Page 132 of Gilded Locks
They guided her to the bed with hands that were gentle but implacable, movements so coordinated they might have been dancers performing choreography rehearsed in dreams. When she lay back against the champagne silk, they positioned her on the bed the way they wanted her.
Their movements spoke of ritual rather than simple restraint. Gilded cuffs closed around her wrists with soft clicks that echoed through the room like wedding bells. The spreader bar locked her ankles apart, holding her open and as vulnerable as an offering on an altar. But instead of feeling trapped, she felt... cherished, prepared for worship by those who truly understood her full worth.
“How does that feel?” Ash asked, testing the restraints with clinical precision that somehow felt like caresses.
“Strange,” she admitted, truth flowing from her lips like water from springs. “But not bad.”
“That’s the champagne talking,” Stone said with amusement that held darker undercurrents. “And the endorphins. Your body knows what’s coming, even if your mind hasn’t caught up yet.”
They stepped back to admire their work, and she saw herself through their eyes—golden hair spread across dark silk like spilled honey, pale skin glowing in the candlelight like polished marble, completely helpless and completely theirs.
Her gaze found Hunter’s. His resistance to this evening had vanished, replaced with bone deep hunger she felt at the core of her soul.
“I love you,” she mouthed.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he mouthed back, with a nod that communicated great pride.
Ash approached the bed, dragging a finger slowly from her hip to her rib. “Tell us you want this.”
“I want this.
“Good,” Stone said, giving the restraints a tug. “Now close your eyes and center yourself. Forget everything else. No thinking, no analyzing, no trying to control anything. Just feel what we give you.”
She closed her eyes with a nod, anticipation amplifying every sensation.
They began with touches so light they might have been imagined—fingertips tracing patterns on her skin like artists sketching masterpieces, breath ghosting across sensitive places like secret promises, the whisper of fabric as they shed their own clothes.
Peeking through her lashes, she caught glimpses of them in the golden light—pale scars and dark tattoos that told stories of violence survived, muscle and sinew built for war but dedicated to pleasure. Each was beautiful in his own way, dangerous enough to make her pulse race, but loyal enough that she felt truly safe in their care, despite her helpless position.
Hunter’s hands were rough from years of fighting, calloused in ways that made every caress a study in contrasts. Silk and sandpaper. Gentleness wrapped about barely leashed power.
Stone’s touch was clinical and precise, mapping her responses with scientific accuracy that resonated with more intimacy than poetry. Whenever toys or restraints were present, he became the puppet master.
Ash was pure seduction made flesh. He knew instinctively where to touch her, how much pressure to apply, and when to retreat and leave her gasping for more.
They worked in perfect synchronization, three parts of a whole dedicated to her complete undoing. When one mouth left her skin, another appeared like magic. When fingers withdrew, they were replaced by something else—lips, tongue, the edge of teeth that never quite crossed the line into pain but promised they could if she wanted them to.
“Please,” she gasped when the teasing became unbearable, when pleasure built like storm clouds gathering on horizons. “I need…”
“What do you need?” Stone asked, his voice calm despite his own arousal pressing against her hip.
“More. Everything. I can’t bear the teasing.”
“You can.” Hunter’s firm tone brooked no argument. “You can take more than you realize. We’re going to prove it to you.”
They gradually increased the intensity of their slow seduction, systematically pushing her toward the highest degree of human pleasure. Hands that had been gentle became demanding. Mouths that had whispered became insistent. They were unraveling her, bit by bit, and she was coming apart at the seams, a symphony composed of sighs and surrender, conducted by them and them alone.
When the first climax hit, she screamed out in pleasure and desperate relief, a sound torn from her throat that echoed off the golden walls like prayers offered to darker gods. But they didn’t stop, didn’t give her time to recover or catch her breath. Instead, they built her toward another peak, higher and more intense than the first.
“That’s it,” Ash murmured against her throat, his voice rough with desire and something deeper. “Let go completely. Show us how beautiful you are when you surrender everything. To us.”
By the third orgasm, she was incoherent, words dissolving into sounds that had no meaning beyond pure sensation. By the fourth, she was begging for mercy, for more, for them never to stop, for release that felt like dying and being reborn in the same breath.
Her body felt like it belonged to someone else, like she was watching from outside herself as they took her apart and rebuilt her according to their specifications.
“Now,” Stone said finally, the single word carried the weight of destiny and desire fulfilled. “She’s ready.”
They positioned themselves around her with the same careful coordination they’d used for everything else, movements that spoke of planning and patience finally reaching fruition. Stone at her head, his pale eyes holding hers as he guided himself into her mouth with gentleness that belied his obvious need. Hunter pressed between her thighs, spreading her wider as he pushed forward with steady pressure that made her gasp around Stone’s length.
