Page 64 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

This was a side of Jax he had not let me see before, and it set my entire body on fire. I whimpered. My head thrashed. My whole body bowed toward him, toward friction, toward mercy.

“Please,” I choked. “Jax, please….”

But he didn’t slide in.

He traced one slow circle around my clit, maddeningly light, just enough to spark nerves, not enough to feed the ache.

“You think you’ve earned that?” he asked, and the edge in his voice cut like glass. “You think just because you’re dripping and twitching and so fucking desperate, you deserve to cum?”

His fingers barely moved. A whisper. A threat. I sobbed, quiet, broken.

“I need it,” I whispered, voice shaking. “Please, I need it, need you….”

“You don’t get to cum,” he said, cold and final, and it shattered something inside me. “Not yet. You get to ache. You get to hang there, strung in my rope, dripping onto the floor, knowing your cunt belongs to me.”

I whimpered, sharp, high, wrecked.

He dipped one finger inside. Just a tease. Then pulled it out again, soaked, and held it up like a prize.

“You want to be filled?” he asked, bringing that slick-coated finger to his mouth and sucking it clean. “You want my cock instead? Want me to fuck you while you beg and drool and scream?”

“Yes,” I whimpered, already rocking helplessly in my restraints. “Yes, please, I’ll do anything…”

“No,” he said, so quiet I almost missed it. “You’ll do nothing. You’ll hang there. You’ll take what I give you.”

Then he bit the inside of my thigh, sharp and deep, with no warning and no mercy. I screamed, not from pain, but from the relief of impact, the grounding weight of something I could finally hold on to. His tongue followed, slow and reverent, a kiss pressed to the forming bruise like worship.

“You think this is punishment?” he murmured.

“It’s not. This is how you learn what it means to belong to me.

You don’t cum because you’re desperate. You cum because I decide you can.

Because I make you.” His fingers slid through my slick heat with one maddeningly slow stroke.

“When I turn your ruin into a fucking masterpiece.”

I whimpered, high and raw, my clit throbbing so hard it hurt. Then he pulled away. Completely.

I nearly broke.

He stood and watched me hang, trembling, soaked, undone. “You’ll thank me for this.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “And you’ll beg me to do it again.”

The words shouldn’t have undone me. They should have been unbearable. But my body betrayed me, arching helplessly in the ropes, desperate for more of the very denial he promised.

He didn’t touch me right away. He made me wait, made me tremble in the stillness.

My own pulse filled my ears, sharp and wild, until his hand pressed flat against my cunt, warm, steady, unmoving.

Just the weight of him. I gasped, straining against it, trying to grind down, but he held me suspended, nowhere to go.

“Beg,” he said.

“I am,” I sobbed, the word clawing out of me. “Please, Jax….”

“Not good enough.” His palm vanished.

The ache screamed louder. Rope dug into skin gone hypersensitive, sweat dripping down my temples, and I broke. Words tumbled, wrecked and frantic. “Please, I’ll thank you, I’ll beg, I’ll do anything…don’t leave me like this.”

A single finger slid inside, curling just enough to make me shatter. My body bowed, vision white at the edges, orgasm tearing up my spine, only to vanish as he pulled away too fast, leaving me clenching on nothing. I sobbed, raw and gutted.

“Again,” he said, calm as steel.

Time stopped being measured in minutes. It fractured into sensations instead: the sting of his teeth sinking into my thigh until bruises bloomed; the wet heat of his tongue circling my clit only to disappear the moment my breath hitched; two fingers pumping hard and fast until I thought I’d break, then retreating just as the wave crested; his knuckles dragging slow along my folds, slick and swollen, teasing me back into madness.

Each denial layered over the last until I couldn’t tell if the shaking was from the rope or from the need. My voice grew ragged, begging until the words slurred, please turning into a chant, his name a prayer I couldn’t stop repeating.

I lost track of how many times he broke and brought me back from the edge.

I only knew that every second belonged to him, every pulse rewired around his command.

My tears blurred into sweat, my sobs into gasps, until I wasn’t sure if I was weeping from frustration or from the dizzy, impossible relief of being held so completely in his control.

By the time the rig creaked and the rope began to lower, I was already broken open. Every inch down was its own kind of mercy and torment, his hands steady, unyielding, never letting me forget he owned every second of this.

And I understood with bone-deep clarity that lowering me wasn’t release. It wasn’t kindness.

It was intention.

