She holds her wrists out toward me.
“Show me the knot,” she says.
32
MACKIE
He’s lookingat me like I’ve lost my mind, which is fair, because my godfather just showed him what to do with those laces. I understand how that sounds. I understand that a rational person would put her clothes back on, walk to her car, and revisit this plan on a night when the building is actually empty.
I hold my wrists out and I don’t move them.
He stares at my hands, then my face. I see the exact moment he realizes I’m serious and willing to go through with this no matter the cost.
“Jesus Christ, Mackie, this is crazy,” he breathes, pulling me to my feet. He cups my face with both hands, the laces fuzzy against my cheek, and kisses me. His mouth moves against mine like he has all the time in the world. The patience in it undoes me more than the urgency did.
“Turn around,” he says against my mouth.
My back is to him. I can feel him behind me, the heat of his chest close but not touching, and my heart is beating so hard I can feel it pulsing in my fingertips. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, and the fantasy was always bold Mackie, confidentMackie—the version of me who suggests sex in restricted areas of hockey facilities and doesn’t blink. That’s the version who brought this up on my birthday, who mentioned it during every conversation where I could work it in, and who texted ‘meet me at the facility’ with zero hesitation.
That version of me is gone.
He starts by running his hands down my arms, stopping at my wrists. The touch is so gentle that I almost start to cry, which is insane, because nothing sad is happening. The exact thing I asked for is happening. But there’s a difference between wanting something from a safe distance and being inside the reality of it. The reality is that I’m about to give him what I’ve never given anyone else: the part of me that isn’t performing.
“I’m going to show you the release first,” he says, his voice low and steady and close to my ear. “Before I tie it. So you know how it works.”
His arms come around me and he loops the lace loosely around one wrist in front of me, with his chin on my shoulder. “Feel this? One pull, here—” He guides my finger to the tail of the knot. “And it comes apart. Try it.”
I tug and the lace falls open.
“See? Any time. No matter what.”
“Okay.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “Do it for real.”
He gathers my wrists behind my back. The lace wraps around once, twice, and he ties the knot. I pull gently and realize that I can’t move my arms. I thought this would feel exciting. My hands are behind my back, and I can’t reach for him. I can’t steer. I can’t run the show. The absence of all those options is actually terrifying. I suck in a breath that catches like the beginning of a sob, and I almost open my mouth to tell him to untie me.
“I’ve got you,” he says against the back of my neck, and my whole body lets go.
The feeling of his palms on my breasts makes me gasp andarch into him. He rolls my nipples between his fingers, and the sensation goes straight through me like a current. I let my head drop back against his shoulder, and he turns my face and kisses me upside down. I’m squirming against him because I can’t grab him. I can’t pull him where I want him. I can’t do anything but feel what he’s doing, and it’s making me insane.
He pushes my skirt down as he goes, and I kick if off to the side. Then his fingers find me. I’m so wet that the sound they make slipping against me is audible in the quiet room. I would be mortified if I had any capacity left for that emotion.
“Jesus, Mack, you’re soaked,” he breathes against my ear. His voice is so low it’s almost a growl, and I feel my entire body flush and go even hotter.
Two fingers are inside me while his thumb finds my clit. My knees almost buckle, but he catches me. His left arm locks across my stomach, holding me flush against him while his right hand works me with a slow, deliberate rhythm that’s exactly, maddeningly right.
I can’t grab his hair. I can’t dig my nails into his shoulders. I can’t do any of the things I normally do when he’s making me feel like this. The absence of those outlets means everything concentrates inward, every sensation magnified because it has nowhere to go except through me.
“Zach—oh fuck?—”
“I’ve got you. Let go.”
I don’t let go. I never let go. I’m the girl who drives the car, picks the restaurant, leads the conversation, and initiates the kiss. I don’t let go—that’s not what I do. Except his fingers are inside me, his thumb is pressing, and his mouth is on my neck. My hands are tied behind my back and I can’t hold on to anything, so letting go isn’t a choice. It’s just what happens.
I come so hard I think I black out for a moment.
It starts low and deep and then spreads through my entirebody. My knees give out completely and he holds me, his hand still between my legs gentling me through it. I’m shaking and gasping. I turn my face into his arm and bite down so hard he jerks back with a grunt.
He pulls his hand out slowly and I whimper at the loss and then his lips are at my ear.
