He Dropped His Secret Wife for His First Love, Then Couldn't Run His Own Life novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: His Own Tie

Weston turns up at Lily's studio in the rain. She ties his wrists to her iron bed with his tie, rides him and leaves him tied until dawn, then tells him to go and sleep. He can't.

The knock came at midnight, three hard raps that I would have known anywhere.

I had been home for two hours.

I'd sat on the bed in the dark with my coat still on, and then I'd taken the coat off and put on his old gray T-shirt, because it was the only thing in the studio that smelled like him.

I hated myself a little for that.

Rain hammered the window.

I opened the door.

Weston stood in the hall soaked to the skin, with his black hair plastered flat and his white shirt gone clear across his chest.

There was a dark cut on his lower lip, and his brown eyes were wild.

"You bit me," he said.

"You kissed me."

"You left."

"You told me to."

He walked in without being asked and shut the door with his heel, and the studio shrank around him.

It was one room, a bed with an iron frame, a radiator and a small kitchen.

He filled all of it.

"I didn't mean," he started, and stopped, and pushed a hand through his wet hair.

"Don't," I said.

"Lily."

"If you came to explain, you can leave."

"I didn't come to explain."

His gaze dropped to the T-shirt, to the hem that stopped halfway down my thighs.

I watched him recognize it as his own.

His jaw flexed.

"Take off your tie," I said.

He went still.

"What?"

"Your tie. Take it off."

The silk was soaked and dark, and he slid the knot loose with fingers that weren't quite steady.

He pulled it free from his collar and held it out in his fist.

I took it.

"Sit on the bed."

"Lily, I came here to..."

"I know what you came here for." I stepped close enough to feel the cold coming off his shirt. "Sit."

He sat.

The mattress dipped under him, and he looked up at me with the rain still dripping from his lashes.

I had never once given him an order in three years.

I had written his calendar and filled his pillbox and kissed him good night.

I had never told him what to do.

It turned out I had a voice for it.

"Hands up. Wrists together."

His throat worked.

He lifted his hands anyway, slowly, and pressed his wrists against each other in front of his chest.

The look on his face made heat pour through my belly.

I wound the wet tie around his wrists three times.

I pulled the knot tight and drew his arms up over his head and looped the loose end around the iron rail of the bed.

He lay back when I pushed his chest, and his shoulders hit the mattress and his bound hands stayed overhead.

His chest rose and fell fast.

"Is this a punishment?" he said.

"It's a lesson."

I undid the buttons of his shirt one at a time.

The cloth peeled away from his skin.

I laid my palms flat on his chest and felt his heart slamming against them.

He was hard already.

I could see him pressing at his slacks, and I made myself take my time over his belt.

"Don't touch yourself," I said, and then I laughed, because he couldn't.

"You're enjoying this."

"Yes."

I opened his slacks and pulled them down with his briefs.

His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and wet at the tip.

I wrapped my hand around the base.

He sucked a breath through his teeth and his hips jerked up into my fist.

"Lily, God."

"Quiet."

I stroked him once, slowly, root to tip, and thumbed the slick from the head and watched his eyes roll shut.

Then I bent and licked him from the base to the crown.

He swore, loudly, and the iron frame rang as he pulled at the tie.

I took him into my mouth.

He was hot and heavy on my tongue and tasted of salt and rain.

I hollowed my cheeks and sank down until the head touched the back of my throat.

His hips shook.

"Fuck, Lily, your mouth."

I hummed around him, and his thighs went rigid under my hands.

I pulled off with a wet sound and looked up the whole length of his body.

His mouth was open and his face was wrecked, and the blood on his lip had smeared.

"Look at me," I said.

His eyes opened.

I kept them held while I took him deep again, and again.

The sounds he made were raw and low and helpless.

I let my hand follow my mouth, tight and slick, and his muscles pulled taut one after another.

"I'm going to..." he said. "Lily, stop, I'm going to come."

I let him go.

He cried out at the loss, and his cock jumped against his stomach, wet and furious.

"Not yet," I said.

"You're killing me."

"Good."

I stood and pulled the gray T-shirt over my head and let it fall.

I was naked under it.

His gaze went over me, breasts and belly and hips and the soft hair between my legs.

He made a sound I'd never heard from him.

"Come here," he said, roughly. "Let me taste you."

"No."

I climbed onto the bed and straddled his hips.

The heat of him slid against me, hard against my wet folds.

We both shook.

"I'm going to take what I want," I said. "And you're going to lie there and let me."

"Lily."

He swallowed, and his hands pulled once against the knot, and he did not ask me to stop.

I rose and took his cock in my hand and notched it against myself, and sank.

He stretched me so slowly and so completely that I gasped.

Every inch of him went in, thick and hot, until my thighs sat flush against his hips and I was full.

He groaned from deep in his chest.

I put my palms on his ribs and started to move.

I rode him slow at first, rolling my hips and dragging my clit along the base of him each time I came down.

The bed frame knocked softly against the wall.

His bound hands clenched, and his abs flexed under my fingers, and he lifted his hips to meet me.

"Don't," I said. "Be still."

He went still.

It made me so wet I could feel it running down him.

I rode harder.

I braced my hands on his chest and went up until only the head of him stayed in, then slammed down.

Every stroke hit that place inside me that made my vision spark.

"Oh," I said. "Right there."

"Tell me," he panted. "Tell me what you want."

"This. This."

I rolled my hips in tight circles, grinding down on him, my clit rubbing against his pubic bone, and pleasure climbed my spine in hot waves.

His eyes never left my face.

"You're so beautiful," he said, and his voice cracked. "Lily, you're so beautiful, God, I've been so stupid."

"Shut up."

"Yes."

"Shut up and let me come on you."

I came with a cry that tore out of my throat.

My body clamped around him again and again.

I dropped forward onto his chest and shook while it rolled through me, long and deep and bright.

He groaned and bucked beneath me, caught at the very edge, his whole body strung.

I lay on him and breathed.

His heart pounded under my cheek, and for a moment I couldn't tell whose pulse was whose.

Then I pushed up, slowly, and slid off him.

He cried out, and his cock stood wet and shining against his stomach, throbbing.

"Lily," he said. "Please. I'm so close."

"I know."

"Finish me."

I climbed off the bed and picked up the gray T-shirt.

I pulled it over my head, and I felt his eyes burning into me.

"You're leaving me like this."

"I'm not leaving. It's my apartment."

"Lily."

"You wanted to see what I was worth." I leaned down and kissed his forehead, softly, the way I used to. "That was a free sample."

I turned off the light.

I lay on the couch with the blanket over my head and listened to him curse at the ceiling.

I listened to the bed frame creak, and then to his breathing slow and catch and start again.

At six in the morning I got up and untied him.

His wrists were red and his eyes were bloodshot.

He sat up and stared at me.

"Go home," I said. "Sleep."

"I can't."

"Try."

He looked at his hands, at the marks the silk had left.

"You don't understand," he said. "I haven't slept at all."

I didn't answer.

I handed him his dry shirt from the radiator.

He put it on, and went out into the gray morning.

At the door he turned.

"Tomorrow," he said.

"No."

"Lily."

"Goodbye, Weston."

I closed the door and leaned on it.

My knees would not hold me, so I slid all the way down to the floor.

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