Page 55 of Mister St. James

“I thought about this all week,” he says, voice right at my ear. “The way the red sits against your skin. The way you look when you’re about to come apart.”

I smirk, but my pulse ratchets higher. My body already reacting to his voice and the feel of his breath on my skin. The mirror multiplies every gesture, my face flushing, his hands moving, the careful symmetry of the pattern he’s building down my torso. When he pauses to test a knot, he brushes the inside of my thigh, not sexual, just a systems check. It’s more arousing than anything else he could do.

“You’re staring,” I say.

“Should I stop?”

“Never.”

He works the rope around my ribs, then down and up again in a diamond lattice that frames my waist and pulls at my center of gravity. I feel the rope’s friction at every step, every shift. He finishes with a wrap that splits over my pelvis and anchors at the small of my back. I’m gift-wrapped and immobilized, but still standing.

He circles to face me, and I see us together in the mirrors. Him in a black shirt and pants, sleeves rolled, his glasses a gleam in the low light. Me, in nothing but red rope and attitude.

He lifts my chin. “Ready?”

I nod, but that’s not enough. “Please,” I say, and the word is a detonator.

He backs me up to the mirror, palms me by the hips, and kisses me hard. I feel the marks of the rope bite into my skin, grounding me in the now. His hand goes to my breast, thumb flicking over my nipple, already hard from anticipation. I moan, not loud, but enough to echo.

He pulls my hands above my head and ties my wrists together, anchoring them to the overhead suspension point. I’m on tiptoe, stretched, exposed. The mirror catches every angle. I see what he sees, and the sight turns me molten.

He leans in, mouth at my ear. “You want them to watch?”

“Why else would I be here?” I rasp.

“Look,” he says.

I do. There are silhouettes behind the glass, two, maybe three, watching. One sits perfectly still, another shifts forward, hungry. They can’t see my face, but they can see everything else. I’m a specimen, pinned and spread, the rope a set of arrows all pointing to where I’m wettest.

Aiden runs a hand down my stomach, over the diamond knots, and between my thighs. He finds me soaked, and makes a satisfied sound. He works me open, slow at first, two fingers then three, his other hand at my throat. I start to lose track of the time, of the number of eyes watching. All that matters is the push-pull, the tightness of the rope, the building pressure.

He keeps his eyes on mine, and I on his. The only break is when I look at the mirror and see us together, predator and prey, except I’m not sure which is which anymore.

He brings me to the edge, then stops. I want to scream, but I clamp my teeth. He waits for me to say it.

“Please,” I gasp, “please—”

He obliges, thumb circling my clit, fingers fucking me hard enough that the sound carries. I come, body shuddering against the restraint, pulse spiking so hard I see white. My cry echoes off the mirror, and I feel the floor under my feet vanish for a second.

He waits for the tremors to subside, then unties my hands, lowers me to the mat. He holds me up as he unties the rest, knot by knot, his hands gentle now, careful. When I’m free, he wraps me in the silk robe, then sits beside me on the padded floor. He hands me water, watches until I drink.

The aftercare is quiet. He doesn’t say much, just rubs my wrists and shoulders, tracing the spiral marks the rope left behind. I lean against him, head on his chest, and let myself float. The glass in the walls turns back to mirror, blocking out the watchers.

When I feel steady, he helps me to my feet. We walk out together, me swaddled and smiling, him with a hand at my waist.

On the main floor, the noise swells to fill the void we left. People notice us, but don’t stare. The rumors will write themselves.

I stand a little taller, marks still burning on my skin, and think, let them wonder. Let them tell stories. The truth is better than any of them could guess.

And tonight, the story is ours.

At two in the morning, I am barefoot and braless in Aiden St. James’ penthouse, cradling a tiny cactus and contemplating the question of whether I’m moving in or just marking territory. I set the succulent on the kitchen island, right next to his monolithic espresso machine, and step back to admire the contrast. It’s prickly, inappropriate, and not the least bit ornamental. I love it.

Aiden watches me from the other side of the island, shirt unbuttoned to the third notch, sleeves rolled and forearms braced against the marble like he’s ready to negotiate a merger or stage an intervention. He’s poured two fingers of whiskey into each glass, mine and his, neither of us pretending it’s a nightcap and not the main event.

He lifts his glass, eyes flicking between the cactus and my face. “Symbolism?”

“Survival,” I say. “Also, I know you hate plants.”