“Alistair,” I beg.
“Patience,” he says.
I watch him undress in the candlelight—the specific, unhurried way he takes his clothes off when he knows I am watching, which is its own form of torture—and feel the want move through me in another long slow wave. Alistair Ravenscroft is the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life.
He comes back to me—kneeling now, level with me, his cock hard and warm against my stomach—and kisses me again. Deeper. Some of that careful control beginning to show its edges.
“Please,” I say into his mouth.
He lifts me—the rope shifting with the movement, new pressure across my chest that makes me gasp—and lowers me onto him slowly.
Inch by deliberate inch.
My spine curves. Eyes screwed up, my head falls back.
“Oh god,” I breathe. “Oh—ohfuck?—”
“Look at me,” he says.
I look at him. His eyes are very dark and very steady and entirely fixed on mine.
Alistair begins to move.
Slow, deep, rolling strokes—the rope shifting with each one, new pressure with every movement, my body held perfectly still while everything inside it dissolves—and I feel every inch of him on every stroke I can’t move. I can’t do anything but feel it, all of it, building and building.
“Don't stop,” I breathe. “Please—don't —”
His cock throbs deep inside me and his thumb finds my clit and presses and I stop being able to form words. His breath is ragged against my temple, his grip on my hips tightening as he pulses inside me, tipping me over the edge.
My orgasm hits me like something breaking—full body, total, moving through me in long full-body pulses. I am shaking withit, and the rope presses warm against my skin throughout all of it, holding me.
We shudder into each other. Then for a long moment we stay exactly as we are, kneeling together in the candlelight.
Carefully and methodically, Alistair begins to undo the knots.
He takes his time, each section released with the same deliberate attention, his hands checking my skin as he goes. When the last of the rope falls away I feel simultaneously lighter and more held than before.
He wraps me in the dark silk throw from the end of the bed and pulls me against him and we lie in the candlelight and neither of us speaks for a long time.
“It's good to be home,” he says eventually, his breath warm on my scalp. I feel so safe in his arms that I am asleep within seconds.
CHAPTER 13
A Dead Estonian
ALISTAIR
I am on my second coffee when Henderson arrives.
I pour a third and set it on the counter. There is the warm smell of pastries in the oven—buttery and sweet.
Henderson picks up the coffee without a word.
“How's Ariana?” I ask.
“Pregnancy's going well,” he replies. A beat. “She's not happy that I'm working for you again.”
I nod. Who could blame her?
