Page 21 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

W hen I find Jack upstairs tonight, I’m only slightly less nervous than last night. I’ve worn a robe over my undergarments to make getting undressed easier. I’ve also braided my hair already to save time. Although if I’m honest, there was something inexplicably hot about having him do it.

He’s pulling ropes out of the wardrobe when I enter. Again, he’s in a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of dark slacks. Without a word between us, I close the door, locking it before pulling off my robe and hanging it on a chair in the corner.

“Start on your knees,” he says with his back to me. “That is your default position, understand?”

He seems tense tonight, although I guess he’s always tense. Nodding, I find my place at the center of the rug. Lowering to the floor, I take a deep breath and mentally prepare myself.

If you had told me a year ago that I’d enjoy being silent and submissive for a man, I would have told you you’d lost your mind. But I find solace in knowing that this isn’t about what he wants. It’s about what I want. It’s about connection. Safety. Comfort.

I like the way it feels to give up control, and I won’t apologize for that.

When he turns around with a black ribbon, there’s hesitation on his face, and I silently pray that he’s deemed tonight a good time to start using it.

I even shut my eyes and wait for him to blindfold me.

Instead, I hear him pulling out ropes, and I open them to find the blindfold hanging on the doorknob again. Disappointment washes over me.

I want to ask him why he normally uses a blindfold.

I’ve done my research, and I know it’s not common practice.

It’s just something Jack likes, and I wish I understood why.

Is this another form of control? When it feels like most of my connection with Jack shines through our eye contact, I’m dying to know what it would be like to be with him without that. Would I feel as close to him?

“Same as last time,” he says, turning toward me with ropes in hand. “Nod for yes. Shake for no. Speak up if anything hurts, burns, or starts to feel numb. Understand?”

I nod.

There is stress written on his face. He carries it in the tight furrow of his brows and the tense movement of his shoulders. Pride swells inside me that I get to be a part of the thing that calms him.

And to be honest, it calms me too. As I wait silently on the floor, he moves around me, gathering things, and that overwhelming loneliness I felt when I first moved here is gone. There is silent comfort between us, and in a way, that’s better than sex. This is more intimate.

When Jack kneels on the floor in front of me, it takes me by surprise.

“I want you to feel a leg tie tonight. Sit down with your legs extended in front of you.”

I do as he says with my bare legs on the rug pointed toward him. When his fingers touch my right leg, I flinch slightly, and he glances up at me cautiously. I don’t know why I did that, but the sensation of his fingers on my thigh was electric.

“Are you ready?” he asks, and I nod with confidence.

This time, when he grips my leg under my knee, he moves slower.

I savor the feel of his fingers against my skin as he lifts my right leg until it’s bent with my foot on the floor.

Then he winds the rope around my ankle, moving much like he did last night, deft and assured.

I watch his face as he loses himself in the practice.

Ever so slowly, his tight muscles relax, and the stress melts away.

As much as I love the silence between us, I wish he’d talk as he works, but Jack St. Claire is a closed book. I’m dying to know things like where he learned this and what makes him love it. Has he ever been tied up? Does he normally have sex with the women he binds?

Was this something he did with his wife? Did she enjoy it as much as I do? Something about that sparks a sense of jealousy in my gut. I desperately want this to be something only he and I share, but those are dangerous, reckless thoughts to be having.

All the while, he winds the rope around my ankle, looping and tying it with skillful fingers. The room is quiet. Instead of waiting for his voice, I just let myself drown in his scent and presence.

Once he has a secure tie around my ankle, he touches my upper thigh, and I let out a squeak as he presses my ankle backward, bending my knee until my thigh is flush with my calf.

“Does that hurt your knee at all?” he asks.

I shake my head.

Leaning back, I put my hands on the floor behind me as he works to wrap the rope around my thigh and leg, binding them together. Every time his fingers brush the upper part of my leg near my panties, there’s a lightning strike of arousal through my veins and goose bumps erupting across my skin.

The longer he works, the more I relax into his ministrations. I can’t move my right leg at all, and it’s such a new sensation.

And no matter what we both say about boundaries and lines separating work from pleasure, being this close and giving over this much control creates a sensual energy between us that he can’t deny.

He seems to read my mind, leaning closer to knot the rope at my upper thigh.

“I want you to feel what it’s like to give up control.

There is something about the leg binding that is more intense than the arms. Perhaps because you can’t get away.

Or because it makes you truly rely on me.

Do you sense how different this feels?” he asks as he continues wrapping rope in circles up to my bent knee.

