Chapter 149 – New Toys
Ronan
The box is small enough to fit under my arm and I’m annoyed by how nervous I am about Eli’s reaction.
I watch the way Eli’s eyes flick from the leather hinges to my face.
“You’ve been planning,” he says, drawing out the last word like it’s suggestive. “Has my Alpha been doing research to spice up the way he plays with me?”
I catch his chin between thumb and forefinger and tilt his face up until his throat shows. “I don’t play,” I tell him, amused at the lie. “I claim.”
A pleased shiver runs through him and he’s ridiculous enough to pretend it’s because the room is drafty.
“There are rules,” I say, because I’ve learned that ritual steadies him. “You drink water when I tell you, or any time you need it. You immediately speak up if anything feels wrong, not later. And when I say stay still, you stay still.”
His grin goes feral. “And if I don’t?”
“You will,” I answer. “You like what happens when you do.”
A flush rises, visible even in the firelight. He’s going to needle anyway, because it’s in his marrow. He hooks a finger under the lid and lifts it slowly. The scent of leather, oil, and fresh wood breathes into the room.
Inside are the items I had custom made for us. A pair of black leather cuffs lined in soft lambskin. A braided lead with a polished brass clip, attached to a wide black leather collar. A silk blindfold the color of midnight. A glass plug the size of a plum, already warming in a fold of fleece. A paddle made of walnut, hand-crafted to fit my palm. A strip of velvet ribbon, a vial of warming oil and a coil of hemp rope, bone-white and patient.
Eli whistles low. “Look at you,” he purrs. “This is even better than the sort of thing princes bring when they want to court me.”
He’s baiting me with the words. Kieran’s shadow still lingers in the corners of our home, but I won’t allow it to live here for long.
“This is what your Alpha brings when he knows we belong to each other.”
He swallows, throat working. The bond pulls taut between us, a cord I can feel along my spine.
He means to say something wicked and I take the chance from him by lifting the cuffs. “Wrists,” I order.
He offers them without a quip, and it plants something warm and savage in my chest. I fasten the leather, then thread the velvet ribbon through both D-rings and knot it lightly.
I lift the blindfold and he tenses, just enough to tell me he’s torn. He likes seeing me, but he also loves the suspense. For the moment I drape it at the headboard, in his sight. A promise for later.
“Leash me,” he says gleefully, zeroing in on the braided lead.
“Later.” I plan to have a formal ceremony before allowing him to wear his collar. I run the brass clip of the lead over his throat instead, skimming the edge of his scar. His breath catches when I clip the lead to the ribbon binding his cuffs.
“You’re enjoying this,” he murmurs.
“Correct,” I say, and nudge him back onto the bed.
Foreplay is not prelude tonight, it’s the first claim.
I slide my hands under his shirt, my shirt actually, and peel it up, slow enough to make him mad on purpose. He lifts his arms, bound wrists bumping the mattress, and I drink the sight of him. Lean and rangy, ribs like an instrument I know how to play, hips built for my hands.
He blushes when I look too long. He’s never as invulnerable as he pretends.
“Open for me,” I say, and the way he obeys should be morally forbidden. Knees apart, head tipped back, mouth parted as if I asked him to bare his throat instead.
I pour oil into my palm and rub my hands together until its warm. My hands smooth over his thighs and buttocks slowly, kneading the muscles until slick starts bubbling from him. Using two fingers, I circle the pretty star-shaped hole languorously, coaxing sounds from him like a conductor.
I press in to the first knuckle and he clenches around me before slowly relaxing. The stretch takes him in small, careful swallows. I watch his belly tense, then loosen under my free hand.
“Show me,” I murmur. “Show me how you take me.”
He bears down around my fingers, greedily obedient. Each inch a negotiation he wins by giving. When I slide a third finger in, he curses and bites his lip, his eyes rolling back as he arches.
“Perfect,” I tell him. “Perfect for me.”
His lashes flutter from the praise and I withdraw, purposefully slow, and he chases me with a noise that makes my bones ache.
I reach for the glass plug and lift it from the fleece. I coat it with oil while he watches me with suspicion that doesn’t hide his delight. I press the blunt head to his ass, wait for his shiver, then ease it in a breath at a time. He arches off the bed, wrists tugging at the ribbon, a half-voiced cry melting into a whine.
“There,” I say, palm settled over the base, tugging at it lightly to see his helpless enjoyment. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing,” he hisses. “I am also seeing stars.”
I rock the plug until his thighs tremble. Then I leave it, hand sliding up his belly to the notch at his throat. He’s shaking now, with the effort of not exploding.
“Hands,” I say.
He blinks. “What about them?”
“Behind your head.”
