“I didn’t think you’d enjoy vanilla,” he says. “But here you are, taking it without complaint.”
I jerk in surprise, but his grip is steady, unhurried. His other hand finds my left wrist and follows, drawing it to meet the first.
Then with terrifying ease, he gathers both into one largepalm. His grip is light and doesn’t hurt, but also firm enough that I couldn’t pull free if I wanted to.
My chest tips forward, my body reacting to the restraint. Helpless. Exposed. My heart pounds so hard, I swear he can hear it.
“The bitter espresso made it…interesting,” I manage.
He smirks and leans in, gaze locked on mine, words a rough rumble. “This what you like, baby? A bit of bite to go with the sweet?”
The table, the restaurant, the risk of being seen—all of it fades. It’s just his hand at my wrists and the dizzying realization that I don’t want him to let go.
My throat works, but no words come.
“Would you let me tie you up?” His tone drops, softer now, dangerous. “Do whatever I want with you?”
The answer should be no. Every sane part of me screams it should be no.
And yet, I nod. Small. Shaky. Helpless.
His mouth tilts up, pleased. But he doesn’t release me yet. With his free hand, he scoops another spoonful of gelato, holding it steady at my lips.
“Open up.”
This time, I obey right away. Sweet, bitter cream slides over my tongue, but all I feel is the weight of his hand locking me in place, the darkness in his eyes while he feeds me.
Then he sets the spoon aside and leans in.
His tongue traces the seam of my mouth—coaxing, tasting, stealing the last of the espresso. A shiver cascades down my spine, and I open for him without thinking.
The kiss deepens; our tongues find a rhythm that steals my breath. Heat skims my skin, every point of contact sparking. The slick press of his mouthturns feral, but he won’t hurry. He sets the pace—patient, intent—proving his point with every stroke until I’m trembling, undone, clutching at him.
By the time he finally pulls back, I’m breathless. Every inch of me is on fire.
Only then does he free my wrists, as if he’s granting mercy. My hands fall to my lap, useless, while I try to remember how to breathe.
Nate reclines, unruffled, lips curved in quiet satisfaction after wrecking me with a spoon and a scoop of ice cream.
“Time to head back,” he declares quietly.
The words are simple. Ordinary. But the way he says them—sure, absolute—leaves no doubt in my mind.
I’ll follow him anywhere.
Nate rises, and without another word, I’m on my feet too.
The air outside is cold and sharp, but it doesn’t cool me down. Electricity hums under my skin. From the kiss, from the way he held my wrists. I can’t shake the memory of it—how I nodded before I even thought.
We walk side by side through the snow-dusted street. My pulse refuses to settle. Meanwhile, his stride is measured and composed. He has all the time in the world and nowhere better to be.
“You did good,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath skims my ear. “Didn’t take you long to figure out how sweet it is to let go.”
My knees wobble, but his hand is firmly on my waist, steadying me.
“You liked pleasing me,” he continues, his tone a lazy rasp that slides under my skin. “Liked those pretty wrists pinned down. All that fire and strength, and yet you melted for me willingly, loved that I took your choice away.”
My throat is parched. Words fail.