As I nod my head, I wish he’d look at me. Being tied in this position makes me even more vulnerable. I wish I could express to him just how much I love this, like slipping on a perfectly fitting dress.

I have a feeling my next letter to him is going to be more detailed than the last two.

He doesn’t speak anymore as he begins looping the rope in the strands already wrapped around my legs. It’s clearly a move to secure the binds. Testing the knots, I try to extend my leg, and it won’t budge.

Chills cascade down my spine at that sensation.

He works in silence, and it’s obvious by the slow, steady way he moves that he enjoys this. I have my silly doodles, and he has this. The signs of his tension from work are all gone.

When he tucks what is left of the rope into the crease between my thigh and calf, I wait for his next move.

His hands drifts softly over my leg as if he’s admiring his own handiwork. The words that leave his mouth next have my heart practically jumping into my throat.

“You look beautiful like this,” he whispers.

There’s a pulse between my legs as I let his compliment sink in. Unable to stay quiet for another second, I whisper, “Thank you.”

“I wish I could show you off,” he adds.

“Show me off? Where? How?”

Sitting back on his knees, he lets out a sigh. His lips quirk with a crooked smile. “Curious as always. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

I nod energetically. “Yes.”

The thought of being shown off by him sends a thrill down to my core. Not only the idea of being so admired and treasured but also for people to know that I belong to him…it sounds incredible.

His fingers find my face, dancing gently down my jaw. “I’d cover you in rope and put you on display like my own little masterpiece.”

I nod again, although he didn’t ask a question.

“If we could have a session at the club, would you come?” he asks.

Yes, yes, yes , I think, conveying it with yet another head nod.

He chuckles. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you? I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Warmth floods my body all the way from the top of my head to my core.

When he looks at me like that, like he truly sees me, it’s exhilarating.

Every moment with Jack is like cracking open another thin layer.

I’m still miles away from the real person hiding under there, but every day, I get a little closer.

But I wish I could tell him that I am afraid. I’m afraid of ending up alone. Of feeling stuck again. Of falling head over heels for him and having my heart broken. I’m always afraid—I’m just too reckless to show it.

“I’d like to bind your other leg too,” he says, stroking the back of his hand along the left thigh.

I nod my head, assuming he’s looking for consent.

As he works on the other leg, I know that we have definitely gone over an hour, but he doesn’t seem rushed or annoyed to be here. He’s settled in close to me as he works, wrapping, looping, and tying until both of my legs are immobilized.

I’m well aware that the more tied up I am, the more aroused I am. I know he won’t, but God, I wish he’d take advantage of me in this position. Force me to my back and use my body for his own pleasure while I can’t move.

I start fidgeting on the floor, just thinking about it, and I don’t even notice until he says, “Hold still.”

He steadies my leg by holding my knee. There’s more to bondage than sex, I know that from my research, but my experience so far is that they go hand in hand. Or perhaps that’s just Jack’s effect on me.

A man who craves control has full control over me.

And yet the more control he has, the more I see him losing it.

It’s evident in everything he does, even when he doesn’t realize it—his lust-filled gaze on my chest and between my legs.

The evidence of his arousal last night as he pressed his hard length against me.

My excitement isn’t because of the ropes alone—it’s because of him .

He stands from the floor, letting his eyes rake over me. Leaning back on my hands, my knees are parted just enough that he has a filthy view of me bound like this. When he reaches into his pocket, I know exactly what he’s reaching for.

Pulling out the sleek black phone, he holds it up. “Can I take a picture? Just for myself. I mean…of the knots, of course.”

I bite my bottom lip tightly to keep from smiling.

Staring up through my lashes, I nod. And as he holds it up, the camera pointed at me, my nipples pebble tighter and my panties grow wetter.

The thought of him enjoying these photos later or wanting to capture this moment forever ignites a fire inside me.

With that, I stick my chest out and let my head hang. If he wants a sexy picture, I’ll give him a sexy picture.

He lets out a low growl as I let my knees fall away from each other.

“Stop it,” he barks, and I grin wickedly. “You know exactly what you’re doing.” As he leans over until his mouth is near my ear, he adds, “You promised, remember?”

Suddenly, I’m flooded with disappointment. I did promise. With a pout, I close my legs.

Of course, he’s referring to the promise I made in that letter to keep things strictly professional and show restraint. Tempting him with sexy, spread-leg photos is not showing restraint.

“You don’t play fair,” he says as he starts to untie my right leg.

There’s a part of me that loves the idea of being such a temptation to him, but there’s another part of me that hates disappointing him. I want to be his good girl, like I said I was.

But if being good means not getting what I want, is it even worth it?