23. Iris

The rope—a snake of twisted fiber—slithers across my wrists, tightening as Lincoln secures each knot with precision. "Bought these just for you," he murmurs, his voice a smug caress against my entire body. The ropes chafe gently; they're soft, meant not to bruise. I can't help thinking that this detail is deliberate, a paradoxical gesture of care in a situation devoid of any.

"Should I be flattered?" My voice trembles with anger and anticipation, the taste of defiance thick on my tongue. I watch as he steps back, his stare flicking over my bound form with a pride that's both infuriating and intoxicating.

"Flattered? You should be honored." His smirk widens as he observes the aftermath of his handiwork, like an artist admiring a particularly challenging piece. I don't think he's exaggerating. Lincoln Blackwood is not the type of man to consider anyone except for himself, so I don't doubt that choosing something for my comfort was a major milestone for him.

His fingers flit back into view, gripping the knife with an ease that sends a fresh shiver down my spine. He slices through fabric like it's nothing. The whisper of clothing parting under the blade a stark contrast to the heavy thud of my heartbeat in my ears. My breath hitches; heat races across my exposed skin, chased by the cool touch of metal trailing down my collarbone, over my stomach, circling around my navel.

"Lincoln," I gasp, not entirely sure if I'm pleading or daring him to continue. The handle of the knife teases along the sensitive flesh of my thighs, edging closer to territory that betrays my body's treacherous response. My hips betray me, tilting up involuntarily toward the cold, hard promise of more.

"Shhh..." he whispers, almost tenderly, his breath a hot contrast to the chilled steel. It's a battle within me, a storm of need clashing with the fierce urge to fight back, to not give him the satisfaction of seeing how his touch unravels me.

"You made your point, Lincoln." The words come out strangled, half-lost in a moan as the metal glides beneath the lace of my underwear, teasing the edge before cutting through the last barrier between us.

"I don't think I have. Not yet." He chuckles darkly, leaning close enough that I can feel the vibration of his laughter against my skin. "You're still speaking coherently, and you haven't even cum all over my cock yet."

My heart slams against my ribs, fighting for escape. But it's not fear—it's something far more dangerous, something that teeters on the precipice of desire and sets my blood aflame. And even as I lie here, exposed and at his mercy, there's a power within me that refuses to be quenched.

Each involuntary shiver and arch speaks of a desire I'm loath to admit. Sweat slicks my skin, the air heavy with the musky scent of lust and defiance. The dim light catches on Lincoln's smirk, that infuriating, smug twist of his lips that's been etched into every heated moment we've shared.

"Even tied up, you think you can deny me?" I taunt him, the words sharp as shattered glass. My heart pounds an erratic rhythm, betraying the conflict raging within me.

His eyes lock onto mine, a predator captivated by the challenge in its prey's gaze. "You think this is about what you want?" His voice lowers to a growl, the sound scratching along my nerves like sandpaper. It's raw, it's primal, and damn it all, it stirs something deep inside me.

"Let's get one thing straight," I spit out, straining against the ropes, "I will never be yours."

"Never is a long time, angel." He prowls closer, the heat from his body radiating over me. "The way I see it, you already are." His hands trace over my curves, a possessive touch that leaves no room for doubt. There's still an edge to him, but the anger that poured out of him when he entered the room is now only a simmer.

"I need to hear you say it," he murmurs, the rough pad of his thumb brushing over my bottom lip, which I bite out of habit more than anxiety.

"Say what? That you need to tie up girls to get your way?" The words drip like poison from my tongue, but it doesn't deter him. If anything, it fuels the fire in his eyes.

"No. I don't tie up girls. Just you," he corrects, a devilish grin playing on his lips as he leans down, so close his breath fans across my flushed cheeks. "Say you belong to me."

The room spins, or maybe it's just my head, lost in this maddening whirlpool of desire and anger. "Aren't you supposed to be livid with me right now? Instead of trying to seduce me?"

His chuckle vibrates through me, a sound so confident it roils my insides. "Two things can be true at once." His proximity is doing strange things to my resolve. He's practically looking right through me, fierce and unyielding. A strangled sound leaves my throat. I need him to touch me, kiss me, anything.

I can't breathe. I can't think. All I'm aware of is Lincoln, his watching me with a predatory glint and the cold, smooth handle of the knife that he runs teasingly over the quivering skin between my thighs. The metal is a shock against the heat of my arousal, a shiver-inducing contrast that has me biting down on my lip to stifle a moan.

