Page 12 of In Hot Water (The Hot Brothers #3)
CHAPTER TEN
ISLA
It's been another long day. My feet ache in my regulation boots, and Dawson's shoulders slump with the weight of his twelve-hour shift.
We stumble through a quick "shared" shower, steam rising around us, his calloused hands massaging shampoo into my hair while hot water drums against our tired muscles.
After, Dawson moves around my kitchen with practiced ease, the sizzle of garlic in olive oil filling the apartment while I measure out kibble for Alfred and open a can of food for Oreo.
We collapse onto my couch, plates balanced on our laps.
Alfred claims his usual spot on Dawson's muscular thigh while Oreo wedges himself into the narrow space between us, purring like a motor.
Dawson talks about a false alarm at the elementary school, his voice a low rumble beside me, but I barely catch every third word.
My fingers fidget with the handcuffs hidden in my pocket, cool metal warming against my skin as I rehearse exactly how I'll use them once dinner is over.
When it’s time for bed, Dawson stands, stretches, and peels off his shirt, revealing skin so tan and golden it’s almost a sin.
I follow him to the bedroom, flick on the bedside lamp, and stand in the soft glow, watching him strip down to his boxer-briefs and flop onto the mattress, limbs wide, a man entirely at home in his own body.
He looks up, sees me hovering in the doorway, and lifts a brow. “You coming to bed, or just planning on staring all night?”
“Both,” I say, and he laughs, but there’s heat in his eyes. I let him wait, slowly undoing the buttons of my shirt, one by one. He watches with hunger flashing through his blue eyes, and the longer I drag it out, the more his mouth curves into a predatory smile.
I slide the shirt from my shoulders, let it fall to the floor, then step out of my jeans, leaving me in nothing but a lacy black bra and panties set.
Dawson’s eyes go dark, the kind of dark that means he’s two seconds away from throwing me on the bed and making a meal out of me.
I walk over, climb onto the mattress, and straddle his hips, planting my knees on either side of his body.
For a moment, I just sit there, soaking in the feel of him under me, the solid heat of his chest against my thighs.
I lean down, trace kisses along his jaw, his throat, the sharp line of his collarbone.
His hands come up to grab my waist, but I catch his wrists, pinning them to the pillow above his head.
“Stay,” I murmur. He does. His pupils are blown wide, breath coming faster, and I know he’s not sure what’s coming next, but he trusts me enough to play along.
I reach over for my sweatpants, fingers fumbling for the cold metal, and when I finally pull the cuffs out, his eyes go wide. Not in fear, but in something wilder—anticipation, curiosity, hunger. I hold them up, let the lamplight glint off the steel.
“Do you trust me?” I ask.
His voice is rough as gravel, low and certain. “With my goddamn life.”
“You have the right to remain silent.” I guide his wrists to the headboard, thread the cuffs through the ironwork, and lock them with a satisfying click.
“Or not.” The sound is sharper than I expect, echoing off the walls, and for a heartbeat, I freeze, half-expecting him to laugh or squirm.
“The louder the better for me.” But he just lies there, arms stretched above his head, watching me with a mix of reverence and pure, animalistic want.
He growls. “Fucking hell, this is all my darkest fantasies come true.”
I can feel my confidence doubling by the second, like his surrender is some kind of fuel for every part of me that’s ever doubted my power.
I press my lips to his neck, nipping at the pulse point, then lower, mapping the landscape of his chest with my mouth.
Every place I kiss, he shudders a little, the tension building between us so thick I could chew it.
The lamp casts shadows across his body, lines and valleys of light that make him look carved from something ancient and indestructible. His breathing is shallow now, every inhale a stutter, every exhale a curse or a prayer.
I drag my nails down his sides, watch him flex against the cuffs, the tendons in his arms straining. I know I could stop at any moment, that the safety is there, but the knowledge only makes me bolder.
I reach the waistband of his briefs, kiss along the edge, and look up to find him staring at me, raw and open, his eyes saying please without a single word.
“I think I like you better like this,” I admit, sliding my hands beneath the band, feeling him hard and heavy. “Entirely at my mercy.”
“Yeah?” His voice is breathless, almost reverent.
“Yeah,” I say, and tug the briefs down, slow and deliberate, exposing him inch by inch to the warm air and the soft light.
I climb up, straddle his hips again, and let my hair fall forward, brushing over his face, his lips, his jaw. I kiss him once, hard, then sit back, letting him watch as I unhook my bra and toss it aside. His eyes go even darker, the muscles in his arms flexing as he strains against the cuffs.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he says, and I smile, pleased at the power, the control, the way I can make him beg with nothing more than a look.
“That’s the idea,” I reply, and lean in again, ready to make good on every promise I’ve ever made, whispered or otherwise.
Each time the cuffs click, each time his arms flex and fail, my confidence doubles. I’m the boss tonight, and for once, it feels good to let go and just take what I want.
This is better than any fantasy. This is all too real.
I keep him waiting, just long enough to taste his desperation.
