The silk rope is cold against her wrists before she understands what's happening. One loop. Two. Cinched tight, the friction warm where it bites into her skin. Anya blinks up at the dark iron curves of the headboard, her arms stretched above her, and a small uncertain giggle escapes her throat.
"Dante? What are you—"
His fingers find her lips. Press. Just once. A gentle shush that quiets her better than any word could. His eyes hold hers in the striped moonlight, and something in them is different tonight—darker, deeper, a hunger that makes her stomach flip in a way that isn't quite fear. Not quite. She doesn't know the word for it.
His hand disappears and comes back with a strip of black silk. He holds it up so she can see it. So she can choose.
Her breath catches. "You want to—"
She can't finish. The question hangs between them, and he doesn't answer—he waits, the silk draped over his fingers, his light grey eyes fixed on hers with a patience that feels ancient. She's never seen him like this. Quiet in a different way. Still in a way that makes the air feel thick.
She nods. A tiny, trusting motion.
The silk settles over her eyes, and the world becomes black and warm and close. She hears her own breathing, suddenly loud. The rustle of fabric. The creak of the bed as he shifts weight.
And then his hands are on her ankles.
She gasps—a soft, surprised sound—as he lifts first one leg, then the other, spreading her open. The rope wraps around her left ankle, pulls taut against the bottom post. Then her right. She's splayed now. Arms above her head. Legs wide. Exposed in a way she's never been exposed before, not like this, not with the whole world narrowed to the dark and his breathing and the cool air on her cunt.
"Dante?" Her voice is smaller than she wants it to be. "I can't see you."
She feels the bed dip. Feels the heat of him near her face. His breath ghosting over her lips, her cheek, her throat—and then his mouth, warm and open, pressing against her collarbone. A kiss. Slow. Almost reverent. His tongue traces the hollow of her throat, and she shivers, arching into the touch she can't see.
"That's the point, moya." His voice is low. Rough. A texture she feels in her chest.
She whimpers. The sound escapes before she can stop it, and she feels him smile against her skin. He knows. He always knows what she needs before she does.
His hand slides down her body—over her sternum, between her bare breasts, over her stomach—and she realizes she's trembling. Not from cold. Not from fear. From the waiting. From not knowing where he'll touch her next, when he'll touch her next, whether he'll touch her at all.
His fingers find her cunt. Wet. Open. Ready in a way that should embarrass her but doesn't—not here, not with him, not in the dark where she can only feel.
"Already soaked," he murmurs. Not a question. A fact. He says it like he's proud. Like she's done something right.
She doesn't know how to answer. Her mouth opens, but what comes out is a moan as his thumb circles her clit—slow, deliberate, pressing just hard enough to make her hips buck against the ropes.
"Please," she gasps.
"Please what?"
"I don't know. Just—please."
He laughs. Low and dark and so familiar it makes her chest ache. "That's my good girl."
His thumb keeps working her clit, circles that tighten and loosen, building a rhythm she can't predict. His other hand cups her breast—squeezes, his palm rough against her nipple, and she cries out, her back bowing off the mattress. He pinches. Rolls. Pinches harder, and she hears herself sob, feels the wetness gathering between her thighs, feels the way her body opens for him without her permission.
"Dante, please, I need—"
"I know what you need."
His hand leaves her breast. She hears the rustle of fabric—his shirt, she thinks, or his belt—and then his weight shifts, the bed creaks, and she feels him above her. His thighs against hers. His chest brushing her nipples. His breath at her ear.
"You trust me?"
The question is soft. Barely audible. And beneath it, she hears something she's never heard from him before—a fragility, a need for her answer that has nothing to do with the ropes or the dark.
"Yes." She says it without hesitation. "Always."
He kisses her. Hard. His mouth crushes hers, his tongue sliding deep, and she tastes something metallic—his cologne, maybe, or the salt of his skin—and then his hips shift, and she feels the head of his cock pressing against her entrance.
Not pushing. Just resting there. A question in the pressure.
She nods against the blindfold. "Yes. Please. Dante, please—"
He pushes inside her in one motion. Slow. Steady. Filling her completely, stretching her open, and she screams—a raw, broken sound that tears out of her throat—because it's too much and not enough and she couldn't stop it if she wanted to.
His hand clamps over her mouth.
The pressure of his palm, the weight of his body, the fullness of his cock buried to the hilt—she can't move, can't breathe, can only feel. He's still inside her. Still. Holding himself there while she trembles beneath him, her muffled whimpers pressing against his hand.
"Shh," he breathes against her ear. "You take it. All of it."
He pulls out. Slams back in. The force of it drives her up the mattress, the ropes biting into her wrists, and she screams into his palm again—a sound he swallows with his hand, a sound she feels in her teeth.
