Page 134 of Jax
I didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. Just exhaled like a man kneeling at the altar of a divine being. “I don’t know how to be gentle with sacred things.”
And I sank behind her, slow and sure, into that holy space where pain becomes prayer, and a woman doesn’t break, but returns to herself through fire.
The rope wasn’t just a tool. It was an offering. It held everything she couldn’t say, and everything I was about to translate into tension, heat, and deliberate care. Even before I touched her, I felt her body pulse with readiness, breathstretching longer, her essence humming like worship waiting to be given.
My hand settled on her shoulder, grounding the moment. “Color?” I asked, the question soft but sure.
Her voice didn’t waver. “Green.” Everything inside me aligned.
“Limits?” I asked, voice lower now, almost clinical, stripping the heat to help her find her center. That too was part of care, knowing when to burn, and when to cool.
She swallowed. “No gag. No blindfold. If you need to…” her voice broke, “...you can cover my mouth, hold me down. But don’t take my air.”
I nodded, letting my fingers drift down her spine, stopping just above her waist. She didn’t lean in. Didn’t flinch.
“I want you to make me fly,” she said. “I need to be wrapped up tight.. I want to feel like I can’t move.”
It hit like a low chord in my chest. I breathed through it.
“Sexual touch?”
She didn’t answer at first, but her back arched. Her breath hitched. Her body said yes long before her mouth did. “Yes. Please.”
“And orgasm control?”
She turned toward me, her voice unsteady, like the words were clawing their way out before she could stop them. “I want you to hold me there. Push me past the edge until it’s not just pleasure anymore. I want to beg. I want to forget myself. I want to break apart, and I want you to be the one who puts me back together.”
The way she said it, ragged, almost broken, it wasn’t rehearsed. It was need. Pure and bare.
The words tore through me. Not just arousal, though that burned hot and immediate, but something deeper. Hunger braided with reverence. She wasn’t offering arousal, or desire.She was giving me surrender in its most dangerous form: intentional, aching, intimate. And God, I wanted to be worthy of it.
I leaned in, mouth near her ear. “You want to fall,” I whispered, voice slow as a dragged kiss, “but only if you know I’ll catch you.”
She trembled. “Yes. Only then.”
I stood and crossed the room to where the rope waited, coiled in perfect stillness. Eight lengths of jute, chosen for strength, for texture, for memory. Rope that had known her before. I gathered them in one hand, letting the weight settle.
She hadn’t moved. Still kneeling. Still gloriously naked. Still brimming with desire. Spine tall. Thighs parted. Palms open on her legs like a psalm waiting to be read. A body composed of breath and tension. A prayer aching for hands.
I knelt behind her. The air shimmered, thick with anticipation. I didn’t bind her yet. I dragged the first coil across her chest, slow and deliberate, pressing it to the frantic drumming of her heart.
She gasped. The sound tore loose like it had been pulled from the center of her.
“You’re not here to be hurt,” I said, voice low and even. “You’re here to be framed. Held. Restrained until the storm inside you has no room left to tear through.”
She didn’t speak, but her breath unfurled like a prayer—long and low, stitched with surrender. Her panic retreated, dissolving into something slower. I pressed my palm to her chest, fingers wide over rope and skin and the frantic flutter of her heart, and waited. No commands. No pressure. Just weight. Beneath it, she quieted. Her breath thickened. Her body loosened. The storm inside her gave way to something warmer. Hungrier. A hush so full of ache it felt holy.
“Your heart’s racing,” I murmured, tracing the curve of her jaw, tilting her head to expose the line of her throat.
“It’s terrified,” she whispered. “And… it’s home.”
That broke something inside me.
I leaned in, mouth trailing heat along her neck, breath spilling over skin that tasted like salt and surrender. “You’re safe,” I said into the throb of her pulse. “And you’re mine to bind.”
She nodded, slow and dazed, lashes skimming flushed cheeks as she leaned into my voice like gravity itself had shifted.
The rope in my hand felt sentient. It pulsed between us—alive, waiting, reverent. I moved closer, thighs pressing to hers, the heat between us folding and compounding.
