Chapter 9: The Silk Rope Interrogation
Three days.
That's how long it took for the cold fury to crystallize into something usable. Something sharp. Something that could cut through the bullshit and draw blood.
Blake had spent those three days in a fog of rage and humiliation, replaying the moment she'd seen that text over and over in her mind. Rebecca. Dinner again next week. The casual intimacy of it. The assumption of continuation. As if Blake was just one of many. As if she was nothing.
She'd gone to work. She'd answered emails. She'd eaten meals she couldn't taste and slept in a bed that felt too big without Craig's snoring beside her. She'd smiled at colleagues and pretended her world wasn't collapsing in on itself.
But underneath the performance, a plan was taking shape.
Jack thought he was untouchable. Thought he could play his games, collect his conquests, and keep everyone dancing on strings like marionettes. He'd made her feel like she mattered. Like there was something real between them, something that transcended the obvious wrongness of their arrangement.
I belong to you.
Bullshit.
She'd been so stupid. So desperate for something—validation, passion, escape—that she'd let herself believe the lies. She'd looked at a man who had everything and assumed that meant he wanted something genuine.
She was done being stupid.
The plan was simple. Jack had shown her his body, his vulnerabilities, his tells. She'd learned him over those seven days. Every twitch. Every moan. Every place where pressure could be applied.
And tonight, she was going to use all of it.
---
The doorman recognized her now.
That stung more than it should have. The casual nod, the knowing smile—oh, it's you again—as if she was just another regular visitor to Jack Linden's penthouse. How many women had passed through these doors? How many had earned that same nod?
She smiled back anyway. Kept her chin high. Let her heels click against the marble floor with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
Because she did.
The elevator ride took forever. She used the time to check her reflection in the mirrored walls—hair pulled back in its usual ponytail, makeup minimal, a cashmere sweater that hugged her curves and jeans that made her ass look phenomenal. The coil of crimson silk rope sat heavy in her purse, a reminder of her purpose.
She wasn't here to be seduced.
She was here to get answers.
---
Jack opened the door before she knocked.
He must have heard the elevator. Must have been waiting. His hair was disheveled, his shirt untucked, his feet bare against the dark hardwood. He looked like he'd been pacing.
"Blake."
Her name came out rough. Almost relieved.
She'd expected anger. Accusations. Questions about where she'd gone, why she'd left, why she'd ignored his calls and texts for three days straight.
But there was none of that. Just his storm-gray eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made her stomach flip.
"Are you going to let me in?"
He stepped aside.
---
The penthouse looked the same as it had that morning she'd walked out. Candles still on the nightstand, though they'd long since burned out. Sheets still rumpled, as if he hadn't let the housekeeper touch them. The faint scent of sandalwood hung in the air, mixed with something darker—the ghost of her perfume, maybe, lingering in the fabric of the curtains.
She didn't let herself look at the bed.
Not yet.
"Where have you been?"
Jack closed the door behind her. His voice was carefully controlled, but she could hear the edges of something frayed beneath it.
"Thinking."
"About?"
She turned to face him.
About you. About Rebecca. About every woman who's ever walked through this door and pretended she was the only one.
But that wasn't what she said.
"About you," she said. "About us."
"Is that funny to you?"
"No." He shook his head. "No, it's not funny."
The silence stretched between them. Thick. Heavy. Full of everything that had been said and everything that hadn't.
Then Blake reached into her purse and pulled out the rope.
---
Jack's eyebrows rose.
But he didn't look confused. Didn't look surprised. He looked... intrigued. Hungry. The same look he'd worn when she'd first tied him to the bedposts, when she'd made him come with his name on her lips and his wrists raw from pulling.
"What's this?"
"You said you wanted me to trust you," she said. "Remember that?"
"I remember."
"Well." She let the rope unspool, draping it over her palm. "I've been thinking about that night. About what I did to you. And I want to do it again."
"Properly this time?"
"Properly."
Jack's jaw tightened. He was already hard—she could see it through his jeans, the thick line of his cock pressing against the denim. He wanted this. Wanted her. Even after three days of silence, even after whatever had happened with Rebecca, he still looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
She wanted to believe that look.
She wanted to believe it so badly it ached.
But she was done believing.
"I need to hear you say it," she said. "You'll let me do this."
"You know I will."
"Say it."
"Yes." His voice was hoarse. "I'll let you."
---
He stripped without being asked.
T-shirt over his head, muscles shifting beneath his skin. Jeans unbuttoned, pulled down his thighs. Boxers kicked aside.
