Chapter Three: Morning Chains
832 Words
Sarah groaned as sunlight stabbed through the thin curtains, the brightness slicing into her pounding head. Her mouth was dry, her body heavy with the kind of ache that only too much liquor could deliver. She rolled onto her side, clutching her temples, muttering a curse under her breath.
What the hell had she done last night?
Fragments came back in jagged flashes, the taste of whiskey, neon lights, laughter that wasn’t hers. A pair of hands guiding her into a car. The warmth of a body too close. Lips on hers. Heat. Skin. Pleasure so intense it blurred into a dream.
Her stomach dropped.
She turned again, burying her face into the pillow, until a sharp, metallic clink cut through the silence.
Her eyes flew open.
The sound came again, faint but unmistakable. The rattle of metal against wood.
Sarah sat up, heart hammering. She blinked against the sunlight, forcing her eyes to adjust, and that was when she saw him.
A man.
A man was in her bed.
No—not just a man.
He was half-sitting, half-slumped against the headboard, his arms stretched out to either side, wrists bound by silver cuffs that glinted in the light. Broad shoulders strained against the pull, the muscles in his arms flexing with every tiny movement. He wore nothing but black boxers, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the sculpted perfection of his body.
Sarah’s breath caught, her pulse exploding in her throat.
Her gaze swept over him helplessly, drinking him in like a forbidden indulgence. His face was absurdly gorgeous, strong jawline dusted with the faintest stubble, lips full and parted as if he were still catching his breath from some untold sin. Thick lashes shadowed sharp cheekbones, and his hair fell in careless dark waves over his forehead.
But it was his body that made her mouth go dry.
His chest was a masterpiece, toned and defined, each line of muscle cut deep, every ridge catching the morning light. His biceps bulged against the restraint, veins running like rivers beneath his golden skin. His triceps, his shoulders, everything about him was carved from discipline and power.
And then there were his abs.
Her eyes lingered shamelessly on the sculpted ridges, a perfect six-pack that looked like it had been chiseled by the gods themselves. Just below, the sharp V of his hipbones dipped into that dangerous line, the infamous V washboard, leading down to where the boxers clung low on his hips. Sarah swallowed hard, heat flooding through her even as her brain screamed at her to look away.
She didn’t.
Her eyes traveled lower, greedily tracing the length of his thighs. Strong, muscular, built for power yet somehow elegant in their shape. His calves were lean but defined, his legs long and smooth save for the faintest dusting of hair.
And then, his feet.
Sarah had never in her life thought of feet as sexy, but his were absurdly perfect. Long, slender toes, neatly trimmed nails, the soft pink arch of his soles just visible when he shifted. Veins ran faintly across the top, giving them a rugged, masculine edge that made her bite her lip before she realized what she was doing.
Heat coiled low in her belly.
This was insane. Absolutely insane.
She tore her gaze away, pressing a hand to her mouth as if that could erase the sight of him seared into her brain. But her eyes betrayed her, sliding back over him again, lingering on the rise and fall of his chest, the way his abs tightened with each slow breath.
And then, as if on cue, his eyes opened.
Piercing gray-blue, sharp even through the haze of sleep. He blinked once, twice, then focused on her.
Sarah’s stomach dropped.
The man. The stranger. The… the god cuffed to her bed… was awake.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Her mouth opened, closed, no words forming. His lips curved ever so slightly, as though he were amused by her horror.
Then he tugged at the cuffs, the faint rattle filling the silence. His voice was low, gravelly from disuse, but devastatingly calm.
“Well,” he said, eyes raking over her in return. “Good morning.”
Sarah’s jaw nearly hit the floor.
Her pulse thundered so hard she thought she might faint. She scrambled back on the bed, clutching the sheets around her like armor, her mind screaming a thousand questions at once. Who was he? Why was he cuffed to her bed? What the hell had she done last night?
But all she could manage was a strangled whisper, her eyes locked helplessly on the godlike man chained in her bedroom.
“What… what are you doing here?”
His smirk deepened, slow and lethal.
“You tell me,” he murmured, his voice a caress that slid under her skin and lit her veins on fire. “After all… you’re the one who chained me.”
- Writer
