Page 63 of Jax
But when my knuckles brushed just below her navel, where rope met hip, her entire body stilled. Not with the promise of release, but the kind of stillness that hits like ice. Her muscles locked fast, tension erupting from nowhere. Her breath halted mid-draw, sharp and stuttering. The surrender drained from her posture. The heat recoiled.
I eased back, giving space without breaking connection. Her eyes stayed shut. Her mouth opened slightly, like she meant to speak, but hadn’t found the words. Her hands behind her back had gone pale at the knuckles. Her calves were rigid, not from any tension I’d given, but from something buried, something old.
I let my voice drop, barely enough to brush the air between us. “Color.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. The silence stretched too long, strained and vibrating. And then, like it hurt to say—like it scraped its way up from somewhere raw—she said, “Red.”
The word didn’t wound. It detonated. Not from the sound, but from what it carried. She trusted me enough to speak it. Her body had remembered before her voice could, and she listened. She believed I would stop, and I did.
My hands lifted. My body stilled. I said nothing. I just let her feel me stay without taking up more space than she wanted. I needed her to know I was there, but not over her. That everything from this point forward belonged to her.
Her lashes lifted. Her eyes shimmered, wide and damp, not panicked. Grieving. For the rupture. For the betrayal of her own body. For the trust that had tasted so close, only to get lost to something that didn’t belong to me or this moment.
I didn’t reach for her. I let my hands lower in offering, a silent promise I’d shift if she needed.
“I hear you,” I said. “Everything stops, just like we agreed.”
She blinked, lips trembling before going still. I reached for the rope, not to bind, but to release. Each movement became reverent, quiet and unhurried. I started low, working upward, the hemp rasping faintly as it loosened. Its scent lingered on her skin, sun-dried and spiced, clinging like a memory she hadn’t decided to keep. When I reached the wrap beneath her breasts, I paused. Not for me. For her.
She met my gaze and gave a small nod.
I finished unwrapping her, the last coil slipping away. Her breath shifted. No longer controlled or measured, just human.
She didn’t run. She folded in on herself slowly, as if testing whether her body was still hers. I knelt nearby, rope in my lap, palms open on my thighs in an unconscious posture of openness and submission. Not retreating. Not reaching. Just staying. The silence between us trembled, but held.
God, I wanted to offer her poetry, something beautiful enough to match what I felt crack open in her wake. But all I had was the truth.
“You did it,” I said. “You called your safeword and took your power back, just like I said you could.”
Her head lifted sharply, eyes searching mine like she needed to be sure I wasn’t just saying what she needed to hear. I held her gaze, steady.
“That wasn’t weakness,” I said. “That was power. You knew where the line was, and you held it. You didn’t let anyone, especially not me, take you past it.”
She didn’t smile, but her lips parted with a breath. In that moment, I saw her. Not the defenses. Not the sarcasm or hesitation. Just her. Raw and real. Still trembling. Still guarded. But here.
I didn’t move. Still kneeling, I stayed where I was. No pressure. No expectation. Just presence.
When she finally spoke again, her voice was softer, but steadier.
“I didn’t expect it to feel so good… right up until it didn’t.”
I exhaled. Not in frustration—in understanding.
“That’s how the body works. It doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t care if it was good five seconds ago. If something inside says stop, that’s the signal.”
She swallowed.
“I thought I was ready.”
“You were,” I said. “You were ready to try. That’s all anyone can be.” I tilted my head slightly, watching her arms wrap slowly around her knees as she looked down. “And you did more than try. You let someone touch something that had been taken from you. You let yourself feel it.”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “And then I fell apart.”
“No,” I said, steadier now. “You didn’t. You caught yourself. You saw it coming and stopped it before it could cause harm. That’s not falling apart. That’s owning it.”
Her eyes drifted shut, but a flicker of something softer—maybe peace, maybe relief—touched her mouth. A ghost of a smile that didn’t reach joy, but hinted at it.
I didn’t know if she’d ever ask for this again. Didn’t know if the rope would be something she welcomed or left behind. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t about what came next. This was about honesty, and we’d found it, stripped and vulnerable and real.