He stood there in the dim light, fully naked, fully hard, and waited.
Blake pointed to the bed.
"On your back. Arms up."
He obeyed.
---
The silk rope was smooth against her fingertips as she worked.
She started with his left wrist. Wrapped the crimson cord around the headboard, then circled it around his wrist in careful loops, making sure the silk didn't cut into his skin. There was an art to this—she'd done her research over the past three days, watched videos, practiced on her own ankles—and she was going to execute it perfectly.
"Too tight?"
"No."
She tied off the knot and moved to the right wrist. Repeated the process. Made sure the tension was equal.
When she was finished, Jack was stretched taut across the mattress, arms spread wide, body completely vulnerable to whatever she wanted to do.
He tested the restraints. Tugged at the rope.
"These are good," he admitted.
"I know."
She reached for his tie on the nightstand—the same navy blue silk she'd used on herself that night, the one he'd loosened and pulled from his neck before kissing her against the door—and folded it carefully.
"Head up."
He complied.
She wrapped the tie around his eyes. Tied it snug against the back of his head.
"Can you see anything?"
"Nothing."
"Good."
---
For a long moment, she just looked at him.
Jack Linden, blind and bound, breathing slow and even, cock thick and leaking against his belly. He looked almost serene like this. Almost peaceful. As if he trusted her completely, as if surrender was the same thing as safety.
The sight made something twist inside her chest.
She ignored it.
Her plan was simple. Edging, like last time. Wringing every ounce of pleasure from his body, pushing him to the edge again and again until he'd say anything, promise anything, just to come.
Then the tongue.
Then the question.
She'd get her confession. She'd get the truth about Rebecca and every other woman who had come before her. She'd make him admit what he was—a liar, a manipulator, a man who took what he wanted and discarded what he didn't.
Then she'd walk away.
For good this time.
Blake climbed onto the bed.
---
She started slow.
Fingertips tracing the lines of his abdomen, following the ridges of muscle that flexed and jumped beneath her touch. She leaned down and pressed her lips to his collarbone, breathing him in—sandalwood and soap and the faintest hint of sweat.
"Tell me what you're thinking," she murmured.
"That I want you to touch me."
"I am touching you."
"You know what I mean."
She smiled against his skin.
"Do I?"
Her hand drifted lower. Skipped over his cock entirely. Traced the inside of his thigh, the curve of his hip, the soft skin beneath his navel.
Jack groaned.
"You're teasing."
"I'm enjoying myself."
"Blake—"
"Shh."
---
She licked the length of his cock.
One long, slow stroke from base to tip, tongue flat and wet against the sensitive underside. Jack's hips jerked off the mattress, a strangled sound escaping his throat.
"Fuck."
She did it again. Slower this time. Letting her tongue drag over every ridge and vein, tasting the salt of his skin, the bitter tang of precum pooling at the head.
His hands fisted in the ropes. His thighs tensed.
"Please—"
She pulled away.
"Not yet."
"Blake, I swear to God—"
"You'll wait."
---
She took him in her mouth.
Not deep—just the head, her lips wrapping tight around the ridge, her tongue swirling in slow circles. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked, creating a vacuum that made him gasp, and then released with a wet pop.
"Do you like that?"
"Yes—"
"You want more?"
"Please."
She took him deeper. An inch, two, feeling him stretch her jaw as she worked her way down. She relaxed her throat and let him slide deeper still, until her nose was pressed against his belly and he was fully sheathed in her mouth.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
She stayed there. Breathed through her nose. Let him feel the tight heat of her throat for one endless moment.
Then pulled back.
---
She worked him for an hour.
Every time he got close—every time his breathing changed, his muscles tightened, his voice went high and desperate—she stopped. Drew back. Left him gasping and trembling and begging for release.
"You're killing me."
"You'll survive."
"I won't. I swear to God, I won't."
"You will."
She licked her palm and wrapped her hand around his cock, stroking slowly while she pressed kisses to his inner thigh. He bucked into her grip, chasing friction, and she let him—for a moment.
Then stopped again.
"Blake—"
"Patience."
"I don't have any fucking patience."
"Then learn."
---
By the time the first hour mark passed, Jack was a mess.
Sweat dripped down his temples. His chest heaved with every breath. The muscles in his arms strained against the ropes, veins standing out beneath his skin.
"I need to come," he rasped. "Please. I'll do anything. Just let me—"
"Anything?"
"Anything."
She filed that away.
---
She straddled his face.
