Page 55 of Those Who Are Bound

“I’m not kissing you, and I’m not fucking you.”

Elliott looked up at her bound hands, a moment of uncertainty washing over her. It was too late; she was here, and she had placed herself here. She didn’t understand how he could help her by not doing either of those things. Perplexed, she looked back at him.

Becks smirked. “Guess that tells me a little something about the boy who popped your cherry. When was this?”

“I was fifteen.”

Becks paused in rolling up a sleeve, his gaze cutting to her. “Florida. I’ll kill him.” He sat on the side of the bed. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked over her again. Her blood raced through her veins; this was heady, the way she could get him to look at her when she knew he hated what she was doing.

But this was Becks. He wouldn’t hurt her.

He reached out a hand and caressed her abdomen. She immediately rose against his touch, head falling back. The ropes snapped, and a moan wrenched from her throat. The friction, the forced restraint; her core throbbed. It was the most intense feeling she’d ever experienced.

“Fuck me, we’re going to hell,” he said as he moved between her legs, pushing aside her white panties.

“There is no hell. No heaven, no hell,” Elliott corrected him. But that didn’t stop her from calling out to god when his fingers slipped inside her. He worked her as she bucked against him, the ropes snapping repeatedly.

At first, it was his fingers. Massaging, thrusting. She wiggled her hips to aid him. Her muscles jerked as pleasure bolted through her. Then he cursed, and his fingers were joined by his mouth, and… Oh, god… What he was doing to her, his tongue moving over her, and his fingers plunging into her, it was something she never could have imagined. That, coupled with her lack of control, spiraled her into a realm of ecstasy she never wanted to leave. She kicked her heels, twisted her body beneath him to get closer—more.

When she looked down her body, his eyes were squeezed shut. Dropping her head back, she gasped, the movement accompanied by the twang of the rope. She heard him curse,“Fuck.”

She kicked her heels, twisted her body beneath him, desperate mewls and cries falling from her lips.And then her entire body tensed against him. Her hands squeezed the rope as a cry was ripped from her. She shuddered violently before she fell back against the mattress, panting and shivering.

She wanted that again.

Staring up at the ceiling, she blinked hard, her labored breath louder than his in the room. She said with a touch of awe, “I think I went blind for a second.”

Becks moved quickly off the bed. “That’s your clitoris; find a college boy who knows what it is.”

“You know,” she panted, her gaze going to his tented pants.

“Not me,” he growled. He jerked at the rope near the foot closest to him, but it wouldn’t give; tied, not a slipknot. “Goddamn it.” He tore from the room. He returned with a knife, cutting her free while she lay submissively on the bed watching him, catching her breath.

After her hands were freed, he grasped her by the back of her neck and hauled her face up to his.She gasped at the rough handling but accepted it, her lips parting in surprise. His mask of anger in place, he snapped, “Don’t you ever do this to me again.”

She only stared back at him until he released her and slammed away, barricading himself in the bathroom with an order for her to get dressed.

Of course, she’d done it to him again.

That night, they went out for Thai food as though nothing had happened. Becks glanced at the marks around her wrists, but looked away as quickly. Elliott mentioned her preference for a midwestern college; it was her reason for being in town with him that weekend anyway, to decide between the two universities.

Becks had quietly suggested, which had sounded more like an order, to choose any university other than one in the DC area. Had he not said anything, she most likely would have ended up in Indiana. But when he challenged her—at least that’s how she took it—she was determined to remain in DC.

Too soon for Becks, she was certain, she was living in DC where her parents had proudly ensconced her and then entrusted her to Beckman. While they had been relieved that she would be living near him, and therefore safe, Becks had accepted it with silent resignation, not making eye contact with anyone. Only days after that, she had shown up at his apartment in Arlington with a gift bag. She’d bitten her lower lip as she’d handed it over to him; feverish. It had been rope; a length of thin red rope. Becks had glared at her.

She then presented him with a matchbook from a local BDSM dungeon, her threat clear.

Becks had jerked her into the apartment by her arm and cursed, “God damn you.”

“There is no god, Becks,” she’d replied.

“I’m beginning to believe that.”

Her monster was unleashed. Becks had been her first victim. It could be ravenous and it was certainly merciless. It fed off years of crime scene photos she had seen, and she wanted to experience them all, not stopping to consider what she was doing to him, to make him relive those scenarios with her. It had no shame, no remorse, and no mercy.

There had been a time when she hadn’t known those things, either.

Tied, bound; it was all thrilling to her. Rope was her fascination, her fantasy, her companion. She enjoyed being suspended as much as being tied down; it didn’t matter. And Becks dutifully gave her what she needed, reluctantly at first. He’d been more appalled at his own response to her than over her obsession, although that quickly faded in the face of her appetite.

And although he eventually crossed the line and had sex with her, he refused to kiss her. She’d wanted to know why.

He’d explained, “I need some piece of my soul.”

When her parents were killed, he’d shown up at her campus apartment to tell her. He crushed her heart, sent her into hysterics with the news, and then comforted her the only way he knew how: he tied her up and had sex with her until all she felt was the release.

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