Every slight shift against the silk ropes sends a fresh jolt of frustration through me. I’m spread open on the bed, wrists bound to the headboard, and my ankles secured to the foot posts. Not painfully, but perfectly. A display of my own helplessness.
Skye left an hour ago. Maybe two. Time has dissolved into a single, throbbing point between my thighs.
She was methodical.
After her quiet, brooding fury had settled into a decisive calm, she led me to the bed without a word. Her hands had worked the ropes, not as a punishment of pain, but of denial. She’d touched me everywhere, winding me up with her mouth and fingers until I was begging, and arching off the mattress. I could feel the orgasm building like a tsunami about to crash over my line of control.
Then… she stopped.
Just fucking stopped.
Her hand pulled away, and she sat back on her heels, her dark eyes watching the tremors that wrecked my body. My hips strained uselessly against the bonds for any friction to relieve myself.
“This,” her voice low in the silent room. “Is what happens when you remove my claim. You’re left wanting, baby girl.”
She’d leaned down, kissed my forehead, a gesture so tender it made the edge of denial even sharper, and stood up. She smoothed her clothes, put on her jacket, and looked down at me.
“Cassie will have a copy of the room key. She’ll be here after her plane lands. Think about why you’re waiting for her, and not me, to set you free.”
I gasped, my mouth fell open as I stared up at her like this was some sick joke.
“I told you before, and I’ll say it again,” she said quietly as she folded her hands in front of her. “This isn’t your typical romance story.”
Then, she winked and turned for the door. I waited for her to stop and turn around. To come back for me and finish me off before she untied me.
But she didn’t. The door shut behind her, locking me in this agonizing limbo.
And the truth is, beneath the physical torment, there’s a weird peace that comes along with it.
My secret is out. The huge, terrifying thing I’ve been carrying with me for years is now a shared weight. Skye knows about Solace. She knows about the company, the threats, and the double life. She knows me.The relief of that is almost as profound as the need screaming in my veins.
Almost.
So, I lie here. I ride the waves of the aftershock, each one a little weaker than the last. I stare at the textured ceiling and think about her words. About the collar.
She was right, though. I should have told her. I chose the prison of fame over the covenant of her ownership, and this aching, hollow want is the consequence.
Could I have told her everything without worrying she’d tell anyone? Absolutely. I’ve known Skye for two weeks, and I know her well enough that I should have felt safe giving her my secret. She opened up to me when she told me about Alisha, and I didn’t give back to her in the same way.
Not that our stories compare in any way. But the act of giving up a part of her couldn’t have been easy, yet she did it anyway. And I was stupid enough to hold back on my own secret.
A soft electronic beepat the door makes me jump, the ropes biting gently into my skin.
The door opens, and Cassie walks in, a garment bag slung over her shoulder. She’s mid-sentence on a phone call with someone at the hospital, “just tell them the chart is on the counter in his…” her words trail off as her eyes scan the room and find me on the bed.
Her phone lowers slowly. Her dark eyebrows climb toward her hairline as a snort escapes her. Then another. And then she’s full body, unglamorously cackling at my situation.
She drops her suitcase and her purse, clutching her stomach before she hangs up on the person she was on the call with.
“Oh, my God,Vi. Oh, ow.” She wheezes, wiping a tear from her eye. “I knew you two had dynamics, but this is… this is art. This is commitment. Should I call a photographer? We could sell this as an album cover.‘Bound & Frustrated. The Story of Solace.’”
“Cassie,” I groan, my voice hoarse from my earlier pleading. “Just, untie me please.”
Still chuckling, she comes over, surveying the intricate knots with curiosity. “Damn, she’s good. These aren’t just kinky, these are technical.” She starts working on the wrist bindings. “So, I’m guessing the talk didn’t end with a hug and a promise to call you later?”
As the first rope falls away, blood rushes back to my fingers with the accompanying pins and needles.
The whole story pours out of me. The confession to Skye. Theo’s idiotic, drunken intrusion. Skye’s icy, terrifying calm. Her fury, not about Solace, but about the collar. About me being on stage without her claim around my neck.