He fucks her like that. Hard and deep and relentless, his hand a cage over her mouth, his hips a piston driving into her, and she can't think, can't speak, can only feel the drag of his cock inside her, the ache in her stretched arms, the wet sound of his body meeting hers.
His other hand grips her hip. Fingers digging in, hard enough to bruise, and she wants to tell him it's okay, wants to tell him she likes it, wants to tell him she loves the way he holds her—but she can't. His hand is over her mouth. And maybe that's the point.
He pulls out. She gasps for air, a ragged sob escaping her chest. Before she can draw a second breath, his hands are on her hips, flipping her onto her stomach, and she lands face-first in the pillow, her bound wrists twisting above her.
The blindfold shifts. A sliver of moonlight bleeds through the gap, and she sees the rumpled black sheets, the curve of her own body, the way her ass is lifted in the air without her permission.
His hands find her hips. Yank them higher. Her face presses into the pillow, and she feels the cool air on her cunt, on her asshole, on every part of her that's open and waiting.
He doesn't warn her. Doesn't tease. His cock pushes into her ass in one wet, burning thrust, and she screams into the pillow—a muffled, desperate sound that she feels in her throat, in her chest, in the clench of her body around him.
"That's it," he growls. "Take it."
He pulls out. Slams back in. The angle is different here—deeper, fuller, a stretch that borders on pain but never quite crosses it. Her fingers claw at the sheets, her legs shaking, her sobs swallowed by the pillowcase.
And then his hand comes down on her ass.
The slap cracks through the room, sharp and wet, and she jerks forward, a cry tearing from her throat. He spanks her again. Harder. The heat blooms across her skin, radiating through her flesh, and she feels herself clenching around his cock with every impact.
Again. Again. His palm finds the same spot, turning her skin from pink to red, and she's sobbing now, tears soaking into the pillow, her body surrendering to the rhythm of his hand and his cock and the dark.
"Best friends," he mutters, his voice ragged, and the words hit her like a second blow. "This is what best friends do."
She wants to answer. Wants to say yes, this is what they do, this is love, this is how he shows her. But the words are lost in the pillow, in the wet slide of his cock inside her, in the heat of his hand on her ass, in the way she's coming apart beneath him without permission.
She comes without warning. A sob, a clench, a wave that crashes through her body and leaves her shaking, her vision white behind the blindfold, her mouth open in a silent scream. She feels him pound through it, feels every spasm of her ass gripped by his thrusts, feels the way he doesn't stop—doesn't slow—just fucks her harder, chasing his own release through the wreckage of hers.
"That's it," he groans. "That's my girl. Come on my cock. Let me feel you."
She can't speak. Can't breathe. Can only lie there, limp and trembling, as he takes what he needs. His hand grips her hip hard enough to leave marks. His cock slams into her, wet and loud, the sound of his body against hers filling the dark room.
He comes with a grunt—a low, animal sound that she feels in the way his cock pulses inside her, hot and thick, filling her ass until it leaks down her thighs. He stays buried, his body shuddering above her, his breath ragged against the back of her neck.
The silence settles like dust.
She hears her own heartbeat. The creak of the headboard. The distant hum of the city through the window.
His hand finds her hair. Strokes it. Gently. The same hand that spanked her raw, that gripped her hip hard enough to bruise, now carding through her tangled strands with a tenderness that makes her chest ache.
"Good girl," he whispers. "You did so good, moya."
She presses her face into the pillow, tears still leaking from under the blindfold. She doesn't know why she's crying. Doesn't know if it's pleasure or pain or something in between. All she knows is that she's his—that she's been his since the day he handed her that black card, since the first time he looked at her like she mattered, since before she even knew what she was giving him.
And she doesn't want it any other way.
She feels him move—a shift of weight, the slide of his cock leaving her body—and she whimpers at the emptiness. The cold air on her used skin. The ache between her legs that pulses with every heartbeat.
A moment later, she feels his fingers working at the rope around her wrists. One loop loosens. Then another. The blindfold slips away, and the moonlight rushes in, bright and sharp, and she blinks up at him.
His face is soft. Unguarded. A tenderness that would terrify her if she saw it on anyone else.
"You okay?"
She nods, her throat too tight for words.
He leans down and kisses her forehead. A benediction. A seal.
"Good." He pulls the sheets over her, tucking them around her shoulders. "Sleep, moya. I'll be here."
And she does. Her eyes close before he finishes the sentence, her body sinking into the mattress, his warmth beside her, the ropes coiled on the floor like discarded promises.
She doesn't dream. She doesn't need to. She has him.