Hour 1: The Logistics of Desire
Getting back to the chalet wasn’t as difficult as I expected—mostly because we planned ahead. We kept our jackets draped over our shoulders instead of sliding our arms into the sleeves.
The moment the door closes behind us, the warmth of the fireplace hits us full force.
Sloane drops her coat to the floor with a sigh.
“I’m sweaty, I’m sticky, and I need a shower,” she announces, eyeing the pink-fur-and-metal link binding us together. “But I have a problem.”
She turns her back to me.
“This thermal suit.”
My gaze drops.
The tight white fabric hugs every curve, and right there—on her perfectly rounded ass—are two red hearts that feel like a personal summons.
“It’s a crime against fashion,” she adds.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I counter, using my free hand to smack one of the hearts. “But yeah. I see the problem. It’s not coming off past the handcuffs.”
“We’ll have to cut it.”
My brain short-circuits.
“Cut it?”
Sloane hands me a pair of scissors she’s pulled from the emergency sewing kit in the drawer.
“Cut it, Becker. I want to shower. Now.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
The sound of fabric tearing is the most erotic noise in the world. I slide the cold tip of the scissors into her neckline and cut downward, splitting the suit open like I’m unwrapping a gift.
She shivers—but not from the cold.
The suit falls to the floor in a heap of white and red.
Sloane is naked.
And I’m still fully dressed, handcuffed to her, with an erection threatening to rip my jeans apart.
Hour 2: Advanced Plumbing
The shower water is scorching hot. Steam fills the glass enclosure almost instantly, fogging up everything except the two of us.
I’m naked now. Or almost. Our clothes are a wet pile on the floor.
The logistics are a nightmare—one that quickly turns into my favorite erotic fantasy.
The short chain forces me to keep my right arm raised, pinned against the tiled wall, linked to her left. We’re suspended from each other, bodies slick with soap and water.
“Look at me,” I growl against her skin as I drag the sponge down her neck, pressing hard.
Her eyes are closed, her head tipped back, water running down her throat.
“I can feel you,” she pants.
