She does.
The fire burned low sometime in the night, but the cabin is still warm because her body is pressed flush to my side, one armtucked under my ribs, her tits soft against my chest. My morning wood is already raging, trapped between us, and the thin cotton of her panties is the only thing keeping me from sliding home right this second.
I don’t move. I stare at the ceiling and let myself feel it: my wife in my bed, in my arms, after twelve goddamn years of pretending I didn’t miss her every single day. Sure, I didn’t know we were actually married, but I still missed the woman I met that one crazy night. I haven’t even been with another woman in the time we’ve been apart.
She stirs. Makes this tiny, sleepy sound that punches me straight in the chest. Her leg shifts higher, brushing the length of my cock, and I bite back a groan.
Her eyes flutter open. Big, dark, still hazy with sleep. When she realizes where she is, she freezes.
“Morning, Vixen,” I rasp.
Color floods her cheeks. “Morning.” Her voice is husky, embarrassed, and so fucking cute I almost smile.
Almost.
Instead, I roll us so she’s on her back and I’m braced above her, forearms caging her in. The quilt falls to her waist, exposing the thin T-shirt she slept in, the one that’s ridden up just enough to show the curve of her hip and the edge of black lace panties.
She swallows hard. “Flynn…”
“Item two,” I say, low. “Tie me up like a present.”
Her pupils blow wide.
I reach the nightstand where I left the ribbon that had been tied around the fireball bottle. I dangle it in front of her face.
Her nipples are hard little points under the cotton, and she’s trembling so hard the mattress vibrates.
I wait.
She lifts her arms above her head without a word and lays her wrists together on the pillow.
Jesus Christ.
I loop the ribbon around her wrists once, twice, then tie it to the iron headboard. Not tight enough to hurt, just tight enough that she can’t get free unless I let her. The red looks obscene against her pale skin.
She tests the knot once. Her face melts into something raw and needy.
I sit back on my heels and look at her, spread out beneath me, chest rising fast, thighs pressed together like she can hide how wet she already is.
“Still with me?” I ask.
She nods, biting her lip so hard I’m scared she’ll leave marks.
I lean down and kiss, until she’s arching up, trying to get friction, wrists jerking against the ribbon.
Then I pull back, and she whimpers.
I strip the quilt all the way off, drag her panties down her legs, and toss them aside. She’s bare, glistening, thighs trembling.
I spread her open with my thumbs and look.
“Flynn,” she whispers, half plea, half warning.
I blow a cool breath across her clit and watch her hips buck. Then I settle between her legs and feast.
When I slide two fingers inside her, she clenches so hard I nearly come myself. I curl them, stroke that spot that makes her see stars, and keep my mouth on her until she shatters. Her back bowing off the bed, wrists straining against the ribbon, a broken cry ripping out of her throat.
I don’t stop. I keep licking her through it, softer now, drawing it out until she’s shaking and begging.
