Bonus Chapter: Match Point
Backhanded Compliments — Bonus Content
by Aurora North
This bonus chapter takes place three weeks after the epilogue of Backhanded Compliments. It contains extremely explicit sexual content far beyond the main novel — silk restraints, extended oral, multiple orgasms, and graphic language throughout. Intended for readers 18+ only.
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🔥 Match Point
A Bonus Chapter from Backhanded Compliments
Celeste won the exhibition match in straight sets, and she was insufferable about it.
“Winner gets whatever she asks for,” she said, spinning her racket as we walked off court. The charity crowd was still applauding. The cameras were still flashing. She was still wearing the white dress and the gold bracelet and the crooked smile that had been ruining my concentration for seven years. “Honestly. Those were your terms.”
“I’m aware of my own terms.”
“Good. Because I’ve been thinking about what I want for approximately forty-eight hours, and I’d like to collect.”
I looked at her. She looked back with the particular expression I’d learned to categorize as trouble — amber eyes bright, beauty mark prominent, the composed surface concealing something she’d been constructing with tactical precision while I was busy losing a tennis match.
“Now?” I asked.
“When we get home.” She pressed her thumb against the inside of my wrist — our signal. “I want to try something we haven’t done.”
My pulse kicked against her thumb. She felt it. Her smile widened.
“That’s a short list,” I said. “We’ve done a lot.”
“Not this.”
She walked ahead of me toward the car, her hips swaying with the deliberate confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and had engineered the conditions to get it.
I followed. Obviously.
The drive home took twenty-three minutes. I counted because Celeste spent the entire ride with her hand on my thigh — not moving, not stroking, just resting there with her fingertips curled against the inner seam of my jeans, close enough to where I wanted her that my breath kept catching on the inhale.
“You’re being very quiet,” she said.
“You have your hand on my thigh.”
“I have my hand on your thigh every day.”
“Not three inches from my —”
“From your what?” Innocent face. Devastatingly innocent face. “Finish the sentence, Imani.”
“Drive faster.”
Our house was warm and quiet. The Mediterranean evening poured through the open windows — jasmine, sea salt, the distant sound of the village settling into its nightly rhythm.
“Shower first,” she said. “Both of us. Separately.”
“Separately?”
“I need time to set up.”
I came out of the bathroom with damp braids and a towel around my waist and found the bedroom transformed. She’d lit candles — four, placed strategically, because Celeste approached even atmosphere with tactical precision. The bed was freshly made. And on the nightstand, coiled in a neat loop, sat a long strip of ivory silk.
Celeste was sitting on the edge of the bed in a black silk robe — the same one she’d worn the first night at the Crown Championships, over a year ago.
“Sit down,” she said.
I sat beside her. She stood up. Moved to face me. Untied the robe’s belt with excruciating slowness, holding my gaze the entire time, and let the silk fall open.
Nothing underneath. Just Celeste — lean, golden-brown, the surgical scar on her right shoulder a thin silver line. Small breasts with dark nipples already hardening. The freckles across her sternum. The same woman, remade.
“Here’s what I want,” she said. “I want you to tie my hands above my head so I can’t touch you. And then I want you to take as long as you want. Anything, everything — while I receive it without being able to control the pace or perform anything at all.”
“You want to surrender control,” I said.
“I want to find out what happens when I can’t take it back.” She knelt between my legs. “I don’t want the option tonight. I want to trust you with it. All of it.”
She produced the ivory silk. “Nothing that marks. Just enough that pulling against it reminds me I chose this.”
“One rule,” I said. “You say stop and everything stops. Immediately.”
“Agreed.”
She lay back on the pillows. Raised her arms above her head and crossed her wrists against the headboard’s iron bars. I wrapped the silk around her wrists — carefully, watching her face, leaving enough tension that she’d feel the restraint when she pulled.
She pulled. The silk held. Her whole body went soft against the sheets.
“I’m yours,” she said.
I dropped the towel. Her eyes moved down my body with that specific, hungry attention I’d spent seven years mistaking for competitive analysis. She pulled against the silk — the instinct to reach for me — and the binding held and she made a sound. Low, frustrated, desperate.
“That sound,” I said. “Make it again.”
“Make me.”
I started at her mouth. Kissed her slowly, deeply, tongue finding tongue. She strained against the silk, trying to deepen the contact, trying to set the pace. The binding held her back. She groaned into my mouth.
“You can’t lead tonight,” I murmured. “That’s the point.”
“Does it scare you?”
“Terrifies me.”
“Good. Stay scared. I’ve got you.”
I moved to her neck. The spot below her ear that made her entire body shudder. Stayed there while her wrists twisted in the binding and the headboard creaked. Her collarbone. The hollow of her throat where her pulse hammered against my lips.
I kissed the surgical scar on her shoulder. Traced it with my tongue. “I love this scar,” I said against her skin. “I love what it means. That you chose to be here rather than be perfect.”
