Page 89 of Jax
His mouth slanted over my slit with devastating accuracy, each stroke purposeful and precise. He kissed like he meant to dismantle me completely, not just with tongue and lips. Igasped, hips jolting as he found my clit, and he moaned into me like he’d been waiting to feel that exact response. The vibration rippled through me, sharp and indulgent. His tongue worked in slow circles, patient and hungry, and between strokes, he murmured, “You taste like defiance. Like a woman who could destroy a kingdom and still let herself be worshipped.”
My fingers twitched. The paper at my wrists flexed. My thighs trembled and my vision blurred, but still he didn’t stop. His hands stayed firm on my skin, grip steady, mouth greedy with reverence. “I could stay here for hours,” he said, voice low and strained. “I could memorize you with my mouth and still never be done.” Pleasure built like a storm behind my ribs, and I was caught just outside it, desperate for permission.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say I can take you over.”
I whimpered, head back, body burning. “Please,” I gasped. “Jax, please.”
His tongue pressed harder. His grip closed tighter. “One more word.”
It broke loose like a cry. “Yes. Please.”
And then he wrecked me—no mercy, no pause. Just full, devastating surrender. Orgasm hit like a steel-backed wave and ripped me open, not from force, but from being held so completely in the hands of someone who saw every part and didn’t flinch. One of the paper rings at my thigh started to tear with a soft ripping sound as my muscles spasmed uncontrollably. He kissed me through all of it, through every jolt, every sobbed breath, anchoring me to the sound of him claiming what I’d offered.
When the silence came, I found his fingers pressed to the torn edge, not speaking. Just breathing. Mourning something fragile. Not the paper, but what it had taken for me to hold it in place. Then he rose slowly, and his hands traced my torso like hewas redrawing me, mapping my skin. His touch grounded me. And when I shifted, the ripped strip fluttered.
Jax followed my gaze, smiled, and brushed his thumb over the tear. “That one’s about to go. Want me to cut it for you and end the scene?” His eyes met mine, checking, never assuming.
“Or…” He traced the strip’s edge, then kissed the corner of my hip. “…are you strong enough to try for something more solid?”
A breathy laugh caught in my chest, tangled with a moan. My body was trembling, raw, but his question struck something deeper, the part that wanted to try. “Please,” I whispered, not even sure what I meant.
He nodded, solemn, sharp, and reached for the scissors.
One by one, he removed the rings. Not torn. Not rushed. Cut. Intentional. Every snip landed louder than it should’ve, like punctuation. Like benediction. He peeled them from me not in failure, but as proof I’d let myself be bare. Each loss left a hum beneath my skin, nerves tingling where the paper had kissed me. Not absence, but permission.
When he was about to cut the last one, around my thigh, I stopped him with a hand and a small shake of the head. “Leave that one, please. Just one. To remind me.”
He nodded with a small smile and turned to the nightstand. The rope lay in a neat coil beside the scissors, a deep rust red that already looked like heat against skin. He ran it through his fingers once, twice—soft, steady, ritual. Then he stepped closer, rope looped in one hand, and with the other, brushed my hair from my face. His thumb traced along my cheekbone.
“Now that I know you’ll stop me if you need to,” he said, voice steady, low enough to sink into my chest, “I can take you farther than you ever thought you’d go.”
I didn’t nod. Didn’t flinch. I just extended my hands—open, steady. And in that moment, I wasn’t surrendering. I was choosing.
21
Jax
She gaveme her wrists like an offering. No ceremony, no fanfare, just the quiet certainty of a woman who’d made a decision. And maybe that was what hit me hardest. Not the act itself, but the way she trembled slightly and still didn’t pull back. Her hands hovered between us, tentative and open, her pulse visible beneath delicate skin like the beat of a war drum muffled under silk.
The rope, already warm in my hands, coiled like breath before a confession. I unspooled it slowly, easing tension from the fibers as I stepped in closer. She didn’t stiffen or shift. Her eyes tracked each movement, cataloging expression, breath, muscle twitch. High-level threat assessment in real time. The survivor in her, still scanning. But the woman? She was giving me a chance. Daring me to be careful. Daring me to be worth it.
“You sure?” I kept my voice low, the sound a steadying line through the static between us. I didn’t move closer. Didn’t break her radius. Consent wasn’t just the ask; it was the pause after.
“I am,” she breathed. The sound barely registered, but the steadiness did.
Only then did I move, closing the gap until her heat reached mine. I wrapped the first pass around her wrists, slow and deliberate. Let her feel every drag of rope, every ounce of intention. She exhaled hard through her nose, but didn’t flinch. She watched my hands like they held prophecy. Like she was memorizing the rhythm of care.
I shifted her arms slightly, adjusting the angle with methodical precision. Each wrap was placed with clean geometry, a visual thesis on resilience. Most people misunderstood restraint. They thought it was about removal. It wasn’t. Done right, it was a revelation. You showed someone what had been there all along.
“You could end this, just like with the paper.” I said, brushing below her palm. “One word, and you’re free.”
She didn’t hesitate. “But I won’t.”
No defiance. No doubt. Just fact. A woman choosing stillness, not because she had to, but because she could. My breath caught in my throat. That wasn’t surrender. That was strength.
“I trust you,” she added, quieter now. “And I don’t say that lightly.”
The weight of it settled deep, not as a burden, but as an anchor. The kind of gravity that changes your center of mass. I finished the final knot, smoothing the line as I stepped back to see her.
