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I don’t deserve this pleasure. It’s wrong for me to feel this good.
I killed a man, not thirty feet from where I’m standing. My very existence endangers everything Trap has built here. He’s at risk. His clients are too.
I shouldn’t be melting beneath Trap’s attention.
I should be punished.
I push off his shoulders, stepping back until my breast slips free with an ugly slurping sound.
“What the—” Trap starts to complain. He thinks he taught me how to appreciate these breasts, their ridiculous size, the absurd way they bounce. That was a lesson I supposedly mastered just last night.
But right now, right here, I know I shouldn’t be allowed that sort of salvation. I don’t deserve pleasure.
“What?” Trap asks. “Tell me what you want. Tell me how to make you feel good.”
Years ago, he gave me the words. He touched my body, and he taught me how to ask for what I craved.
But I was another woman then. A good woman. Innocent. Naive.
I close my eyes, and I can see the chair we found in Herzog’s gallery this morning. I see the stains, each one etched in my memory. The blood and shit on the chair merge with the blood and shit I left in Trap’s dining room the night I killed Herzog.
I find the words for what I need.
“Punish me,” I say. The words feel right. They match my broken body. They fit my shattered soul. So I say them again, louder, more firmly: “Punish me.”
He closes the distance between us, and I have to crane my neck to look into his eyes. His face is dark, cast into dramatic shadows by the blue-white light that glows beneath the cabinets.
His fingers grip my arms, tight enough to bruise. When I realize he’s going to mark me, that I’ll have those purple reminders for days to come, something ripples deep inside me. If his fingers were testing my pussy instead of clutching my arms, they’d come away soaked.
His kiss is savage. It’s lips and tongue and teeth, and it strips away something deep inside me. His right hand moves from my arm to my hair, and he scrabbles to pull it, but it’s still too short for a truly painful yank. “Say red to stop,” he growls against my stinging lips. “Yellow to slow down.”
“Green,” I say. “Green, green, green.”
Snarling, he drags me up the stairs.
I’ve never been in his bed without the ritual of a shower to start. But that was when his Beast rode him, when he fought against his own traumatic memories. Tonight, he’s free. He’s safe. So he orders me out of my jeans and the comfortable cotton panties I wore for an innocent day at the county fair.
I stand in front of him, completely naked. I wait for him to give me what I need.
He points to the dresser. “Get the rope. Both skeins.”
I cross to the deep drawer and kneel. I reach inside, past leather, past metal, past hardened silicone plugs that feel like they could split me in two. Coils of cotton rope wait at the back. They’re black and thick and soft enough that I worry they can’t quench the shame burning deep inside my brain. But I gather them and bring them to Trap.
I want him to talk to me, to tell me what he’s planning, but I know I don’t deserve that form of grace. I’d settle for him reciting all the reasons he’s binding me, all the terrible things I’ve done, all the ways he needs to be in charge.
But he’s silent as he ties me up. He takes his time wrapping my wrists, first the right, then the left. He pulls the rope tight enough to leave creases on my skin. He positions a knot over the pulse point at the base of each thumb.
When he’s done, he marches me to the side of the bed. The mattress is high; the top hits the middle of my thighs. He cups the base of my skull in the V between his thumb and forefinger, forcing me to bend over.
“Spread your legs,” he orders, and I do. I don’t move fast enough, though, because he kicks my feet further apart. He’s still wearing shoes, and the pressure on my ankles hurts.
He dips his hand between my legs, shoving into my pussy with all the sensitivity of a mechanic checking oil in an engine. I gasp at his rough touch, at the shock of his knuckles brushing my lower lips. I already know I’m drenched before he wipes my juice across my bare ass.
This is sick. Twisted. I spent three years enslaved to a man who punished me for breathing. Why the hell does my body crave this type of violence now, when I could beg for anything else?
Trap catches the free ends of the ropes before he walks to the far side of the bed. He yanks my arms tight, making short work of lashing my bonds to the iron headboard and footboard. My breasts smash into the mattress. My belly lies flat. I can barely raise my head, can barely track his motions as he pins my arms wide.
Tension rolls down my sides, rippling through the muscles that bind my ribs, but Trap is still not satisfied. He grunts as he wraps another turn of rope around each bedpost, forcing my arms to stretch more. I balance on tiptoe beside the bed, trying to compensate.