"Lincoln," I gasp out, my voice nothing more than a ragged whisper.

"Shh, angel." His voice is warm honey with an edge of steel, smirking as if he's privy to some secret joke.

My back arches off the bed, seeking more contact, more of anything he's willing to give. But he's in control here, always has been. With a slow, torturous precision, the handle presses against me, slipping inside with a deliberate slowness that has my toes curling, my fingers digging into the rope that's binding me.

"God, Lincoln, please," I plead, caught between the fear of the forbidden object and the sheer ecstasy of being filled, stretched, dominated by it.

"Please what?" He leans over me, his short-cropped facial hair brushing against my neck, sending another wave of goosebumps across my already sensitive skin. "You have to tell me what you want."

All I can see is his intense eyes, and his arm moving rhythmically as he fucks me with the handle of the knife. It's wrong, so dangerously wrong, but the threat only serves to spike my pleasure higher.

"More," I manage to choke out, but just as the tension coils tight within me, ready to snap, he withdraws the handle, leaving me empty, wanting.

"Almost had it, didn't you?" His taunting tone is sharper than the blade he wields, and I can do nothing but groan and writhe, chasing a release that he holds just out of reach.

"Fuck, you're killing me," I growl, my body alight with an unsatisfied need that he's orchestrated with devilish expertise.

"Isn't that what you need from me?" His voice is low, rough, every bit the demon he claims to be. "To be pushed over the edge? To feel something dangerous?"

"Damn you," I hiss as he traces a path up my torso with the flat side of the blade, circling around my nipple piercing.

"Fuck, angel," he finally breathes out, his hand sliding down to cup between my thighs, where my pussy is soaked for him. "I need to be inside of you."

His words strike a chord, igniting desire that rages through my veins. And I hate how much I crave the spark in his eyes when he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that can quench his thirst.

"Then do it," I challenge, my voice a mix of dare and desire. "Do it and get it over with."

But even as I speak, I know it's not that simple. With Lincoln, it never is.

His grip tightens around my throat, and I can feel his cock, hard and unyielding as he does just as I've taunted him to. He lets go of me long enough to unbutton his jeans and shove them down. I don't get even one deep breath in before he drives into me, his movements forceful, claiming what he believes is his. My back arches involuntarily, pushing against the roughness of his touch and causing the ropes to pull against my delicate skin.

"Mine," he growls with each thrust, his eyes are nothing but fierce possession as he cups my tits and brings one of my pierced nipples up to his mouth. He bites and sucks on the sensitive bud, causing my hips to buck up against his.

"I'm nobody's," I manage to rasp out, even though words are becoming harder to form under the weight of his body and the relentless pressure on my neck, ensuring that he leaves his mark on me.

I can sense the climax building within me, an unstoppable force that threatens to tear me apart, and I absolutely hate that he's the reason for it. But it's not just physical; there's something terrifyingly intimate about the way he watches me, like he's seeing straight through to every dark corner of my soul as he slams inside me.

"Say it, Iris," Lincoln demands again, his voice a low rumble against the sound of our bodies colliding. In fact, it sounds suspiciously like a plea.

"Never," I spit back defiantly, even as my vision starts to blur at the edges, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

And then it does. The explosion of sensation obliterates thought, reason, everything but the overwhelming intensity of the moment. It's raw, it's basic instinct, and as much as I want to deny it, it feels like coming home.

He doesn't stop, doesn't let up, driving us both over the edge until we're nothing but a tangle of limbs and gasps and sweat-soaked sheets. His final thrusts are almost punishing, a relentless assertion of dominance that pushes me beyond the brink of endurance.

"Yours," I hear myself whisper, not sure if it's a concession or a delirious slip of the tongue.

Lincoln's response is a satisfied grunt as he collapses on top of me, his breathing heavy and ragged. I can feel his release leaking out of me wherever it can fit with his cock still taking up residence. And then, darkness claims us both, pulling us under into a void where nothing exists but the lingering aftershocks of our shared oblivion.

When consciousness returns, it's gradual, like emerging from the depths of murky water. I become acutely aware of the weight still pinning me down, Lincoln's chest rising and falling against mine in a steady rhythm that belies the mayhem he's wrought on my body.

