TW JB4S: A Gift (Part 3)

March 4

**Trigger Warning** Reason: Knife Play

The house was dimly lit, the air thick with something humid and slow-moving, like the night outside had seeped in through the walls. It smelled like woodsmoke, leather, something warm and distinctly familiar. The scent wrapped around me as I stepped inside, silent, unnoticed.

I hadn’t knocked. I hadn’t called. I had just come.

I told myself I didn’t know why. That I was restless. That my body had carried me here on instinct, pulled toward something unspoken, something unfinished.

But the second I stepped through the doorway, I knew.

I heard her first. Not a moan. Not a cry. A breath.

A slow, trembling inhale, held in the way someone holds still when they know they are being watched.

Then I saw them.

Us was standing in the center of the room, sleeves pushed up, fingers wrapped around the curve of a thick, pale thigh. His stance was casual, but everything about him was precise, deliberate.

And she—She was d***d over the arm of his couch, completely bare, her body flushed, full, marked in places I could already see.

Her red hair spilled over the cushion, loose, tangled. Her wrists were tied together with something dark, something soft. Silk.

And she wasn’t moving.

She was waiting.

For him. For whatever came next. For permission.

I stood in the shadows, my breath shallow, my fingers curled into the fabric of my dress. I should have left. I should have turned away, backed out before I saw something I couldn’t forget.

But I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.

Us smoothed a hand over her back, fingers tracing the ridges of her spine, down to the dip at the small of her back, over the swell of her ass. He dragged his nails back up, slow, scratching just enough to leave red lines in their wake.

She shivered. I shivered too.

He reached for the riding crop. The one I had seen before, the one he had let me touch in another moment, another life.

But I had never seen him use it. Not like this.

I barely breathed as he trailed the leather tip down the length of her thigh, across the backs of her knees, between her legs. Not striking. Just letting her feel it.

She whimpered, shifting slightly, trying to press into it, trying to earn what was coming.

Then he struck.

A sharp crack filled the air, her breath hitching, her fingers curling into the cushion beneath her.

I bit down hard on my bottom lip.

Again.

Again.

Each measured, placed precisely, not rushed. He was drawing something out of her. Drawing something out of me.

His other hand gripped the base of her skull, tangling into her hair, tilting her head just enough to keep her exactly where he wanted her. She moaned at the contact, at the control, at the fact that he hadn’t given her anything yet.

And I—I wanted it. I wanted his hands on me, his grip on my body, his voice dragging over my skin like silk and steel.

I clenched my thighs, heat curling through me like a slow, creeping burn. And then he moved her. Untied her wrists. Shifted her weight. Guided her toward the center of the room, toward the wooden bench positioned under the glow of the overhead light.

I pressed my back against the wall, my pulse thrumming, barely breathing as I watched him bend her forward. He spread her open, ran his hands down her back, adjusting her, shaping her into something even more ***. And then—without a word—he reached for the knife. The blade gleamed in the low light.

I felt my stomach tighten.

Not to harm. Not to break.

To remind. To remind her who she belonged to. To remind her who was in control.

I swallowed hard, my fingers curling against the doorframe. He dragged the knife over her, tracing the inside of her thigh, up the softest part of her stomach, skimming the underside of her breast. The metal kissed her skin, cold, precise, barely there but unmistakable.

She gasped.

And I clenched my fists. Because I wanted to be where she was. I wanted that blade against my skin. I wanted to feel the sharp edge of restraint, the contrast between touch and control, between pleasure and something just out of reach. I wanted him. I hated how much I wanted him.

I swallowed back a sound, but something must have shifted—my breath, my stance, something—

Because he paused. He set the knife down. And then, finally, he turned. And looked straight at me. The heat in my stomach dropped, my pulse stumbling over itself. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but I felt them settle over me. Felt the weight of his knowing. The slow, simmering pleasure in the fact that I had been here the whole time.

Watching.

Wanting.

He let the silence stretch, let me drown in it, let me feel the way I was standing there, breathless, thighs pressed together, my fingers twitching at my sides.

Then, just as my chest tightened, just as the moment threatened to swallow me whole—

He smiled.

Slow. Wicked.

And I knew.

He had done this for me.

Had let me see.

Had made me watch.

Then, still holding my gaze, he turned back to her. Fisted a hand in her hair. Pulled her head back just enough to murmur something against her lips, something I couldn’t hear. And then, without looking at me, without breaking stride, he said it.

To me. Quiet. Steady. Commanding.

“Good girl.”

And just like that—I knew I was completely his.