Page 11

Chapter 11

The Edge of Pleasure

He lifts the crop slowly, deliberately, letting me watch. Letting me anticipate.

The tip taps once against his palm.

A sharp, clean sound?—

And my breath catches.

Fear flickers. Not terror—no. But something primal. Instinctive. A spike of adrenaline that makes my pulse stutter and my skin prickle with awareness.

I’ve never done this. Never imagined I would.

Pain, used like this—meant for pleasure, not punishment—isn’t something I’ve ever considered.

But Cole has.

“You did well,” he says, voice still gravel and heat. “So good. So fucking tight when you came, but I’m not done with you, sweetheart. Not even close.”

He walks to the foot of the bed, the crop gripped in his strong hand like an extension of his will, and I can’t look away.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t stop the heat that pulses low in my belly—thick, liquid, undeniable.

“I want to teach you something new,” he murmurs, tracing lazy lines over my ribs. “How pain— the right kind —can make the pleasure sweeter.”

He drags the crop slowly across my stomach, teasing. Not striking. Not yet. Up between my breasts. Over the soft swell of flesh. Across the straps binding my wrists above my head.

“Tell me…” He leans in, voice low and lethal, the crop trailing lazy patterns over my ribs. “Do you want to feel it?” His mouth brushes my collarbone, heat bleeding into skin. “A taste of my crop?”

The crop lifts—taps lightly against my inner thigh. Another tap. Higher.

“Do you want me to make you burn?” His gaze finds mine, dark and patient. Waiting. Wanting. “Say it."

I shudder, breath catching. Words fail me and all I can do is nod.

The crop taps once—harder—against my thigh. A warning.

“Not like that. Not some wordless plea.” His voice sharpens, silk over steel. “Use your words, sweetheart. Show me you’re mine."

I swallow hard, pulse thundering in my ears. My thighs tremble, not from fear—but anticipation.

The line between threat and thrill blurs.

“Say it,” he repeats, stepping closer, dragging the crop up my stomach in a slow, deliberate line. “Tell me you want to burn for me.”

My voice wavers, but it doesn’t break.

“I want to burn for you, Sir.”

His smile is slow. Dark.

“Good girl.”

The first strike lands on the inside of my thigh. A sharp, stinging kiss.

I gasp.

It’s not unbearable. It’s precise. And followed by the slow slide of his fingers over the same spot—stroking, soothing, claiming.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Breathe through it. Take it for me.”

Another. Higher.

The sting. The touch. The praise.

The world narrows to leather and heat, and his voice anchoring me through it all.

I’m floating.

“You’re doing so good. So beautiful like this. Bound and exposed and letting me shape your pleasure.”

Another strike. Another brush of his fingers.

My thighs tremble. My breath comes in pants.

And somewhere between pain and praise, I feel it—need rising again. Arousal twisting sharp and fast, rewiring my understanding of surrender all over again.

He climbs back onto the bed, and when he presses his body to mine—hot, hard, demanding—I feel his cock, thick and ready, sliding against my thigh. He thrusts in with a sound that’s all possession and hunger, grinding into me with brutal purpose.

“I’m going to fuck you until your legs don’t work.”

And I can only moan, already unraveling all over again.

His forehead rests against mine as he gives me time to adjust to his size.

"Christ, you feel good," he murmurs, voice strained with the effort of remaining still. "So tight, so perfect."

When he moves, it's with the same deliberate control he displayed before—each thrust measured, angled to hit exactly the right spot within me. His eyes never leave mine, maintaining that connection that's become as important as the physical joining.

"Wrap your legs around me," he instructs, one hand sliding beneath me to lift my hips slightly, changing the angle to drive even deeper.

I comply eagerly, ankles locking at the small of his back, allowing him even greater access. The new position sends him deeper, hitting a spot that makes me gasp with each thrust.

"That's it," he encourages, the pace increasing slightly. "Take all of me. You're doing so well, taking me so perfectly."

The praise, combined with the exquisite fullness of him inside me, quickly rebuilds the pleasure I thought momentarily spent. I move with him, meeting each thrust, feeling the controlled power in each movement.

"Cole," I gasp as the familiar tension begins to coil low in my belly. "I'm close—again."

"I know," he murmurs, never breaking rhythm. "I can feel you tightening around me. So responsive, so perfect for me." One hand slides between us, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at my center. "Come for me again. Let me feel you come around my cock."

The explicit command, combined with the added stimulation, sends me over the edge. This orgasm is deeper, more intense than the first, radiating outward from where we're joined to consume my entire body. I cry out his name as the pleasure crests and breaks.

He follows me moments later, his rhythm faltering as his release claims him. His face in that moment of abandon is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen—the usual control giving way to raw, unfiltered pleasure, my name a rough prayer on his lips as he empties himself inside me.

Afterward, he collapses beside me rather than on top of me, immediately drawing me into his arms. We lie there in silence for several minutes, just breathing together as our heart rates gradually slow.

His hand traces idle patterns on my hip, his breathing steady against my hair. The simple intimacy of the moment—this quiet aftermath—feels almost more significant than the passionate joining that preceded it.

Time loses meaning.

What begins as hunger turns into ritual—worship through control.

He uses me.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Between orgasms, he doesn’t stop.

He teaches about pleasure, pain, discipline, and obedience.

The cuffs stay on all night—sometimes securing my wrists to the bedposts, sometimes behind my back, sometimes above my head as he flips me, bends me, repositions me like I belong to him.

Because I do.

The crop makes return visits—sharper on my ass, more delicate along the curve of my breasts, occasionally between my thighs when I whimper without permission. But always followed by his mouth. His praise. His touch.

He balances the sting with sweetness so expertly it feels like devotion.

When I get too loud, he introduces the gag. Black velvet. Soft but final. He slides it between my lips with reverence, buckles it behind my head with care, and watches me fall apart for him, wordless and wide-eyed.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, stroking my cheek as I moan around the gag. “Bound. Gagged. So fucking perfect.”

He makes me come while gagged. Then removes it only to demand, “Thank me properly.”

And I do.

He lets me ride him until I can barely hold myself up, only to flip me and thrust from behind, one hand on my throat, the other pulling my cuffs like reins.

Each orgasm feels different. Sharper. Deeper. Like he’s not just breaking me—but rewriting me.

He tells me I’m his. That I was made for this. That no one will ever fuck me like this again because no one will own me like this. By the time dawn edges across the sky in soft grays and golds, I’m limp and trembling, my body exhausted but my soul burning.

He finally unbuckles the cuffs and pulls me into his chest, one hand smoothing gently over my hair, the other wrapped protectively around my waist.

Not a word is spoken.

There’s no need.

He knows.

I know.

I came to Angel’s Peak in control.

And now I’m wrapped in the arms of the man who took it from me—and gave me everything in return.

"Stay with me," I murmur, the words slipping out before I consider them.

His arms tighten around me, lips pressing a kiss to my temple. "I wasn't planning on going anywhere." His voice is warm with affection. "Wild horses couldn't drag me from this bed."

The declaration, simple but sincere, settles something in me. I've never been one to cuddle after sex, always finding some excuse to create distance—a shower, a glass of water, early meetings the next day. With Cole, all I want is to remain exactly where I am, encircled in his strength, my head resting on his chest where I can hear the steady rhythm of his heart.

"That was..." I begin, struggling to find adequate words.

"Mmm," he agrees, understanding without needing the specifics. "It was."