Sound flattened, and the room lost its edges. But, even without hearing, I felt what she intended—the pause before her touch, the tilt in the water when she shifted closer, the warmth that gathered when she leaned.
Breathe when I lift you,the water seemed to say.Remember me in pleasure when I lower you.
I did.
The world narrowed to texture. Stone at my shoulder blades. Silk-slick ripples gliding over my ribs. The faint shiver that ran the length of my spine.
The dragon within folded in obedience and then curled its smoke. I had spent too many nights commanding chaos until it wore my face.
Here, chaos laid down its teeth.
Here, my Tiger was watching me closely. When I was typically used to being the watcher. Now, I was the one being observed with intent.
This flipped our usual power dynamic in a way that felt safe.
She saw everything, kept track of every move, and gave me an answer for each one.
In my world, my actions often went unchallenged and unquestioned. Here, my Tiger noticed, not to punish me, but to engage.
And I didn’t know why but that validation was intoxicating.
It didn’t make me feel small.
In fact, I was feeling more known.
I was a man who equated vulnerability with danger, so this sensation of giving her all my control and power. . .was a rare and almost addictive relief. It made me feel seen. It made me want to kneel before her every day for the rest of my life.
She skimmed one palm across my sternum, and my body sank deeper. Her other hand was against mine as if waiting for me to give the signal to let me back up.
But I would not.
I held still.
I would only rise when she wanted me to.
The need for oxygen clawed at my lungs, hot and primal. My body screamed to break the surface.
I denied it.
Her fingers tightened along my hand. Perhaps, she sensed my straining.
I was unsure.
I kept my eyes open beneath the blur of water and watched her in fragments—light on collarbone, the dark sweep of wet hair curling along her face, her breasts swaying and bobbing.
I yearned to touch her, but the cuffs would not let me.
Seconds turned into small knives, carving through my lungs. Each one slower than the last. This might have been the longest I’d ever been without oxygen in my life.
The only thing harder than my lungs was my cock, straining against the heat of the water and pleading with my Tiger to stroke it some more.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
Pressure turned into permission. The ache I carried under my breastbone—the dead’s names, blood oaths, hard brutal choices—spilled out of me.
My lungs stretched thin, then thinner. The line between pleasure and panic began to blur until I couldn’t tell which side I was on anymore.
And maybe that was the point.
