Page 84 of Ruthless Knot

No shame.

Just—clinical, almost, the way she fits her palm to my shaft, thumb running along the underside, fingers curling until she has a perfect grip. Her hand is delicate but strong—callused from blade play, bars, and pointe shoes.

She pauses, just for a second.

Looks down at what she’s holding.

Then looks up at me, one brow arched, like she’s waiting for a reaction.

Like she wants me to beg.

I laugh.

Short, low, helpless.

“You sure you’re not the Alpha in this arrangement?”

She snorts—a wet, unfiltered sound, half giggle, half derision.

“Oh, I’m definitely the Alpha here. Psychotic, deranged, little-miss-top-energy.” Her hand gives a slow, deliberate squeeze. “If I were a man, I’d probably be fucking you into this mattress. Would you mind?”

It’s meant as a taunt.

A challenge.

But the truth is, I don’t mind at all.

I shake my head, wrists flexing against the cuffs, my body arching toward her hand even as I pretend I’m unaffected.

“If it was you? Or some version of you? No.” I pause, let the admission settle between us. “But maybe that’s just because I’m?—”

“—horny as fuck?” she supplies, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Yes. Accurate diagnosis, doc.”

She giggles again—higher, more frenetic, and this time it has an edge. Like she could start ripping me apart with her bare hands or kiss me until I forget my own name.

She starts stroking me.

Slow at first.

Deliberate.

Like she wants to drive me insane, build tension with every drag of her palm. Her fingers squeeze just below the head, twisting slightly on the upstroke, then slide down to the base, knuckles pressing into my skin. She watches as precum beads at the tip—a glistening, obscene invitation—and dips her finger in it, swirling it around in a way that makes my hips jerk off the mattress.

The urge to move is overwhelming.

I want—need—to touch her.

Need her thighs around my head, her hands in my hair, her body arching over mine as she rides me slow and mean, watching my face for any sign of surrender.

But I’m bound.

Captive.

Her grand prize.

“You like being at my disposal?” she asks, voice gone lower, more intimate. She leans forward so her hair swings around her face, forming a curtain between us and everything else.