Page 28 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

“Yes. Or other things you may not have considered before, such as degradation. Sensory deprivation. Roleplay that sinks deeper into you. These things require clarity and careful negotiation.”

I tilted my head. “What are yours?”

His pen didn’t pause. “No edge play. No blood. No scat. No permanent marks. Nothing that cuts deeper than I can clean.”

“I think I understood most of that.” I quipped. “It sounds like you have put a lot of thought into your limits.”

His smile didn’t quite form, but the shift was there. “People who play without care? They’re not Dominants. They’re just dangerous.”

The way he said it, measured, certain, with just a breath of threat, landed in my chest like a hand. Not violent. Just heavy. Claiming.

I shifted, grounding myself in the blanket, the wood beneath. “Okay. This is… a lot. But I think I’m following. Is there anything else?”

“Safe words. Think of them as shorthand for letting me know how you are doing during a scene. I use a standard traffic light model, as do many in the kink community. Green for good. Yellow for check-in. Red means it ends. Instantly. No delay. No explanation needed.”

“And if I don’t know what I need yet?” My voice dipped, but it didn’t falter.

“Then we proceed slowly,” he said, his gaze steady. “We experiment, we pause, we observe. A scene isn’t a performance. It’s an ongoing exchange, an intimate dialogue your body can learn to articulate.”

He said it with the certainty of someone who’d map every nerve if I let him.

“Consent and clarity,” he continued. “That’s the foundation. From there, intensity becomes a variable we can adjust as needed. Sometimes that could mean pain. Sometimes it’s stillness. Sometimes it’s holding you so perfectly still you forget how to breathe.”

I leaned back, a slow curl of heat blooming through my stomach. “And if I want to feel something other than fear?”

“Then we retrain the reflex. We teach your body new truths.” His voice stayed level, low, certain. But I felt every syllable echo in the place my breath had abandoned.

I exhaled slowly, controlled, eyes fixed on him. “I used to think being tied up meant handing someone all the power.”

Jax’s voice dropped just enough to graze every nerve in me. “It only means that when the wrong person is holding the rope.” A pause, then quieter but clear. “What happened to you wasn’t power exchange. It was theft. There’s no consent in survival.”

The words didn’t accuse. They resonated. They hummed through my chest like a chord finally in tune.

“Submission,” he said, “is the most powerful thing someone can offer. It’s not about giving in. It’s about giving to. You’re not surrendering control. You’re choosing where it goes.”

That word—choosing—landed harder than I expected. I felt it catch in my throat, but I didn’t look away. “I don’t want to be helpless. But I won’t let what was done to me define what I’m allowed to choose now.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched. Not with scrutiny, but understanding. “We can work with that,” he said at last. “But only on your terms. You lead. Every step.”

I nodded, and this time it didn’t feel like a performance. “I don’t need everything. I just need to know what it feels like to say yes, and mean it.”

He reached for a single coil of rope. No display. No pressure. Just one length, resting in his palm like a question. He didn’t offer it. Didn’t ask. “When you’re ready, you can ask. Not before.”

The silence that followed didn’t hesitate. It anchored. The rope lay between us, patient and still, carrying more weight than it should’ve. No coercion lived in the moment. No persuasion. Just presence, still and sure.

And that’s what disarmed me. Not the rope. Not the invitation. The calm. The fact that he wasn’t trying to make me want it. He was just holding space for when I did.

I looked at the rope, hands still in my lap, instincts still wary but no longer ruled by them. I didn’t move. I didn’t reach. But something inside shifted. Opened in a way I hadn’t known was locked.

“Tell me what happens if I take it.”

“Nothing. Not until you ask.”

“For what?”

“For the tie. For the scene. For the power. You decide what it becomes.” His tone never changed, but the weight behind it deepened. He didn’t perform dominance; he was it.

“So this is a marker?” I asked.

He shook his head. “It’s a door. Whether you open it or not is up to you.”

The way he said it wasn’t seductive. It was sacred.

The gravity in his restraint, the stillness of his waiting, the way he didn’t reach to close the distance.

All of it pressed under my skin like a heat I couldn’t ignore.

He let me sit there. Let me choose the silence.

Let me feel what it meant to be fully seen without being touched.

I drew a breath, slower than I intended. “I thought it would feel more like a decision. Like I’d know when the moment came.”

“It already has,” he said.

I looked down at my hands. At the slight tremble I didn’t want to name. Then at him again. “And if I told you I’m still scared?”

His voice dropped an octave, threading around me like silk. “Then I’d say that is a very logical response. Fear means you’re paying attention. And I’d thank you for trusting me enough to tell the truth.”

My heart did something uncomfortable and hot. Not because I didn’t believe him. But because I did. “You’re not going to stop being annoyingly perfect, are you?” I asked, mostly to cover the sound of my pulse thudding in my ears.

His smile was slow and secretive. “Oh, Stella. I’m not perfect. I’m simply patient. Very, very patient.”

I wanted to kiss that mouth. Just once. Just to see if he tasted like his voice sounded—steady, deliberate, and just a little dangerous.

Instead, I reached for the rope. Not with confidence.

Not with grace. Just a breath at a time, letting my hand drift toward his until the fibers brushed my fingertips.

It was rougher than I had expected. Warmer too.

Like it had been worn in, shaped by use, softened just enough to speak without shouting.

I lifted it slowly, watching the way the coils unwound, weight settling into my palm.

“I don’t know what I want yet,” I said. “But I know I want to know.”

He nodded, the barest movement. “Then that’s what we’ll find.” The promise in his voice was almost too much. Not because it was heavy, but because it was real. This wasn’t foreplay. It was an invitation.

“What does that look like?” I asked.

His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Control. Surrender. Pain, if you want it. Safety, always. And a kind of freedom most people don’t even know exists.”

A shiver raked through me. Not fear. Anticipation. I clutched the rope a little tighter. “I’m not asking for anything right now.”

He inclined his head, solemn. “Then I’m not giving anything. Not until you ask.”

The tension between us crackled—thick, charged, like a thunderstorm about to break.

“Would you say no?” I asked softly. “If I asked wrong?”

“Yes.” One word. Hard. Certain. And, holy hell, it did something to me. I exhaled slowly.

“Okay.”

He stood up, not making a sound, and gave me one last look. Just heat and steel and endless patience in the shape of a man. “When you’re ready,” he said, “you’ll ask.”

Then he left me alone. Rope in hand. Heart in my throat. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel restrained. I felt free.