He lifts his bound wrists, rests them on the pillow, and I clip the lead to the headboard slat.
“Ronan,” he says, low and pleased. “You’re getting kinky in your old age.”
“I’m thirty-two,” I say dryly, and bend to kiss his sternum, then his stomach, then lower, tasting sweat and his delicious slick.
He looks down the line of his body with open hunger. “Are you going to-”
“Yes,” I say, and take his cock into my mouth.
I set my pace slow, using tongue and spit shamelessly, letting weight and heat do what they do. I suck him in all the way once, then focus my attention on his crown. Tongue rubbing over the top, tickling the underside until he’s panting.
When he tries to lift his hips, I pin them with one forearm and give him a look that says I’ll tie him to the rafters if he argues.
I pull off with a pop and let him see the mess he’s making of my mouth. “Eyes on me,” I tell him.
“Always,” he says, and means it, and I could tear down mountains for less.
I wrap my hand around his base, wet and rough, and take the head back between my lips. He flinches when the plug rocks and the sound he makes punches straight through my control. I gather myself. This is exploration, not the endgame. I want him wrung out and fed, not wrecked on a denial cliff.
“Come when you’re ready,” I say. He gasps, scandalized. I smile into the next stroke. “You heard me.”
“Thank fuck,” he says as he breaks almost immediately. The first time fast, heat sharp and bright, the kind of orgasm that shocks him more than sates him. I don’t stop. I ride the aftershocks with my mouth until he’s twitching, sensitive, pleading, then slide up his body to kiss him deep enough that his own taste coats his tongue. He moans into it like a man saved.
“Turn over,” I say, voice rough.
He rolls, breath unsteady, knees under him, wrists above his head. He looks like an offering. I palm his ass, admire the bloom of handprints I left days ago, and take the paddle from the box. He goes still, watching me with wide eyes. Curious and excited, certainly not afraid.
“We’ll count,” I say. “Five. Mark and soothe. If you lose count, we start again.”
“You cruel bastard,” he whispers, thrilled. “Yes please.”
The paddle lands with a precise crack that echoes in the rafters. His breath jumps when he counts, voice steady. I stroke the heat with my palm, rubbing praise into his skin. Again and again. He never loses track.
By five he’s shaking, not from pain but from the weight of being the center of my attention. I set the paddle aside and lean to kiss his gorgeously glowing ass cheeks.
“You doing all right?” I ask low.
“Yes,” he pants. “Greedy for more. Don’t stop.”
“Good.” I draw the plug out. So slow that he feels the flare pass, and he swears like I’ve let him off a rack. I oil myself, line up, and push in with the same patience I demanded from him. He opens for me like a door that only my key can turn.
“Ronan,” he says, not teasing now. “Gods.”
“I’ve got you,” I promise.
I set a rhythm that builds by inches instead of leaps. Hips heavy, thrusts deep and even. He pushes back demanding more and I give it. When he stutters, I slow. When he starts to climb, I follow to the exact rung he’s ready for and no higher. The bond throws sparks every time I bottom out.
“Talk to me,” he says, a plea dressed as command.
“Look at you,” I murmur against his ear. “Taking me so deep. My pretty boy. My treasure. I could live inside you like this.”
He whines shamefully and I reward him with speed. He starts to unravel, moaning into the sheets, fingers clenched around the velvet. I slide my hand under his belly and take him in my grip.
“Come,” I say, and he shatters around me, a flood that soaks my hand and the sheets and any thought I had of mercy. I keep moving. He squirms, over-sensitive and I soothe him with my voice.
“Come for me again,” I tell him, and he sobs a laugh. “Ronan, I can’t-”
“You will.” I stroke him through the too-much, find the angle that makes him see stars, and praise him until he does as he’s told. His next orgasm is deep and wrenching, the kind that leaves him loose-limbed and powerless.
I curse into his skin. The sight of him emptying for me again is enough to finish me. I bury myself hard and come like my body has been waiting for this exact welcome since the world was born.
Aftercare is not a chore. It’s the point. I bring water to his lips and make him take long swallows. I massage oil into the marks the paddle left, knead his calves until he starts purring so loud I feel it in my teeth. When I finally free his wrists completely, he curls his fingers in my hair and tugs me down into a kiss that isn’t about sex or victory. It’s just about us.
“The new toys are… acceptable,” he says against my mouth, making a production of it.
I drag my teeth along his lower lip in reply. “I haven’t shown you all of them.”
His eyes flare. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I allow. “If you behave.”
He grins beautifully. “So… no.”
I huff a laugh, tuck him in, and blow the lamps out. In the dark, with the leash coiled like a promise on the bedside table and the taste of him still under my tongue, I feel steady and at peace.