Sitting on the edge of the bed, he begins working the rope around my wrist. His hands are efficient. The rope wraps in a cuff pattern, distributing pressure, then he secures it to the headboard.
"Too tight?"
"No, Sir."
He repeats the same process with my other wrist, then my ankles. By the time he's finished, I'm spread open, vulnerable, unable to close my legs or protect myself from his gaze.
"Beautiful." He stands, looks down at me. "And completely mine."
The possessiveness in his voice shouldn't send heat through me, but it does. Because he's earned it. Not through force or manipulation, but through proving over and over that he understands what I need even when I can't articulate it.
He strips out of his shirt. I've felt this body against mine in the dark, but seeing it—shoulders broad, chest and arms built from work not vanity, dark hair trailing down to his jeans—makes my breath catch.
"Tell me what you need," he says.
"I need to stop thinking."
"That's what. Tell me what you need."
I know what he's asking. Not the goal, but the method. What specific acts, what particular dynamic will get me there.
"I need you to take control. Make decisions. Use me however you want." I pull against the ropes, feel them hold. "I need to surrender completely."
"Good girl." He moves to the nightstand, opens the drawer. "I'm going to make you come. Multiple times. You're going tolose count. And when I finally let you stop, you won't remember what you were worried about."
It's not a question. Not a negotiation. Just a statement of what's going to happen.
"Yes, Sir."
He returns to the nightstand, pulls out a silk blindfold. Black, soft. He slides it over my eyes, and the world goes dark.
"You spend all day watching. Analyzing. Reading people." His voice comes from somewhere above me. "Not tonight. Tonight you just feel."
The loss of sight sharpens everything else. I can hear his breathing, the rustle of fabric as he moves. Feel the air currents shift when he leans closer.
His hands on my inner thighs, thumbs brushing close to where I'm already wet for him. He doesn't touch me there yet. Just traces patterns on my skin, building anticipation until I'm trembling.
"You hold yourself so tight," he says, feeling his hands move over my body. "Always in control. Always performing. But here, with me, you don't have to be anything except exactly what you are."
His thumb brushes over my clit. Light pressure, not enough to satisfy. I try to lift my hips, seek more contact, but the ankle restraints limit my movement.
"Stay still."
I freeze.
He leans down, presses a kiss to my inner thigh. Then another, higher. His scruff scratches against sensitive skin. I can feel his breath on me, getting closer to where I need him, but he takes his time. Deliberate. Controlled.
When his mouth finally reaches my center, I gasp. His tongue is firm, tracing through my folds with the same precision hebrings to everything. He finds my clit, circles it, then moves away before I can build toward release.
"Luc." His name comes out as a plea.
"I didn't give you permission to speak."
I bite my lip, silent. He rewards the obedience by returning his mouth to my clit, this time with more pressure. His tongue works in steady circles while one hand slides up my body, palms my breast, thumb rubbing over the nipple.
The dual sensation makes it hard to think. It's exactly what I need. My mind finally starts to quiet, focusing down to just physical feeling. His mouth. His hands. The ropes holding me open and vulnerable. The darkness wrapping around me.
He slides fingers inside me while his mouth stays on my clit. The stretch, the fullness—I need this. He curls his fingers, finds the spot that makes my back arch off the bed despite my best efforts to stay still.
