"My name is Eros," the masked male cocks his head a smidge at her, and, if only slightly through the shadow casts between the parted zipper, Isla catches sight of a smile tugging at his lips on the latter fragment of his statement, "But you already...
Here is chapter 8! 17.6K words feat. Mr. Business Casual Baring it All, BUTTERFLY WORSHIP, BUTTERFLY WORSHIP, BUTTERFLY WORSHIP, and some more of the cane (except this time it's less fear play and more "Let's make good associations!"). You can tell where I cut off the scene — if I'd kept going, this piece would end up at, like, 25K. I mean, I would have kept going, and going, and going, and going. But the pause just means we'll have more content for the next chapter! I will put a TW for the villain origin story on the cane situation, though. We learn Isla's history with the cane in this one — if it makes you uncomfortable, put yourself first and skip that little block of text. Otherwise, happy reading, and enjoy! (✿◠‿◠)
Йой! Нажаль, це зображення не відповідає нашим правилам. Щоб продовжити публікацію, будь ласка, видаліть його або завантажте інше.
If you're a normal person, with a normal sense of empathy, seeing someone cry would probably cull some form of discomfort.
If you're Harry, some, veryspecific circumstances may draw arousal.
This isn't one of those circumstances.
He doesn't detect it at first — the way the pattern of her soft breaths thins into becoming detained by her lungs, to stave off huffs. The way she shrivels against him, the smidge of a shift in the position of her head, so that his linen shrouds her face further. The way her soft press over his pec contorts into a fist at the fabric. He doesn't note the first sniffle. Not until the second one comes.
That's not innately weird — Harry stares at the ceiling, it feels so far away, and he chalks the sound up to remnants. Typical traces. And then he spares her a glance and realizes she's holding onto his dress shirt like a lifeline, and he hears the third, and something scary twists in his chest.
Thrown, the dominant cranes his neck to give her a good look, but all he's capable of viewing, at the angle, is her middle part, so. And she just nudges further into him, as if sensing the motion.
"Hey, hey. Sweetheart," he ducks his chin a bit and presses his hand to her cheek, just kind of mentally coaxing her to turn back to him, hopeful that just the press of the gentle touch is inclination enough. His accent carries bewildered notes, "Baby. Are you crying? Hey. Talk to me."
And Isla just shakes her head against him, and that's — he blows out a breath. That's the opposite of talking. Kinda nullifies the entire basis of discussion.
There's this thing that's inherently strung along with sleeping with Harry, at Indulge. It's masked, first and foremost — a tagline of anonymity that shuns strings and deflects feelings. It's not real. It's real sex. Real, really good sex. But it's nothing beyond that, and for now, it's just real, really good sex on a time crunch. The hourglass looms over them — their encounters — every Friday night. Like an invisible, unspoken holograph of peril. At first, it just seeps. It seeps slow, sand slinking through the crevice, from one end to the other, and at first, it kind of doesn't fucking matter. Because, so much sand, right? So much time. So much time to indulge.
