Steel and Surrender

The first time she touched the knife to his skin, he went completely still.

Not out of fear—he wasn’t afraid of her. He trusted her. But trust didn’t mean he wasn’t feeling it. That sharp edge of anticipation, the way his body reacted before his mind caught up. It was instinct, raw and undeniable.

She straddled him, the Buck 119 Special firm in her grip. The weight of it felt good in her hand—solid, sharp, real. She let the blade hover just above his collarbone, close enough that he could feel the cold bite of steel but not close enough to break skin. Not yet.

His chest rose, slow and controlled, but she saw the tension there. The way his muscles tightened. Waiting. Wanting.

She pressed the flat of the blade against his chest, dragging it down, unhurried. The cool steel met warm skin, and he exhaled, the sound more of a shudder than a breath.

“Breathe.”

His eyes flicked to hers, dark and steady, but there was something behind them now—something sharp, something hungry.

Good.

She tilted the knife, letting the spine of the blade run up the side of his throat. His pulse was fast, hammering just beneath the surface. His hands stayed at his sides, obedient. She hadn’t bound him, hadn’t told him to keep still—but he knew better than to move.

She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. “You like this.”

He swallowed.

She smiled.

Dragging the blade lower, she let it glide over his ribs, tracing the hard lines of his body. The point hovered over his sternum, a heartbeat away from something more dangerous. She wasn’t pressing, not yet. But he could feel it. That was the game.

How much did he want? How far would he go?

She could read it in his body—the way his fingers twitched, his breath hitched, his hips shifted under her. He wanted her to take it further, to push him to the edge. But he wouldn’t ask. That wasn’t how this worked.

She lifted the knife and rested the flat against his lips.

He inhaled sharply, his mouth parting just slightly. The steel was cold, unforgiving. She let him feel it, let him sit in that moment, in the heat of his own need.

Then she dragged the tip along his jaw, slow and deliberate. His head tilted back slightly, baring his throat like he was offering something.

Yeah. That was exactly what he was doing.

She let the knife trail lower, down his stomach, teasing along the waistband of his pants. His breath stuttered, his body coiled tight.

And then she pulled back.

The frustration hit him instantly. She saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his fingers dug into the sheets. But he didn’t break. He wouldn’t beg.

Not yet.

She smirked, tapping the blade against his chest. “Not yet.”

His breath came rough, uneven, his body still wired from the tension she’d built. He was holding onto it, trying to calm himself. She knew he would. He trusted her. That was what made this work. That was what made it good.

She set the knife aside and replaced it with her hands, trailing her fingers over the same paths the blade had taken. Skin to skin now, grounding him, bringing him back.

She kissed the spot where steel had rested.

“You’re good for me,” she murmured against his throat.

His hands finally moved, gripping her hips, anchoring himself with her.

And she?

She was still smiling, with her knife.