The bed was already turned down. He placed me on the sheets like something dangerous, not fragile, but claimed. He didn’t look at me like I might break. He looked at me like I was his.

Without a word, he reached for more rope and threaded it through the harness at my wrists, securing me to the headboard. The knot was snug but not cruel. He gave just enough slack to make sure I remembered this restraint was his choice.

Then he stepped back and undressed. Slow.

Intentional. Every movement was laced with authority.

I watched him without shame, eyes tracing the ripple of muscle across his torso, the sharp cut of his hips, the hard line of his cock, flushed and heavy.

The sight of his arousal standing stiff and throbbing between us lit a new fire in my core.

I craved him, needed to be claimed fully by him.

He crawled onto the bed, knees bracketing my thighs, hands planted beside my ribs. His breath ghosted across my chest. His eyes burned.

“Say it,” he said, voice low and lethal.

I blinked, wrecked. “What?”

His hand wrapped around my throat, not to choke, just to hold. To claim.

“Say who this cunt belongs to.”

My breath caught. My legs twitched.

“You,” I gasped. “Fuck… You. It’s yours.”

“That’s right.” His mouth curved, not in a smile, but with something darker. “It’s mine. And I’ll take it again and again until it’s written in your bones.”

He thrust inside me, one thick, brutal stretch that emptied my lungs and sent fire through my spine. My scream caught, trapped by the shock of being filled that fast, that deeply. He bottomed out like he’d mapped my body and knew exactly how to break me open without giving me time to breathe.

He held there, breath hot over my cheek. “You feel that?” he murmured, voice curling low like a velvet threat. “That stretch, that ache, that burn you’re swallowing like you think you’ve earned it?”

I whimpered and nodded, too wrecked to speak.

“That’s your cunt learning who it belongs to.”

Then he moved, slow, deep, and devastating. Each thrust was exact. Each drag engineered to destroy. His hips rolled like he wasn’t just fucking me, but building something out of my ruin.

“You begged for this,” he said, voice filthy and cold. “Showed up soaked and shaking. Begged to be hung. Tied. Denied. And now?”

He thrust deeper.

“Now I’m going to fuck you like the good little exhibit you are. You wanted to be the art, Stella? This is how I display you—open, exposed, and dripping down my cock.”

My scream shattered the air. He shifted, angled up, and hit something sharp and blinding.

“Right there,” he said, voice tight. “Anterior wall. Two inches in. Slight tilt left. That flutter? That’s your cervix. That’s the trigger.”

He fucked me into it.

Again. Again.

“You’re going to cum so hard you forget what air tastes like.”

And I did.

My orgasm detonated, a brutal wave that tore through muscle and thought. I screamed as I clenched around him, body breaking apart and flooding heat through every inch of me. He didn’t stop. He drove straight through it, into the next, voice rough with possession.

“Such a responsive little toy. Rope slows you down. Makes you feel every inch I give you.” He shifted, running his thumb over my clit like a warning. “You’re not done.”

“Jax—fuck… I can’t?—”

“You can. You will. I’m not stopping until this tight little pussy forgets how to do anything but obey.” His thrusts turned brutal, never cruel, just absolute.

I broke again, messy and wet, sobbing his name as my body convulsed in the ropes, tears spilling from the overload. And only then, when I was limp and wrecked, did he slow.

He exhaled and kissed me, deep, deliberate, like he was branding me with breath instead of fire. Like his mouth knew exactly where I belonged. Like I’d just been etched into the heat of him, not written but claimed.

And I was.

Everything pulsed, not with pain, but in a soft, echoing throb, like sound waves long after the music faded.

My cunt ached, stretched and tender, still leaking from where he’d taken me so fully I couldn’t remember saying his name, only that it lingered like smoke in my throat.

My arms burned from suspension, chest tight in the harness, legs boneless and beautifully wrecked.

And underneath it all, there was warmth. Not heat. Not friction. Just warmth.

Jax was still inside me when he kissed me. The kiss didn’t ask or promise. It just was, steady, grounding, like he needed that mouth-to-mouth tether to keep us from drifting too far.

When he pulled back, I whimpered from the absence.

He moved as if time had thickened, untying only what he had to.

Each knot worked loose with quiet reverence.

He left the ropes on my chest, still framing my ribs.

The futomomo stayed, leg bent and bound like a secret.

But he freed my wrists from the headboard and brought them forward with such gentleness it made my eyes sting.

I couldn’t lift them. So he cradled them. Kissed the inside of each wrist.