Page 52 of Her Wicked Knights (Their Hallowed Queen #3)

When he does, I hear the faint jingling of a chain, and it draws my attention enough to look up and see him before me, grinning appreciatively. "So serious, Marley. Are you scared?"

I'm not afraid of him. But I am afraid of what he can do to me. From the start, Logan told me he wanted me vulnerable, and that's what I've been.

"Yes." I tell him honestly.

He chuckles, stepping behind me and sinking to his knees.

When his hands skim over my aching calves, I think he's going to free me from the shoes.

Instead, he picks up another chain, running it beneath the locks on the heels and then wrapping it around one leg of the solid wood desk.

He's fucked me on it enough times that I know it's solid.

.. there's no way I could lift it up to escape, particularly when he does the same thing with my other leg, spreading me wide.

"Logan..." I warn, fear creeping inside of me as he stands out of my eyesight. I'm facing away from the door now, out the only window in the office, at a clear blue sky. I know there was snow on the ground when I woke up, but it seems to have been melted away now, turning the streets to slush.

"You need to feel things to heal from the past." Logan reminds me. "Things like fear..."

He bends me over the desk with a palm flat against my lower back, tracing one of my ass cheeks before delivering a little slap there that takes me by surprise.

I yelp, more confused than hurt. His brand of therapeutic BDSM has been focused largely on psychological accomplishments.

Even when he's restraining me, it's always a mind game. But this? Hitting me? That's new.

"Pain."

Except, it doesn't hurt. Is it supposed to?

"Desire?"

I do feel that, particularly as his hand rubs over the spot he just swatted, like he can soothe away the faint sting.

A sting that spreads when he pulls his hand back and delivers another slap.

This one is harder, like he read my thoughts and decided to up his ante.

I tilt my hips forward, trying to get away from the impact even as he pulls his hand back again.

This time, the hit is even harder, on the opposite cheek.

A gasp claws its way out of my throat, but I don't hate it. In fact, I can feel the blood rushing between my legs.

I don't keep track of how many times he hits me. I just know that by the time he steps out from behind me and crosses to the other side of the desk that I'm pressed against, I'm wishing I could press my thighs together to try and ease the throbbing ache there.

"You did so good." He praises me. "Waiting for me all that time. Tell me something, Marley?"

I lift my head to get a look at him.

His shirt sleeves are rolled up, his top buttons undone from when he bound me with his tie.

"Logan?" I prompt him.

"Why are we doing this?"

Why are we doing this? Because it feels good. Because we need it. Because we're drawn to each other in ways that neither of us can explain.

"To fix me." I answer dutifully, giving him exactly what he wants to hear.

"To fix you." He agrees. "Because...?"

"Because I'm broken." I don't hesitate. Even before our relationship turned sexual, he taught me to embrace the shame associated with feeling broken.

Being broken doesn't mean I have no value.

I'm not a vase. Owning the shame allowed me to control it, and now I can speak the truth without feeling embarrassed when I admit that I'm broken.

"Do you feel like you're healing?"

"Yes."

I'm back in college, even despite someone in class last semester outing me as a 'real life final girl'.

I'm pursuing a degree in law, and I'm empowered enough to stand in my therapist's office stark naked, waiting for him to come fuck me.

I have my own apartment where I'm current on my bills, I make a little extra cash waiting tables, and I've started to enjoy living again.

I'm moving on in the moments where I don't feel like the past is waiting to swallow me, to drag me back to the void I came from.

This is healing, even if it's messy. Even if it isn't what I thought my life would look like ever.

"I'm proud of you." He says, and it startles me enough that my head snaps up to get a look at his face, trying to assess the sincerity of that statement.

"What?"

"I'm proud of you." He smirks. "I didn't say you're all healed. You've done so well, but we've got a long way to go."

I don't get a chance to ask what he means by that, because he grips the back of my neck, pulling me onto my tiptoes as far as the chain will allow me to move.

The edges of the desk dig into my hips and ribs, forcing the air out of my lungs.

It doesn't matter anyway. He'd have forced it out of me in the next instant anyway when he guides his cock into my throat and rams in deep.

And like he always asks of me, I don't fight it. I gasp around him, focusing on taking breaths when I can, and just taking it when I can't. Just like I always do, I do exactly what he demanded I do from the beginning.

I submit.