I pull his glasses off his face and set them aside, then reach for the silk. It slides like water over skin as I lay it in his hands. I offer him my hands, wrists together, without a thought to my dignity or leather cuffs or chains. I know he doesn’t need me or want me to be helpless.
He wants me to be held.
“Tie me up,” I tell him.
23
Atticus
Phoenix leavesthe sketch on the table like a live wire and closes my bedroom door with the same quiet she uses to win arguments. The silk coils soft in her hands.
“I’m taking control,” I say, because naming the thing keeps it clean. I touch her cheek, not hard, not testing—just anchoring us both. “Color.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Green.”
My mouth goes dry for a second—not from sex, from relief. I set the box on the bed and open it. The ropes are coiled with the same discipline I use on code—every line where it belongs, no kinks, no guesswork. Safety scissors, spare keys, small bottle of jojoba. I lay everything out. She watches me like it’s foreplay. It is.
“Rules,” I say. “No marks I can’t cover. No pressure on nerves. If I ask a question, you answer out loud.”
“Yes,” she says, immediate.
“What’s our stop word?”
“Red.” A small smile. “Yellow for slow. Green for go.”
“Good girl,” slips out. Her breath catches. My knees almost do.
I kiss her standing. Not rough. Structured. The kind of kiss that tells the body what the mind already knows: you’re safe, you’re mine, I’m careful. When her fingers lift to my collar, I step back a half inch and she lets them fall. That trust knocks something loose in me I didn’t know I was bracing.
“Shirt off,” I say. “Hoodie on the chair.”
She obeys without rush, movements unshowy, deliberate. She is beautiful like elegant syntax—precise, unadorned, intentional.
I guide her to the edge of the bed, my hands checking her body the way I check a script for stress points. Her nape bandage is a caution tag in my periphery; I won’t touch it.
“Wrists,” I say. She offers them easily. I kiss each palm first, a ritual I don’t skip. Then I measure rope to forearm length and begin—single column, double, friction locked. Silk glides over skin with a hush that registers as a promise instead of a risk. I keep it snug, not punishing. I check for circulation—fingers warm, nail beds pink. I look up.
“Color?”
“Green,” she says. “I like your voice when you count.”
I didn’t realize I was counting. I smile, can’t help it. “Turn.”
She turns. I guide her arms back, cross the lines cleanly, no strain, no opportunity for resistance she doesn’t choose. The knot sits where I can watch it, where I can reach it in half a second if I need to. The rope runs over her shoulders and down her torso—a lattice that tightens with every inhale.
I drag my finger along the same route, pressure light but deliberate. Mapping her. Confirming she’s exactly where I want her.
When I cinch the center and her breath catches, I feel the answering pull in my own chest—like a system coming online.
“Too much?”
“No,” she says. “It…reminds me where I am.”
“Good. That’s the point…for both of us.”
I sit her on the bed and kneel to wrap above her knees. Two bands, space between, a vertical cinch that brings the structure together. No pressure on the inside of the knee. I test the range: she can shift, lift, push against me if she needs to. I want her power available. I want her choice in the system, not removed from it.
I rise, palm to her sternum where the rope crosses. The pattern frames her like a private crown. When I tug lightly, she moves with it and looks at me like surrender tastes better than fear.
