Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I turn around, settling my back against his metal headboard, and watch as Lorcan—my heroic kidnapper, my philosophical spiral machine, my willing savior—roots through his closet like he's searching for something specific.
He's muttering to himself. Little curses in that thick Irish accent that I can't quite catch. Words that sound like prayers or profanity, or maybe both at once.
Then he exhales—a long, defeated sound—and turns back around to face me.
And what is he holding in his hands?
A pair of handcuffs.
But not industrial-grade steel handcuffs. Not the cold, utilitarian kind you'd see on a cop's belt or in a crime show.
No, I'm talking about leather handcuffs—padded, supple black leather with stitching so precise it looks like art. Little gold padlocks dangle from the clasps.
"You're…" But I can't finish.
My body is organizing a fucking revolution. Every nerve ending is suddenly firing at once, every synapse lighting up like a city grid during a blackout that just ended.
My hormones are flooding my bloodstream—adrenaline, oxytocin, dopamine all rushing through my veins in a chaotic cocktail that makes my hands shake and my breath catch.
Hell, I can practically feel my clit swelling in real time, that unmistakable pulse of heat and pressure that signals exactly how my body is interpreting this moment.
"You're a dom." I say it like it's an accusation. Like I've just uncovered some terrible secret he was trying to hide from me.
"A dom?" Lorcan repeats, and there's something dangerous in the way he says it—like I've just stepped on a landmine disguised as casual conversation. "Ah, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. No. Absolutely not. That's not—" He stops himself, running one hand through his blond hair in a gesture of pure exasperation. "Look, I experimented a bit when I was younger, yeah? Everyone does. Some teenage stuff. Couple sessions at a club in Dublin. Learned some knots. The psychological dynamics of power exchange punishments and—"
He catches himself spiraling, jaw clenching. "I'm not explainin' this to you."
Except… he kinda is.
My brain latches onto every word like a starving thing.
Experimented. That implies innovation.
Learning knots means Shibari, rope work, the intricate patterns that turn a body into living art.
A club in Dublin—I can picture it with terrifying clarity. Dark rooms with leather furniture. The scent of expensive cologne mixing with sweat and arousal. Music pulsing through the walls while people negotiated scenes in alcoves, their voices low and intent.
Power exchange punishments.
And he's been doing this since he was a teenager.
Holy fuck. My imagination is running absolutely fucking wild right now.
I see myself spread out on this bed, wrists bound to the iron headboard with those beautiful leather cuffs. Lorcan standing over me, shirtless, those Celtic tattoos on full display as he studies me with that intense gray-eyed focus. His fingertips trailing down my ribs, my hips. His hands spreading my thighs apart while he tells me in that gorgeous Irish accent to stay still, to be good, to take what he gives me and not move until he says—
"Emmaleen."
I blink. Lorcan is suddenly right in front of me, close enough that I can smell him—fatigue mixed with the lingering scent of cologne, something woodsy and masculine.
He's holding those cuffs.
"Give me your wrist." He says this quietly, but with absolute authority.
My hand lifts without conscious thought. Conditioned from weeks of training with Giovanni and Jino. When a dom gives a command, I obey. It's automatic now, wired into my nervous system like breathing.
Lorcan wraps the leather around my left wrist like he's done this hundreds of times. The padding is soft against my skin, the buckle clicking into place with a sound that sends electricity straight down my spine.
Then he attaches the other cuff to a loop welded into the headboard—industrial, permanent, clearly installed for exactly this purpose.
Experimented in my youth, my ass!
I'm bound to his bed.
By BDSM handcuffs he found in his closet.
Attached to a welded loop of metal that doesn't come standard on headboards.
My pulse is hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears. Heat pools between my legs, slick and insistent. I wait for him to crawl over me, to cage me in with his body, to give me that look—the one that says I'm about to be taken apart piece by piece.
Instead, Lorcan walks around to the other side of the bed.
He kicks off his shoes. Climbs onto the mattress on top of the covers, fully clothed, settling onto his back with a long exhale that sounds bone-deep tired.
"Lights off," he says to the empty air.
The entire apartment goes dark. Voice-activated controls. Of course he has those.
I'm still processing—still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for his hand to reach across the bed, for literally anything to happen—when I hear it.
A snore.
Not a fake snore. Not a teasing, performative snore meant to make me squirm with anticipation.
No, I'm talking about a real, deep, utterly unconscious snore. The kind that rattles from a man who hasn't slept in forty-eight hours and just hit the pillow like a tree falling in the forest.