Page 128 of The Christmas Trap

He ties off the final knot low at my stomach. His hands linger there, palms warm, grounding me in his touch.

“Look at you.” He swallows. “My Christmas miracle. Wrapped for me.”

My breath catches. I should feel exposed, but instead, I feel luminous. I feel seen. An offering for my master. Tied up and at my Sir’s mercy. The ropes hold me the way his gaze does: reverent, possessive, protective.

He reaches up and brushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “How do you feel?”

“Like I belong to you." I force everything I’m feeling into my eyes, hoping he sees how much deeper I’m falling in love with him every second that we’re together.

His eyes flash. His breathing grows rough. He senses how I belong to him completely. Mind. Body. And soul. I challenge him to tell me he loves me with my eyes.

His gaze turns fervent.

But when he opens his mouth, what comes out is, “You do. You belong to me. You always will. And after today, you’ll never forget that."

The intent in his voice is a promise, a pledge. A declaration. He may well have carved those words into my soul. The ropes creak softly as he draws me into his arms. My skin hums where the fibers press. The yawning desire in my center is fanned by the flames in his eyes.

He drags his palms down my spine, slow and possessive, until they find my arse. He massages the skin, tender from his earlier ministrations. Electricity zips out from his touch. My nipples harden. My clit throbs.

His fingers dip into my sensitive curves, claiming, testing, worshipping. The ropes cinch across my skin, a perfect lattice that frames the curve of my buttocks, lifting and presenting me to him. The ropes frame me, and offer me up for his pleasure, his control, his indulgence.

In that moment, tied and trembling under the force of his desire and mien, I realize, this isn’t about control at all. It’s about surrender.Giving myself up to be used by my master. It’s a strangely freeing sensation. To realize, I've submitted myself. Put myself at his mercy. For him to do with me as he wants. That I trust him to ensure I’m thoroughly pleasured. That when it comes to my body, he knows what I want more than I know myself. As if he senses my thoughts, he steps back slightly. "Choose a safe word."

"A safe word?" I frown. “Do I need that?”

“This is your first foray into kink, so it’s important that you choose it. That way, you know you’re in control. Anytime you want to stop you only have to say so and I will.”

Okay then.

I think for a few seconds then say, "Mistletoe."

He absorbs it, then nods. "Don’t hesitate to use it." He lifts me up by the backs of my thighs then carries me to the bed. He places me on it, then bears down so I sink down to sit on my heels. He uses more of the silky rope to tie my ankles to my thighs.

Then tips me back gently onto my back. In this position, my knees are bent and spread out.

He continues to work with the rope, looping it gently around my neck once, twice. He’s making a collar, I realize. I should be repulsed by it, but I’m not. It feels like the ultimate sign of ownership. But not owning me in the way of an inanimate possession. More like a promise to protect. It feels like some kind of unspoken claim. Like he’s asserting his authority over me in a very intimate way.

The surge of endorphins from the thoughts course through me, relaxing my muscles. It feels like he’s fully attentive, in command. His movements sure. The brush of his fingers, the slide of the rope over my skin strangely reassuring. Almost rhythmic.

Having him work on me, his focus so fixed on me, his heightened sense of awareness as he tugs on knots and checks to make sure that the ropes don’t hurt my skin—not more than he intends, that is—forges a sense of emotional intimacy that’s headier than anything I’ve encountered.

At the same time the feeling of the ropes, the pressure, the texture, the restriction they place on my movements heightens my awareness of my body. I feel myself come into my body fully for thefirst time ever. My breath. My heartbeat. The tension in my muscles. The rise and fall of my chest. The give of the rope against the physiological movements of my body, all of it is grounding. It’s a meditative state that I haven’t experienced before.

I’m floating, yet also keenly aware of everything around me. Of his breathing. His scent. The tension coiling his muscles. The elevated beating of his heart, in sync with the rhythm of my own.

He slides his finger under the collar he’s fashioned for me and presses against the pulse fluttering at the hollow of my throat. "You good?"

Umm, good is not the word I’d use. More like. Ecstatic. In a kind of floating, happy kind of way. And this is from him tying me. I wonder what’s going to happen when he gets around to fucking me.

His features soften. He’s so tuned into me it’s as if he senses my thoughts. "Answer me, Siren. You good?"

42

Lark

I jerk my chin.

"I can’t proceed until you tell me so." He seems so concerned. The waves of emotions bouncing off him touches me to the core.