyes fluttered closed. Pressure already coiled across my ribs, tight and thrumming, and the way he said it, like he wasn’t asking, just delivering a promise, made something sharp and molten bloom low in my belly. This wasn’t just arousal. It was reverence. He didn’t touch like he wanted to own me. He touched like he already knew how I’d fall apart, and how to hold the shape of what remained.
His hand drifted lower, tracing the harness where it wrapped beneath my breasts. He wasn’t groping. He was sculpting, and every knot was a declaration. Every pull, an unspoken command.
“And this cross-point,” he murmured, fingertips grazing just under my breast, over the place where breath and heartbeat collided, “when your pulse races, it’ll throb like an alarm. A signal. A reminder that you’re mine.”
My throat closed around the weight of his words. My hips surged forward before I could stop them, chasing heat, chasing friction, chasing him. I wanted pressure. I wanted his hands everywhere. I wanted to be taken apart piece by piece, tongue-tied with jute, voice caught in the rope’s hold. But he didn’t move.
He let me tremble against the bindings, body straining for more, and gave me nothing.
It was maddening. It was perfect.
My head dropped back, mouth open, a soft sound catching on my lips. “Fuck…”
Still, he didn’t rush. Just circled me, slow, measured, studying his own work like I wasn’t even human anymore. Like I’d become material. Breath and bone and tension. A canvas.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and it wasn’t praise. It was the truth.
His fingers adjusted the bottom edge of the harness, compressing tighter. Not painful, just enough to remind me of what I’d chosen to carry.
“You’re beautiful because of how much you’re about to hold.”
Something opened inside me. The ache to be remade into something solid, tension and curve bound into meaning. I wanted to hold meaning in my bruised skin and call it art. My voice broke before I could stop it. “Say it again.”
He stepped in close, one hand steadying my jaw. “Say what?” he asked.
“Say I’m beautiful.”
He didn’t blink. “You are. In this. In the hold. In the way you don’t flinch.”
My knees buckled under the weight of it.
“Say what you need,” he murmured, voice like molten steel. “Say what’s real.”
“I want to feel everything,” I whispered. “I want to disappear inside it. Be gone. And seen.”
His jaw flexed. “You will.”
He dropped to his knees in front of me, and my heart surged into my throat. His hands cupped my thigh, lifting it slowly, folding it until my knee pressed to my chest. I gasped. Hispalm was warm, and his grip was unyielding. He held me like something he could break. And I wanted him to.
The rope came next, tight bands spiraling from thigh to calf, coiling like a serpent up my skin. Each loop carved pressure into muscle and flesh, locking me into a new shape. I trembled, but I didn’t ask him to stop. I couldn’t.
“You feel that line down the center?” His voice dropped, rough and steady.
I nodded.
“That’s not just for show. That’s part of the structure of this tie.” His fingers traced the rope’s path down my thigh. “That’s where your weight hangs. Where you’ll find your balance when I make you fly.”
I was already shaking.
He slid a hand beneath my ass to shift the knot, firm, unapologetic, just shy of obscene.
