Page 48 of Watch Me Burn

I lower my lips to his throat, kissing my way down the line of his pulse. My teeth graze skin, dragging lazily until I find the hollow of his collarbone, and bite down.

Leaving a mark to remind him exactly who he belongs to.

I reach for my blade, its cool weight familiar—a tool not meant for pain, but to amplify sensation. Tonight, every nerve will scream, begging for more.

I let the flat of it rest against his chest, cool steel against flushed, overheated skin. He tenses immediately. I watch every muscle ripple as I drag the blade downward, never breaking skin, only pushing the pressure just close enough to threat.

“Scared?”

He shakes his head, proud to the end.

Still lying.

I hum in response before slicing through his belt in one fluid motion. The metallic snap of it coming loose echoes like a shot through the room.

Then the teasing unzip.

When I free him, he’s already leaking and trembling beneath me. I don’t stroke him, not yet. Instead, I hover. Let the air between us stay charged, electrified with denial. Let him feel the full weight of what it means to want and not get.

“Do you even realize how flawless you are like this?” I whisper. “Tied up. Muzzled. Desperate.”

The most exquisite power isn’t in what you take.

It’s in what you withhold.

Wrapping my hand around him, I don’t stroke but hold, tight enough to make him go completely still.

Aaron trembles.

“You’re not used to waiting, are you? You give an order and the world around you obeys. But not here. Not with me.”

I drag the tip of the blade across his inner thigh, and he flinches. A reminder that he’s vulnerable. That his pleasure, his safety, his release—all of it belongs to me now.

“And the truth is, you love it.”

He lifts his head, breath catching in recognition. Not fear.

Aaron is finally allowing himself to be truly appreciated and seen by me. Because he does love this.

I feel it in the way his body arches when I slide the blade higher, just to the crease of his hip. I feel it in the way he moans when I drop the knife and replace it with my mouth, tongue tracing a path from his navel to the waistband of his ruined pants.

I pause. Let the moment stretch. My lips hover just above the place he needs me most.

“Beg. I want to hear you try.”

He groans, guttural and raw, his hips lifting helplessly. He’s wrecked and still gagged. But that doesn’t matter. I don’t want words. I want the sound of a man who thought he had everything—power, wealth, reputation—and would burn it all down just to have me touch him.

And that’s exactly what my husband gives me. No words, just a fractured sound of a king begging for mercy.

Finally .

I sink down onto him inch by inch, watching how perfectly he fills me up.

I have to bite my lip hard to stay still, to not move with him seated inside me.

“Now hold it.”

And when he does, when I can’t take it for a second longer, I start to move. Perfectly punishing. This isn’t about sex, I need him to pray to me.

Like I’m his God.

He tries to thrust up, but he can’t.

I’ve taken that from him. Taken everything from him—motion, voice, authority. All that’s left is sensation. And I make him feel all of it.

I ride him with a rhythm that belongs to me alone—fast when he expects brief, still when he craves movement, deep when his body begs for shallow. Every move a branding.

I wrap my hand around his throat, making him twitch violently inside me. Reminding him who is in charge of every last muscle in his body.

“You hold it,” I whisper against his ear. “You don’t come until I say. Understand?”

He’s undone.

Reduced to sweat and muscle and submission. Nothing of the man who walked through that door remains.

I fuck him like I’m engraving my name into the marrow of his spine. Like I’m etching every ounce of power into his bones.

And when I feel him start to break, I give the one command he’s been silently begging for.

“Come for me,” I breathe and he lets go, exploding.

The sound he makes is feral. The gag catches the scream, but I hear it in every crack of his body. The ropes creak, the chair groans beneath the force of his release. He comes like he’s unraveling.

I keep moving. Keep grinding. Drawing every last twitch and tremor out of him until he’s overstimulated, sweat-slick, drenched in sin and the weight of what just happened.

When the silence falls and his body finally goes still, I begin to untie him. Not uttering a single word as my hand unmake what I built.

I kiss the places I left marks—rope burns along his wrists, the bite blooming on his collarbone, the red prints where I held too tight.

And when I remove the blindfold, his eyes find mine.

Dazed. Destroyed. Devoted.

“You okay?” I ask gently, and he laughs. It’s cracked, and breathless.

“No.”

I smile. “Good.”

“Now what?”

“Now, Mr. Jackson,” I murmur, brushing a damp curl from his forehead, “I take care of you for the rest of the night. Starting with a hot shower…and a massage in bed.”

His lashes lower, like even that promise is too much after what I’ve just done to him.

I’ve stripped him down to bone and blood and need. I’ve seen the parts no one else gets to touch—the fear, the ache, the man beneath the title. And in return, I gave him peace in the chaos.

Instead of fighting it, he gave in.

And what I found beneath the suit and steel…was perfect.

Exactly as he is.

No lies. No armor. Just Aaron.

Just us, as we are.

I lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth.

“You gave me everything tonight,” I whisper against his lips. “Thank you for trusting me.”

That’s what you needed, isn’t it? To be seen. To be taken apart and still worshipped.

Aaron exhales shakily, his gaze raw with vulnerability he’s never shown anyone else. And in that look, I know I’ve reached the core he’s guarded for so long.

Love built on power falls apart, but love built on trust is unbreakable.