No warning. No preamble. Just climbed up his body, positioned her cunt over his mouth, and lowered herself down.
"Lick."
He did.
His tongue was hot and eager, lapping at her like a man dying of thirst. She ground against him, using his mouth the way she wanted, chasing her own pleasure while he moaned into her folds.
"That's it," she breathed. "Right there."
He sucked her clit between his lips. Worked it with his tongue.
She came in under two minutes—a sharp, bright orgasm that made her thighs shake and her head fall back. She rode it out on his face, grinding down, and only pulled away when the sensitivity became too much.
Jack was panting beneath her.
"Please," he whispered. "Please let me taste you again. I want—"
"Not yet."
---
She slid down his body.
Past his chest, past his stomach, until she was kneeling between his spread thighs. She pressed her palms flat against his knees and pushed them wider, opening him up.
"What are you—"
"Shh."
She lowered her head.
Her tongue touched his balls first—a soft, wet stroke that made him shudder. She licked up the seam, sucked one into her mouth gently, then the other.
"Fuck—"
She kept going.
Past his balls, past the sensitive stretch of skin behind them. Down, down, until her tongue found the tight ring of muscle between his cheeks.
Jack's entire body went rigid.
"Blake—"
She circled the rim. Slow, deliberate, letting her saliva slick the way.
"Have you ever—"
"No." His voice cracked. "No one's ever—"
"I know."
She pressed her tongue flat against him. Licked long and slow.
"Fuckkk."
Up and down. Circles. Gentle pressure that teased without penetrating. She worked him like that for minutes, feeling him relax by degrees, until the ring of muscle softened and opened just enough.
Then she pushed inside.
Not deep. Just the tip of her tongue, breaching that tight entrance, feeling him clench around her.
"God, god, god—"
She reached for his cock.
---
She stroked him while she ate him.
Slow pumps of her fist, matching the rhythm of her tongue. She fucked him with her mouth—shallow thrusts in and out—while her hand slid up and down his shaft with deliberate, brutal slowness.
Jack was falling apart.
His hips bucked wildly. His heels dug into the mattress. He was babbling now, words spilling out of him in a desperate stream.
"Please, please, please, I can't, I can't take it, please—"
She pulled her mouth away.
Stopped stroking.
"No, no, no—"
"You can't take what?"
"I can't—" He sobbed. Actually sobbed, a wet, broken sound that echoed off the walls. "I need to come. I need it. Please, Blake. Please, I'll do anything, I'll tell you anything, just—"
She climbed up his body.
Straddled his chest.
Reached up and pulled the blindfold from his eyes.
He blinked up at her, vision swimming, pupils blown wide with lust and desperation. He looked wrecked. Destroyed.
Beautiful.
She let him see her face.
Let him see the cold fury burning behind her eyes.
And then, sweetly, with a smile that didn't reach anywhere near her eyes, she asked:
"Who is Rebecca, Daddy?"
---
The silence that followed was louder than any scream.
Jack went still beneath her. Not the stillness of pleasure or anticipation—the stillness of a man who'd just been shot.
His cock was still hard. Still leaking. Still pressed against her thigh, a reminder of everything she'd just done to him. But the heat in his eyes flickered, dimmed, guttered like a candle in a hurricane.
"What?"
His voice was hoarse from begging. Cracked. Almost unrecognizable.
"Rebecca," Blake repeated. "Who is she?"
"I don't—" He swallowed hard. "How do you know that name?"
"I saw your phone. That morning I left. She texted you. Said she had a great time. Wanted to know about dinner next week."
The words tasted like ash in her mouth.
Jack closed his eyes.
"Blake—"
"Is she your girlfriend? Your other mistress? One of many?" She felt her hands trembling and pressed them flat against his chest to steady them. "I want to know what I am to you. I think I've earned that much."
"Blake, listen—"
"I'm listening." Her voice shook. "I'm listening, Jack. Explain it to me."
He opened his eyes.
And for the first time since she'd met him—the first time in all those weeks of tangled sheets and stolen moments—he looked small.
"Rebecca is my sister."
---
The words didn't compute.
Blake blinked at him. "What?"
"My sister." He pulled at the ropes, frustrated by the restraint. "She lives in Seattle. She was in town for a conference last week. We had dinner. That's all."
"That's—" Blake shook her head. "You're lying."
"Why would I lie?"
"Because you—because she—" She scrambled off him, off the bed, putting distance between them. "Because you're Jack Linden. Because you don't do commitment. Because you use people and discard them and—"
"I'm telling the truth."
