As soon as he uncuffed my wrists, the ache in my arms released in a heavy wave, but I barely had time to breathe. He moved lower, untying my legs from the elastic rope—slow, focused, methodical.
I thought that was it.
That maybe he was done. That he'd step back, tell me to get dressed, tell me to leave.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he grabbed my waist and flipped me over—fast—forcing my chest flat onto the mattress. My nightwear was still bunched around my hips, exposing everything. His hand fisted the fabric tightly, like he was trying to choke my body with it.
He shoved my legs apart again—wide, too wide—and grabbed a full handful of my ass, squeezing hard enough to make me cry out.
“I don’t think you know,” he growled above me, voice scraping against my spine, “how many f*****g nights