I moved to her breasts and took my time. I circled her left nipple in slow, narrowing spirals without touching it directly — closer and closer until she was arching off the bed, arms straining against the silk, voice breaking.
“Please — touch me — actually touch me — you’re killing me —”
I closed my mouth around her nipple and sucked. Her back arched so violently her hips left the mattress. The sound she made was sharp and raw. I gave the other breast the same orbiting treatment, the same deliberate withholding, the same devastating contact. She was shaking by the time I finished — full-body tremor, thighs pressing together, trying to generate pressure she couldn’t reach.
I kissed down her body. Sternum. Ribs. Stomach. Navel. The sharp line of her hip bone. The inside of her thigh. Then the other. Then the crease where her leg met her pelvis — so close to where she was wet and swollen and desperate that my breath ghosted across her and she whimpered. Celeste Navarro, whimpering because my mouth was two inches from her cunt and I refused to close the distance.
“Imani — please — I need your mouth on me — I need you to stop teasing and put your tongue on my clit and make me come — I can’t stand it —”
“That’s very specific.”
“I learned from the best. Now please — for the love of God —”
I put my mouth on her.
The sound she made was inhuman. A keening cry that started as my name and dissolved into Spanish and then into something that wasn’t language at all. She was soaked — I could taste how much the restraint and the teasing had built inside her until her body was weeping with it. I used the flat of my tongue in a long stroke from her entrance to her clit, and the taste of her made my own hips grind into the mattress.
I used every technique I’d learned across a year of making this woman come. The broad strokes that built the foundation. The targeted circles around her clit that made her thighs clamp against my ears. The feather-light flicks that kept her on the edge. The sustained suction that made her scream.
Her hands fought the silk constantly. Every time the binding held her back she made that desperate, helpless sound, and every time she made it I felt my own arousal spike in response.
I slid one finger inside her. Slowly. Felt her walls clench around me, hot and tight and wet. Added a second finger and curled them upward, pressing against the spot that made her hips buck violently enough to lift us both off the mattress.
“There — right there — don’t stop — ahí, justo ahí, no pares —”
She came like a detonation. Her entire body contracted — back arched, thighs clamped, wrists yanking the silk so hard the headboard slammed against the wall. She screamed — a full-throated scream that dissolved into a stream of Spanish so rapid I could only catch fragments — mi vida, Dios, no puedo, Imani, por favor — her body shuddering in continuous waves, my fingers buried inside her feeling every contraction, my mouth gentling but not stopping, riding the orgasm until she collapsed with a sob.
I didn’t stop.
The second orgasm built while the first was still subsiding. I changed the angle — withdrew slowly, drawing a whine from her throat, then slid three fingers in. She gasped. The stretch made her eyes fly open and she stared at the ceiling with her mouth hanging open and no sound coming out at all.
I fucked her slowly with three fingers while my thumb replaced my tongue on her clit. I wanted to watch her face. Every micro-expression. Every moment where the pleasure crested and her composure dissolved into raw, unfiltered sensation.
She came quieter the second time. A deep, rolling wave. Her wrists had stopped fighting the silk. Her hands were open. Fingers splayed. Palms turned upward in complete surrender.
“One more,” I said.
“I can’t — I genuinely cannot —”
“You can. I’ve always got you.”
I straddled her thigh. Slid my hand between us and entered her again — two fingers, gentle, curling upward. Simultaneously I pressed my own cunt against her thigh and the contact made us both gasp. I rode her thigh while I fucked her with my hand, the rhythm synchronized, building in both of us simultaneously. She lifted her thigh to increase the pressure against me and I moaned — loud, unguarded.
“Together,” she breathed. “Come with me.”
We came at the same time. Her body clenching around my fingers as mine shattered against her thigh. The sound we made was a single voice. I buried my face in her neck and we shook together, wave after wave, the pleasure so intense it blurred the line between ecstasy and something closer to anguish.
I untied the silk. My hands were trembling. The skin underneath was unmarked. I kissed each wrist — pressed my lips to the pulse points where her heartbeat was still racing.
“How do you feel?”
“I feel like I just lost a match and won something better.”
“Was it what you wanted?”
“It was what I needed. Which is different and better.” She pressed a kiss to my collarbone. “I needed to know that I could give up control entirely and the world wouldn’t end. That I could lie there with my hands tied and my body open and every defense stripped away, and the woman holding the silk would choose to worship me rather than punish me.”
“I’ll always choose that.”
“I know. That’s why I married the woman who can hold them.”
Outside, the Mediterranean night hummed. The jasmine bloomed. And in a bedroom in Barcelona, two rackets leaned against the wall, a trophy gleamed on the dresser, and a strip of ivory silk lay coiled on the nightstand beside a velvet pouch of hotel key cards and a scouting notebook that would never be finished.
There was always more to learn.
That was the whole point.
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