Page 70 of Jax (The Kansas City Reapers #3)

The suspension rig hung above the bed, bolted into the ceiling beam months ago.

I hadn’t installed it for play. I’d installed it out of necessity, without knowing then it would be for her.

But some part of me must have. Even before I touched her, I knew what kind of weight she’d carry, and what kind of frame she’d need to hold it.

I reached for the first suspension line and clipped it into the center of her Shinju .

The rope felt alive in my grip, dense, obedient, and humming with intent.

When the carabiner locked into the harness at her sternum, the sound echoed between us like a bell.

Low. Resonant. Ceremonial. A sound made for submission.

I drew the slack slowly. Nothing rushed.

With every inch, the line gave her lift, her chest rising, posture opening, shoulders rolling back as if her body had been waiting for this ache to return.

Her ribs pushed into the rope as if it were the only thing holding her together.

Maybe it was. Her fingers twitched. Chin lifted.

Throat bared. But her breath stayed even.

She was made of tension, like a violin string just shy of snapping.

Suspension wasn’t chaos. It was calculus. Every knot held a purpose. Every cinch created balance. Every angle demanded faith. And she’d given me all of it.

I moved to her hips, threading the lines through the bands behind her thighs. The double dragons had shaped her already—knees bent, thighs spread, spine curved like an offering. Now it was time to lift her.

I raised her slowly. Hips first. Letting the rope take her weight so her muscles didn’t have to. Her knees rose from the mat, and with them, the air changed. She didn’t resist. She rose, quiet and sure, like her body had always known it was meant for this.

When her thighs floated, I adjusted her hips just above her sternum. Not by much, just enough to tilt her into torsion. Her spine curved like punctuation, and the sight of her knocked the breath from my lungs.

Some men knelt for war. Others for music, or gods. I knelt for this. A woman suspended midair by my hands. Her chaos rewritten into symmetry. Her panic calmed into silence. Not for display, but for the solace of being held. To disappear inside stillness. To be made free by surrender.

Her hair spilled forward like ink, strands clinging to her lips. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed. Her whole body rocked with the slow, pendulous grace of something sacred and weightless.

I circled her, each step silent on the mat, although nothing inside me was quiet.

The rope creaked with her every breath, a low liturgy of tension and worship.

It didn’t just hold her. It honored her.

This wasn’t art. It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t a performance.

This was devotion in motion. Every knot was a confession. Every anchor, a vow.

“Do you feel it now?” I asked, voice low and reverent. “The quiet?”

She didn’t speak right away. Just tilted her head toward me, like words were hard to find. But when she answered, soft and raw, it burned through me like flame through frost.

“Yes,” she breathed.

And fuck, it hit harder than any orgasm I’d ever had.

“Don’t stop.”

I didn’t. I watched her. Her thighs trembled, breasts drawn tight in rope, nipples flushed and stiff, cunt soaked and dripping between parted legs. The pulse at her throat ticked fast but even. There was no hesitation in her body, only surrender. Clean and complete.

She wasn’t fully in subspace. She was grounded. Rooted in rope and breath and will. Stillness like that isn’t a void. It’s a response. A pattern of somatic compliance triggered by safety, regulation, control. She wasn’t blank. She was precise.

I stepped in, pressed my palm over the line crossing her sternum. Her heart kicked against it once, then settled. Not panic. Pattern. I had written rhythm into her with knots.

“You’re anchored,” I whispered, my breath warm at her ear.

A tear slid down her cheek and caught at the corner of her mouth.

She didn’t flinch. Just stayed suspended, trembling slightly, tuned to the rope, to my voice, to the absence of chaos now humming soft in her bloodstream.

I felt the shift when resistance gave way to reception.

When her mind stopped reaching for control and allowed me to hold it instead.

My fingers traced the inside of her thigh, just above the banded rope, slow and reverent.

Her hips tilted in response—small, involuntary, perfect.

She burned beneath my touch. Not imagined heat.

Actual radiant increase in skin temperature, concentrated along vascular regions.

Evidence of arousal. I could measure it by feel.

Then came her voice again.

