Because this is hers.
Her moment of power in a dynamic never woven for her victory.
She slides onto the bed—fluid, flexible, the way only dancers and nightmares can move. Her knees dig into the mattress, hands bracing herself above me so that her body blocks out everything except the look in her eyes and the way her thighs bracket my hips.
For a second, she just watches me.
No simpering, no shy blush.
Just—
Consuming.
Always counting. Her fingers flex and tap against the sheet—one-two-three-four—before she settles her hand on my chest, just over my thrumming heart.
I can see her body up close now.
The bruises on her ribs. The tangle of pale pink stretch marks at her hips. The old ballet scars across both knees and the inside of her ankles—tissue built from years of training, of being the best, of winning and surviving and earning her right to exist. Her nails are painted with chipped silver polish and stained underneath with…red? Blood? Whatever.
She smells like a hit of sugar, the afterburn of adrenaline, and ozone from the storm outside.
She traces a finger along my pec—down the line of muscle, over the tattoo there, pressing hard enough I know she’s cataloging the feel of me as much as the look.
“You like to be restrained?” she asks.
The words are soft.
Almost innocent.
But the way she says it—like she already knows the answer, like it’s a secret we share—makes my cock twitch, impossibly, unbelievably hard.
“Depends who’s doing the restraining,” I say, voice lower now.
She giggles again, a giddy little sound.
Genuine.
Unhinged.
Flutter of muscles—she’s fighting off an internal earthquake, something boiling just beneath the surface. Her toes tap with every shift, her heel digging into the bedspread—precision and madness, locked in a dance no normal brain could choreograph.
I watch the way her breasts rise and fall with each breath—shallow, fast, pink nipples gone tight and peaked from the chill in the air or maybe from the way my eyes are devouring her.
The skin across her stomach is so pale it nearly glows.
She has the body of a story no one will believe.
And I still can’t fucking touch her.
Sadist.
The thought surfaces and sticks.
She likes this. Likes the way I can’t fight back. Likes watching me strain against the cuffs, muscles bunching, veins standing out on my arms because I want her so badly it hurts.
She wraps her hand around my cock.
No hesitation.