I'm still tied up, the rope pulling against my wrists, a stark reminder of how far we've crossed the line. Anger flares within me, hot and fierce, followed swiftly by confusion. How did we get here? To this place where hate and desire are so entangled that I can't tell them apart?

And yet, beneath the furor of emotions, there's something else. A connection that thrums in time with my racing heart, insidious and undeniable. It scares me more than the anger or the confusion, because it suggests that whatever this is between us, it's not over. Not by a long shot.

"Get off me." My voice is hoarse, but there's steel behind the words.

Lincoln stirs, lifting himself enough to look at me with eyes clouded with something akin to wonder—or maybe it's just the remnants of lust.

"Not a chance," he murmurs, and despite everything, my heart skips a beat. Because as much as I hate to admit it, part of me doesn't want him to move at all.

"Move," I spit out, anyway, the word sharp, a shard of glass. I need him to believe that he repulses me, even if I don't think that. "Let's not pretend that you want to cuddle with me for any reason other than to try and manipulate me." My eyes roll back when Lincoln shifts his hips again, his cock hardening again inside of me with the motion.

He shifts and his eyes search mine. "Scared you'll like cuddling with me too much?" His voice is a low growl, vibrating through the charged space between us.

"Terrified," I snap back, sarcasm lacing through the words. But it's not fear that knots in my stomach—it's something else, darker, more dangerous.

Desire. I want Lincoln Blackwood to hold me while I sleep, and that's playing with fire.

"Good." He smirks, that expression of his that manages to infuriate and entice all at once.

The room sways as exhaustion battles with the adrenaline still pumping through my veins. My heart hammers against my ribcage, echoing the rhythm of our spent bodies. "Untie me," I demand, but there's a quiver in my voice betraying the chaos he's stirred up inside me.

"Where's the fun in that, angel?" Lincoln taunts, his breath hot on my neck. "We still have a couple more rounds to go. At least."

"Fun?" I scoff, trying to ignore the way my body responds to his proximity. "You have a warped sense of amusement." His fingers rise lazily to pinch my pierced nipples and I feel his cock jerk inside me when I cry out from the evenly matched pleasure and pain.

"Maybe." He grins, leaning closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. The intensity of his gaze pins me just as effectively as the ropes. "But you're not exactly pushing me away."

"Well, you do have me tied up," I retort, even as my body betrays my words, pricking up at the innuendo.

"Excuses." He brushes a strand of hair from my eyes, his fingers leaving a trail of sparks on my skin. He's being so gentle, and that scares me more than when he pulled out his knife.

"Asshole," I mutter, because what else can I do when every nerve ending screams for more of this twisted game?

My body arches into his; desire and anger warring within me. I want to hate him, to reject this magnetic force that draws me to him, yet here I am, caught in the maelstrom of the Spartans star quarterback.

"Stop pretending you don't think about this often," Lincoln murmurs, his lips trailing down my neck.

"Never." But it's a lie, and we both know it. Because with each caress, each claim he stakes, I'm losing the battle.

"Give in, Iris," he urges, his hand exploring the contours of my body, mapping the places that make me gasp and writhe.

"Make me," I challenge, throwing down the gauntlet, daring him to push me over the edge.

And he does. Without mercy, without hesitation, he pulls all the way out of me and then plunges into me, claiming possession again with every thrust. He's rough, raw, something feral in his eyes as I meet him with equal ferocity. It's like a pyre of sensation is consuming us until there's nothing left but the ashes of our resistance.

He reaches down and rubs my clit with practiced fingers, and it's all that I need for my entire body to shake with the most intense orgasm. Lincoln follows me, coming hard inside my clenching pussy. We collapse together again, a tangle of limbs and labored breaths. His weight pins me to the mattress, his presence a constant reminder of the line we've crossed—and keep crossing no matter how much we dislike each other or how angry we are.

"Let me go, Lincoln," I insist, though my resolve wavers.

"Can't," he replies, voice ragged. "We're past the point of no return, angel."

"Damn you," I breathe out, the words lost in the darkness of the room.

He chuckles, the sound resonating with a hint of genuine amusement, I concede, and the truth of it settles heavily in my chest.

"Sleep," he commands abruptly, and I hate that part of me wants to obey, to let the exhaustion take me under.

"Only because I want to," I say, surrendering to the inevitable, letting the darkness pull me down into its depths, where the lines between love and hate blur into nothingness.