He’s not a man who’s ever truly powerless, and the knowledge that I can take it from him feeds something primal in me.
His wrists are locked above his head, shoulders bunching, muscles carving shadows under the lamp’s yellow cone.
His pulse is visible at his throat, hammering, a live wire throb I want to bite just to see how hard it can jump.
I start at his neck, tongue flat, licking a stripe from the hollow of his throat to the sharp edge of his jaw.
He tastes like sweat and soap and need, a combination that makes my mouth water.
I nibble the soft skin under his ear, and he shivers, hips jerking up to meet me, even though I’m nowhere near where he wants me. Not yet.
My hands follow my mouth, palms splayed wide as I map every inch of him, slow and deliberate.
Dawson’s body is a goddamn work of art—every muscle defined, every reaction immediate and intense.
When I drag my nails down his chest, the hair there rasps against my fingertips, the sensation making my skin tingle.
I pause over his left nipple, roll it between my fingers, then close my mouth around it and suck, hard.
He hisses, the sound pulled straight from his gut, and the cuffs rattle against the bed frame as he strains against them. “Fuck,” he groans, voice raw. “You’re trying to kill me.”
I let my teeth scrape just enough to make him gasp, then soothe the bite with my tongue.
I keep moving lower, kissing a line down the ladder of his abs, stopping to circle my tongue into his belly button before going further.
Every touch, every lick, is measured, clinical almost. I want to see exactly how far I can push him before he breaks.
When I reach his hips, I bite down on the jutting bone, leaving a mark that will bruise by morning. He bucks up, thighs trembling, and I glance up to see his eyes locked on me, dark and wild. There’s no fear there, only surrender.
“You like this?” I ask, voice low.
He laughs, breathless, the sound fractured by need. “I like you,” he says. “I like everything you do to me.”
“Good answer,” I say, and slip my fingers under the band of his briefs, dragging them down his legs. He’s fully hard now, cock flushed and leaking, the head so red it looks painful. I let it rest against his stomach and trace the vein with my tongue, watching his face for every flicker of reaction.
He’s biting his lip, eyes half-shut, but he can’t look away. His hands flex uselessly in the cuffs, the need to touch me overridden by the fact that he can’t. It’s intoxicating, the power, and I let myself drink it in for a few seconds before getting back to work.
I kiss along the crease of his thigh, lick the salt from his skin, then take him in my hand, squeezing gently from base to tip. He groans, head falling back, and I marvel at how much I can make him feel with so little.
I keep eye contact as I wrap my lips around the head, swirl my tongue over the slit, and slowly slide down, inch by inch.
He lets out a strangled noise, a sound I’ve never heard from him before, and his hips jerk up, desperate for more.
I pull back, teasing, then take him deeper, relaxing my throat until he bumps the back of my mouth.
“Oh, fuck—Isla—” he chokes out, his voice ragged.
His legs are shaking, toes curling in the sheets.
I set a steady rhythm, up and down, slow at first, using my hand to stroke what I can’t fit in my mouth.
Every so often, I hollow my cheeks, drag my teeth just barely along the shaft, and he loses his goddamn mind.
I feel his whole body tense, every muscle drawn tight as a cable, the fight-or-flight response overridden by pure, helpless pleasure. He’s panting now, moaning my name, and every sound is a spike of electricity straight to my core.
I let go with my mouth, wipe spit from my chin, and stroke him hard and fast, watching his face as he realizes he’s not in control—not even a little. His jaw is clenched, veins standing out in his neck, and I know he’s close, right on the edge.
“You want to come?” I ask, voice gone hoarse from wanting him.
He nods, frantic, eyes wide. “Please.”
I ease up, drag my nails over his balls, and lean in to whisper, “Not yet.” I want to see him beg. I want to own every second of his surrender.
I start over, slower this time, using only my mouth, torturing him with the pace. His hands are fists, white-knuckled, straining so hard against the cuffs I wonder if he’ll snap them. Sweat beads on his skin, and I let myself get lost in him.
When I finally decide to let him come, I wrap my hand around the base, take him deep, and hum. The vibration makes him shout, a sound ripped out of him, raw and desperate. He comes hard, pulsing against my tongue, filling my mouth with heat and salt and the taste that’s uniquely Dawson.
I swallow, licking him clean, and crawl up his body, kissing the sweat off his chest, the shuddering gasp from his lips. I unlock the cuffs, free his wrists, and he grabs me, flipping me onto my back, kissing me so hard I can barely breathe.
“Fucking hell,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I love you.”
I blink several times as his words wash over me. A smile starts deep in my soul and stretches out across my face. “I love you, too.”
He nods, forehead pressed to mine. “Thank God. Because I was worried I’d have to kidnap you and keep you hidden in my lair until you fell for me.”
“I’m glad I can keep you from falling into a life of crime.” I settle into his arms, tangled and spent, and think about what I might try next time. With him, there will always be a next time.
“It’s going to be a lifetime commitment for you,” he mutters, pulling me tight against his side.
And just like that, everything falls right into place, and I couldn’t be happier or more content.