"Then why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me believe—"
"Believe what? You never asked." His voice sharpened. "You saw a text from a woman's name and assumed I was cheating. You didn't give me a chance to explain. You just left."
"I left because—"
"Because what, Blake?"
Because I realized I was falling in love with you.
The thought hit her like a freight train.
She stood there, naked and trembling, rope still coiled loosely around Jack's wrists, and felt the floor drop out from under her.
"Untie me," Jack said quietly. "Please."
She untied him.
---
He sat up slowly, rubbing his wrists. Red marks ringed the skin—not cuts, but close enough that she felt a flicker of shame.
"I should have told you about Rebecca," he said. "I should have mentioned I have a sister. But you never asked about my family. You never asked about anything real. Every time I tried to get close, you pulled away."
"Because this was supposed to be—"
"Simple?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Nothing about this is simple, Blake. You think I do this with everyone?"
"I don't know what you do."
"I don't do this at all." He stood up, reached for his jeans, pulled them on. "I don't bring women here. I don't let them stay the night. I don't answer questions about my life. But you—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You're different. I told you that. I told you I belonged to you. Did you think I was lying?"
"I didn't know what to think."
"I was telling the truth."
---
The silence that followed was different from the one before.
Less hostile. More fragile. Two people standing in the wreckage of something they'd both helped destroy.
"I'm sorry," Blake whispered.
"For what?"
"For assuming the worst. For not asking. For—" She gestured vaguely at the rope, still coiled on the bed. "For all of this."
"You wanted answers."
"I wanted to hurt you."
Jack's expression flickered.
"Yes," he said. "I know."
"You should be angry."
"I am." He pulled his shirt over his head. "But I understand."
"You understand that I tied you up and edged you for two hours just to interrogate you?"
"I understand that you were hurt. I understand that you saw something that made you feel betrayed. I understand that you needed to know the truth." He met her eyes. "I'm not angry that you asked. I'm angry that you didn't ask directly."
---
Blake sank onto the edge of the bed.
Her legs wouldn't hold her anymore. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a hollow ache in her chest.
"I've been so stupid," she said.
"You've been scared."
"Same thing."
"No." Jack knelt in front of her. "Not the same thing at all."
He took her hands. His palms were warm against her cold fingers.
"I'm not going to pretend I've been a saint," he said. "I've been selfish. I've been careless with people's feelings. I've used women, and discarded them, and never thought twice about it. But I haven't done that with you."
"How do I know that?"
"Because I'm here." His grip tightened. "Because I've been waiting for three days for you to come back. Because I called you seventeen times and you didn't answer, and I still didn't stop. Because when you showed up tonight, I didn't care that you left. I was just glad you came back."
Blake felt tears prick at her eyes.
"I was jealous," she admitted. "When I saw that text, I was so jealous I couldn't breathe. And I hated myself for it."
"Why?"
"Because this was supposed to be sex. Just sex. Nothing more." She pulled her hands free and wiped her eyes. "I wasn't supposed to care."
"And now?"
She looked at him.
At the man who had humiliated her, excited her, frustrated her, captivated her. The man who could have been anyone—a stranger, a fling, a mistake—and who had somehow become something else entirely.
"Now I don't know how to stop."
---
Jack stood up.
He crossed the room to his dresser, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved something small and silver—a key.
"Here."
He handed it to her.
"What is this?"
"A copy of my apartment key." He closed her fingers around it. "I had it made after the third time you came over. I was going to give it to you next week. As a gift."
Blake stared at him.
"You were going to give me a key?"
"I was going to ask you to stop pretending this was casual." He met her eyes without flinching. "I was going to tell you that I'm in love with you, and I don't know what to do about it, because you're married and I'm not a good man, but I can't seem to let you go."
The tears spilled over.
"Jack—"
"I know." His thumb brushed her cheek, wiping the wetness away. "I know."
---
They didn't have sex that night.
They lay in his bed instead, tangled together, talking in whispers. He told her about Rebecca—the older sister who had raised him after their parents died, the one person in the world he trusted completely. She told him about Craig—the boy she'd met in college, the man who had loved her faithfully for ten years, the husband she couldn't bring herself to leave.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted. "I don't know what I want."
"That's okay."
"It's not okay. It's terrible."
"It's honest." He kissed her forehead. "That's more than most people ever manage."
She fell asleep in his arms.
---
When she woke, the sun was streaming through the windows, and Jack was still there.
Still holding her.
Still his.
For now.