"What’s that?"
"You." His eyes gleam. "Gift wrapped for me."
A ripple of anticipation unfurls in my belly. The thought beingoffered up to him for his delectation is the culmination of my every erotic dream.
"Would you like that, wife?"
Even if he hadn’t called me wife, I’d have agreed. But add that to the intention he outlined, and I feel almost faint with desire. I want everything he’s going to do to me. And more. I want to be at the receiving end of every bit of his desire. Only me.
"Yes." Barely is the word out of my mouth when he scoops me up in his arms. I’m too overcome with lust to be surprised. Too taken aback with the pulsing need coursing through my veins to protest. Why pretend I want anything else than being used by this man in any way he wants?
He stalks into the bedroom and places me on my feet near the bed. Then he walks into the closet.
This time, he emerges with coils of dark ivy in his hands.No, they’re ropes.
Strands of emerald-green that look silky and soft to touch. My pulse skips. My breath stutters.
“Come here.” He gestures.
I step closer. The air between us hums. He reaches for my wrist, tracing his thumb along the inside, where my pulse stutters. His touch is warm, grounding.
“This isn’t about restraint.” He searches my features. “It’s about trust. About letting go. Do you understand? Say yes, if you do."
The words make something inside me loosen and quake all at once. But when I speak my voice is strong. "Yes."
"Good girl." He bends to kiss me firmly.
Then slides the rope over my skin, a whisper-soft glide that sends shivers spiraling down my spine. He moves behind me, his body a wall of throbbing heat I can feel even without touch. Each loop he makes is measured, deliberate. His breath is steady, while mine, in contrast, is ragged.
He crosses the rope over my shoulders, down my back, then around my ribs, a careful cradle that holds me upright. It’s not too tight.
Enough to make me aware of every place the fibers kiss my skin.I can feel the faint press between my breasts, the pattern forming. Each loop painting a line of tension and release on my skin.
I can smell him now: dark, peppery, and so masculine; every cell in my body hums in appreciation. My body sways without permission, my lungs seizing up under the onslaught of his overpowering presence.
“Breathe for me," he whispers.
I inhale; the ropes shift, expanding slightly with my lungs. The sensation is intoxicating. The awareness that even my breath moves at his will makes my head spin and my thighs quiver.
His fingers trace down my sides as he gathers more rope. He threads it around my waist, weaving it through the pattern at my back, the pressure growing firmer.
My skin tingles, alive beneath every pass of the rope.
When he kneels in front of me, the sunlight slanting in through the window carves shadows across his jaw. He loops the strand around my thighs, guiding it with the same care he might use to handle something sacred.
The pattern is simple but beautiful: diagonal lines tracing from my shoulders to my hips, crossing at the center of my chest like the wrapping on a precious gift.
He lifts my arms, guiding them up until my elbows point outward, and my hands rest behind my neck.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Rope slides over my wrists, the friction sparking goosebumps across my skin. He binds them together, then threads the rope behind my neck, drawing it snug until it keeps my hands resting there.
The result is, I have to push out my chest. The ropes are crisscrossed to expose my nipples. Framing them. Exposing them for his delectation.
I glance down long enough to see how the ropes bear down under my thighs to lift up my pussy lips, with the engorged and very obscene looking button of my clit between them as an offering.
I feel open, exposed, in a pose of surrender that feels both restrained and intimate.
