His hand moves lower, fingers skating along the waistband of my slacks like he owns the territory and God help me, part of me believes he does.
My breath snags, half panic, half electricity.
The tiny click of the button yielding sounds loud in the quiet room. He peels the fabric down just far enough to bare the delicate line of my underwear, then stops, studying me like he’s mapping a country he’s been obsessed with for a decade.
The plastic biting into my wrists reminds me they’re still bound. He lifts them carefully, loops the tie over his neck so my arms hang there, stretched between us, my hands resting on his shoulders.
“Now you can’t fall,” he whispers. “You can only hold on.”
The words slam into me harder than his palm did. My throat works. I nod, not trusting my voice.
His gaze drops, and when his hand finally slips beneath the waistband, heat licks up my spine in a wild, helpless arc.
“Christ, Meredith, you’re soaked.” His thumb grazes my clit once—just once—and my hips buck so hard the couch creaks.
"Fuck," I choke out, thighs clenching around his hand.
His fingers slide through slick heat, gathering wetness, exploring me with torturous precision. One broad finger circles my entrance, teasing but not entering, while his thumb returns to that sensitive bundle of nerves. The dual sensation makes my head fall back, eyes fluttering closed.
"Look at me," he commands, voice rough. "I want to see your face when you feel this."
I force my gaze back to his. The intensity there steals my breath, hunger and tenderness twisted into something almost religious. His finger finally pushes inside, just to the first knuckle, and my inner walls clench greedily around the intrusion.
"That's it," he praises, working deeper. "Taking me so well. So perfect for me."
Heat floods my cheeks. Part of me wants to hide from this—from him witnessing how easily my body betrays me. I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't arch into his touch like I'm starving for it. My brain screams that this is wrong, but my hips rock down against his hand, chasing more.
"I've thought about this for years," Nick murmurs, adding a second finger with agonizing slowness. "Touching you. Making you fall apart." His thumb draws lazy circles around my clit, building pressure without quite giving me what I need. "Dreamed of how you'd sound, how you'd feel."
The stretch burns so good that I gasp, my thighs tensing around his wrist. The zip-ties cut into my skin as I instinctively try to reach for him, but I'm caught, arms looped around his neck, trapped and exposed.
"You're so tight," he breathes, voice tinged with awe as his fingers work deeper. "So wet for me and I'm just getting started."
His thumb finally—finally—presses directly against my clit, and the sensation jolts through me like lightning. My hips jerk forward, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him. A moan tears from my throat.
"That sound," Nick groans, his own breathing ragged. "Fuck, Meredith. Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
His fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. I cry out, unable to hold it back, my body clenching around him. Pleasure builds in tight, hot waves, each one higher than the last.
"You're mine," he whispers, mouth at my ear. "Always have been. Always will be."
The possessive words should repulse me. They should remind me that I'm here against my will, that this man kidnapped me, tied me up, spanked me like a child. Instead, they send anotherrush of wetness coating his fingers, my inner walls fluttering around the intrusion.
What's wrong with me?
Heat floods through me, not just from his touch but from the naked adoration in his eyes. His fingers move deeper, stretching me wider, and a strangled sound escapes my throat.
"Nick," I gasp, my bound hands clutching desperately at his shoulders.
"I know, baby. I know exactly what you need." His voice drops lower, rougher. "I've spent years imagining how you'd sound when I touched you. How you'd feel squeezing around my fingers."
My inner walls clench at his words, and shame washes over me. I shouldn't want this. Shouldn't be rocking my hips to meet each thrust of his fingers. Shouldn't be so wet that I can hear the slick sounds of his movements.
"Please," I whimper, not even sure what I'm begging for.
"Please what?" His voice is velvet-rough against my ear. "Tell me what you need."
My hips rock helplessly against his hand, chasing the sensation. "I need—I need more."