“Please.”

Not a plea. A signal. Breath shaped into desire. She hung there as an offering. The rope marked her skin, but it didn’t just restrain her body. It defined her soul. She wasn’t held like something to be controlled. She was curated, shaped into something holy.

I felt her in every breath. The slick heat between her thighs. The scent of her—sharp, sweet, undeniably her.It took everything in me not to fall to my knees and worship.

Instead, I slid my hand between her thighs and along her slit.

Her body trembled, flushed and glowing, already gasping as I touched her.

I didn’t wait. I didn’t tease. I pushed two fingers into her—deep, deliberate, undeniable.

Her cry broke open, head thrown back, spine arched, cunt clenching in involuntary pulses.

I held her midair, one hand bracing her belly while the other worked inside her, slow and sure. Every contraction pulled me deeper. She choked on my name, voice splintering, beautiful in its ruin. Her eyes fluttered open, then shut again, as if she couldn’t decide whether to see me or just feel.

My fingers curled, unyielding, dragging another guttural sound from her. Her breath fractured as my thumb pressed her clit. No rhythm. No coaxing. Just force. Just control.

“Feel that?” I said, voice hot at her ear. “That’s true surrender.”

She sobbed with reverence. The rig trembled with it.

“I can’t…I can’t hold it,” she gasped, legs shaking.

“Yes, you can,” I answered, calm and lethal. “You will. Not until I say. Not until your mind is blank, and every thought inside you belongs to me.”

Her body bucked. Slick heat clenched around my fingers, frenzied and wild. She was unraveling too fast, breaking before the shape was complete.

“Please,” she whispered. “Jax…please. I need….”

“What do you need?” I demanded, breath burning against her throat.

“You,” she cried. “I need you to make it stop. The noise…the guilt. I can’t…fuck….”

I curled my fingers and dragged my thumb hard over her clit. She screamed, body locking down, clenching like she could keep me inside her. But then I pulled away all at once. Every inch of me retreating as she cried out, broken and burning.

“No,” I said, voice steel-flat. “Not yet.”

She screamed, not pretty, not shaped for sound, but guttural and primal.

Her body jerked against the rope, hips straining, cunt clenching on nothing.

I stepped in close, pressing my forehead to hers for a breath.

Just long enough to let her feel it, the heat off my skin, the restraint humming in my spine.

Her breath came wet and ragged. Her pulse thudded beneath flushed skin. Then I pulled back, slow and cruel.

“I told you I’d carve the chaos out of you,” I whispered. “We’re not finished.”

I drove my fingers back inside her, deep, certain. She almost shattered on the spot.

“Jax….”

“No.”

I circled her clit with precision, pressure exact, the rhythm engineered to undo her. Her breath broke apart. “Can’t…please…need…too much….”

Her muscles fought against the binds, but nothing snapped. Not her voice. Not the rig. She wasn’t breaking. She was transforming.

“Beg,” I said, rough now. “Tell me to let you fall.”

She sobbed. Not pretty. Just raw. “Please,” she whispered. “I’m yours. I need to cum. I’m falling…I’m already gone…just let me go.”

The last word cracked. That sound reached inside me and did something final. I curled my fingers, swept across her clit with one hard stroke, and gave her what she’d earned.

“Now.”

She came like it broke something. Her cry split the air, half war cry, half surrender.

Her body seized, suspended and shaking, the rigging creaking above her.

Arms loose. Legs twitching. Mouth open. The kind of orgasm that remakes a person.

Wetness poured around my hand, hot and rhythmic.

Her muscles pulsed like they didn’t know how to stop.

I didn’t move. Just held her steady while she trembled, while every wave tore through what she’d been holding back.

She came like it was an exorcism. Like the orgasm had gone inside her and pulled grief up by the roots.

Her cries weren’t just pleasure. They were the truth.

And when she whispered my name again and again, it wasn’t desperation.

It was belief. I pressed my lips to the side of her throat, reverent, the place where breath turns into pulse.

“It’s done,” I murmured, voice cracked and quiet as I finally removed my fingers from her and sat back on my heels. “You’re free.”