He finishes the final knots and steps back.
The woman in the glass.
My arms are bound behind me, wrists crossed at the small of my back. Red silk creates an X across my upper chest, a tight band beneath my breasts that lifts and frames them. My nipples are hard, flushed dark, aching for contact. The position and the rope together put everything on display, everything offered up. My skin is pink in the lamplight.
Last time, the harness was decorative. I could still move, still reach for him.
This time, I'm his.
He moves to my left and begins to circle.
His footsteps are quiet on the hardwood, but the air stirs as he passes. My exposed side prickles where I can't see him. I try to turn, to track him, but I make myself stay still. Blood rushes in my ears.
He appears on my right, still circling. His eyes track over every inch of exposed skin, every line of rope, every place where the silk presses into my flesh.
My heart pounds and my breath comes fast, and then my shoulders drop. Every muscle I've been holding tight for eight years lets go at once.
He stops in front of me. His fingers hook under my chin, tipping my face up. His thumb presses against my pulse point, which is hammering now, giving me away.
"You're sure."
"I've never been more sure of anything."
His lips part, and his pupils blow so wide his eyes go black.
"Then we begin."
His hand trails down my throat, my collarbone, the rope across my chest. Then he moves behind me and his hand finds my bound wrists, not gentle but firm, possessive, using the rope as a handle.
He turns me and guides me with that grip, and I have no choice but to follow. My body bends, off-balance. Four steps to the bed. I stumble on the third, can't catch myself, and his free hand grips my hip.
"On the bed. Knees."
I climb up awkward without hands. He helps, guiding me onto the mattress until his hands position me where he wants me.
I'm on my knees, bent forward, my cheek pressed against the cool cotton and my arms arched behind me, useless and bound. Ass up.
The position hits me like a punch to the gut. Every part of me is exposed — the wet heat between my thighs, the vulnerable curve of my spine, the places no one sees. I'm splayed open for him, legs spread, nothing hidden, the cool air against my slick folds, and he's looking.
Oh God. Oh God. Yes.
Behind me, he shifts. The mattress dips as he kneels between my spread thighs.
He inhales sharply.
"You look—" The words die.
"What?"
His hands bracket my hips. His thumbs press into the muscle there, and they're trembling. When he speaks again, his voice barely holds:
"Like everything I've wanted for twelve years."
My breath leaves me. All of it, one long exhale that empties my lungs.
His hand slides between my thighs and finds me soaked, slick and swollen.
"This wet already?" His fingers spread me open, holding me there while he looks. His voice is reverent, disbelieving. "Just from the rope?"
