Chapter 232
Sophia's POV
The ropes came next.
He started with my left wrist, looping the silk around it with practiced efficiency before securing it to something I couldn't see—probably a hidden anchor point in the bed frame. Then my right.
I tested the bindings instinctively, found them snug but not cutting off circulation.
He'd done this before, I realized with a sick jolt. Probably in this exact room, with God knows how many other women.
"Lucas—" My voice cracked on his name, desperation bleeding through despite my best efforts to stay detached.
"What did I say about begging?" He trailed one finger down my sternum, between my breasts, over my stomach, stopping just above the waistband of my panties—the only thing I still wore. "It doesn't suit you."
Then came the blindfold.
The world went dark as soft fabric settled over my eyes, and immediately every other sense sharpened to an almost painful degree.
I could hear my own breathing—too fast, too shallow—and the quiet rustle of Lucas moving around the room. The waterbed shifted beneath me with each of his steps, sending ripples through my body that made me feel seasick.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said, his voice coming from somewhere to my right. "I'm going to touch you. Taste you. Make you feel things you don't want to feel. And you're going to lie there and take it."
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasting copper.
His mouth found my collarbone first—a gentle kiss that made me flinch despite myself. Then another, lower, tracing a path down to the swell of my breast.
His tongue flicked against the sensitive skin, and I hated the way my body responded, nerve endings firing against my will.
"Still so responsive," he murmured against my skin, satisfaction thick in his voice. "Even when you're trying so hard to hate me."
He was taking his time, mapping every inch of me with his mouth like he was memorizing a route he'd traveled a thousand times before. When his teeth grazed my nipple, I couldn't stop the sharp intake of breath, and I felt him smile against me.
"There she is."
His hands joined his mouth, one sliding up my ribcage while the other traced patterns on my inner thigh, never quite touching where he knew I didn't want him to touch.
The waterbed rocked gently beneath us, each movement amplifying the sensation of being adrift, unmoored, completely at his mercy.
I lost track of time. Minutes? Hours? It all blurred together into an endless catalogue of touches and tastes and the maddening awareness of my own helplessness. Without my sight, every sensation was magnified tenfold—the scratch of his stubble against my stomach, the warmth of his breath on my skin, the way his fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave bruises.
When he finally pulled away, I heard him moving around the room again, opening drawers, the clink of something metal. My pulse spiked.
"Remember what I said about making this interesting?" His voice was closer now, right beside my ear. "I meant it."
Something cool and smooth pressed against my ankle—a leather cuff, I realized, as he buckled it into place. Then another on my other ankle. He spread my legs wider than was comfortable, securing them to what I assumed were more hidden anchor points, and suddenly I was completely immobilized, spread-eagled on this ridiculous waterbed like some kind of offering.
"Perfect," he breathed, and I heard the smile in his voice. "Now we can really begin."
What happened next existed in a strange, dissociated haze. I felt everything—God, did I feel it—but somehow I wasn't really there.
I floated above my own body, watching from a safe distance as Lucas used me like I was a toy designed for his amusement.
His mouth, his hands, objects I couldn't identify but felt with searing clarity—all of it choreographed to pull responses from my traitorous flesh that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with biology.
The waterbed became its own kind of torture, every movement creating waves that traveled through my entire body, impossible to predict or brace against. I was seasick and aroused and disgusted with myself in equal measure, and through it all, Lucas kept up a running commentary that made me want to scream.
"Look at you, so wet for me even though you hate it. Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."
I wanted to tell him that wetness wasn't consent, that my body's reflexive responses meant nothing, but my voice had abandoned me somewhere between the third and fourth orgasm he'd wrung from me like he was squeezing water from a stone.
When he finally—finally—removed the blindfold, I had to blink against the sudden brightness, tears streaming down my temples into my hair. Lucas loomed above me, fully clothed while I lay naked and bound and utterly wrecked, and the satisfaction on his face made me want to die.
"There you are," he said softly, reaching down to brush away my tears with surprising gentleness. "Did you miss me?"
I turned my face away, unable to look at him, unable to bear the weight of what had just happened.
My whole body ached—not from pain, exactly, but from the sustained tension of being held in one position for so long, from the relentless assault of sensation, from the exhausting work of trying to keep myself separate from what was being done to me.
Lucas made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, then began unbuckling the cuffs at my ankles. When he moved to my wrists, I felt the circulation return in a rush of pins and needles that made me gasp.
"Come on," he said, pulling me to sit up. The waterbed sloshed dramatically, and I had to grab his shoulders to keep from falling. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He half-carried me to the bathroom, my legs too shaky to support my full weight. The lights were mercifully dim, and he ran the shower hot enough to steam up the mirrors before guiding me under the spray. I stood there, letting the water cascade over me, and tried very hard not to think about anything at all.
Lucas didn't join me—small mercies—but he didn't leave either. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me through the glass shower door with an expression I couldn't quite read. When I finally turned off the water and reached for a towel, he was there to hand it to me, wrapping it around my shoulders like I was something precious instead of something he'd just used for his own gratification.
"Better?" he asked, and I almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.
Instead, I just nodded, too exhausted to do anything else.
He led me back into the bedroom, and I noticed for the first time that there was a second bed—a normal bed, with normal sheets and normal pillows, tucked against the far wall. Thank God.
"I can't sleep on that thing," I heard myself say, gesturing weakly at the waterbed. My voice sounded strange, scraped raw. "It makes me nauseous."
Lucas studied me for a long moment, something flickering behind his eyes that might have been concern if I didn't know better. Then he nodded once, decisive.
"Fine. We'll use the other bed."
He pulled back the covers and waited while I crawled in, still wrapped in my towel because I couldn't bring myself to be naked around him for one more second.
When I was settled, he climbed in behind me, fully dressed, and pulled me back against his chest with one arm banded across my ribs.
"Sleep, Fia," he murmured into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. "We've got a long week ahead of us."