“If I have to stop playing, you don’t get to come.”
“Nooo,” she squealed. “But I need to. Please.” She tried to draw her knees together, but she was spread wide open by the zip ties, and couldn’t move more than to wriggle in place.
“If you want to come, you need to be a good girl and let me cut off your clothes.”
“No!” She glared at him so hard she must have been giving herself a headache.
“Fine, but no orgasms for you.” He picked up the scissors and positioned them to cut the zip tie on her wrist, but didn’t cut. “I was going to fuck your pussy tonight because you’re being such a good girl, but I guess you’ll get it in the ass again.”
“You’ll fuck my pussy?” she asked in amazement.
Damn, he was a bastard. Poor little submissive was so starved for sex, she’d do anything?
“Yes.”
“I just have to let you cut my clothes off?”
“Yes, you’ll get cock as a reward.”
She swallowed hard. “Okay, but I was really scared when you had the knife at my throat.”
“So scared you wet your shorts?”
“What? No!”
“Then what happened here?” he asked, smirking. He rubbed a finger along the seam of her shorts, shoving the damp fabric between her labia, and paying particular attention to her clit. “Did it turn you on when I had the knife to your throat?”
She paused for far too long for the answer to be no. “It’s too dangerous,” she said finally.
He picked up the butter knife and showed it to her.
“Oh, you fucking bastard!”
His wink did nothing to improve her mood, but when he switched the butter knife for the sharp one, she bit her lip. Bringing the knife to the neckline of her shirt again, he found the short slice he’d made there, and started again, slicing through her shirt until it bared her breasts, then the short distance to the bottom hem slit he’d made. When it was hanging off to either side of her in tatters, he placed the knife carefully between her heaving breasts and left it there. He grabbed his phone out of his back pocket and thumbed it on.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a picture.”
“Well . . . not of my face, okay?”
He took a few pictures, pinching at her nipples to get them nice and hard again, and to convince her to be more receptive, and by the time he put his phone away she was glassy-eyed and whining again.
At some point earlier in the day he’d decided to spend a companionable evening with her and let her down gently. He was an idiot for ever thinking he could do it.
Lying there, brave and soft and receptive, she was waiting for him to pick up the knife again. She stared up at him through half-lidded, trusting eyes—as though she trusted him not to hurt her too far, hell, trusted him with her life. He couldn’t betray her.
He couldn’t betray his feelings for her either.
Chapter 13
From her perspective, bound to her kitchen table, Atlas was huge, and beautiful and deadly. With his shirt off every play of muscle was like a hypnotic dance just for her. The knife in his hand scared her, but she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted him to do more, to take things too far. Doing something this crazy had never crossed her mind before tonight, but everything he introduced her to became a grafted-on fetish—something that turned her on because it turned him on, and then grew its own life in her, turning her on in its own right.
This, though, watching him move with a knife in his hand, was orgasmic. His movements were fluid and precise, a dance between hand and blade. She was never going to be able to use her kitchen knives again without the sight of them turning her on.
He slid the blade beneath the waistband of her shorts, letting the back of the metal caress the skin there from one hip to the other.
If he slipped . . .