“I’m not done,” he says.
I make a sound that’s meant to be a word but isn’t.
He guides me forward to one of the chairs in the front row and I understand what he wants before he says it. His hand presses flat between my shoulder blades and eases me down.
I lean forward over the chair, my cheek on the cool leather, my bound hands at the small of my back. I can hear him behind me—the rustle of clothing, the rasp of a zipper—but I can’t see him. That’s the thing that gets me. I know what he looks like when he undresses because I’ve watched him do it dozens of times. I know the way he reaches back and pulls his shirt over his head, the way his stomach flexes. Right now, I can’t see any of it. I can only hear and feel and wait, and the waiting is its own kind of exquisite torture.
“Please,” I say. “Zach, please?—”
I can’t believe I’m begging. But my hands are tied and please is the only word I have left.
His hands run up the backs of my thighs slowly, all rough palms and gentle pressure. I arch into him and feel him hard against me and then he’s sliding inside me and I stop thinking.
The sound I make is muffled by the leather. He fills me in one slow stroke and holds still. I can feel him trembling through his hands on my hips. His breath is ragged, his whole body fighting for control, and there’s something deeply satisfying about knowing that he’s barely holding it together. It makes me want to take him apart.
I push back against him and he makes a sound through his teeth and his grip tightens on my hips.
He starts moving with long, deep strokes that make my breath catch on every push, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Every time he fills me, I feel it everywhere. I can’t rush him. I can’t grab his hips and pull him faster. I can’t do anything but take what he gives me, and the forced patience is killing me.
“Faster,” I say into the leather.
“No.”
“Please—”
“Not yet.”
I make a sound of frustration that’s closer to a sob than I’d like, and I clench around him, my body trying to pull him deeper. He groans. His hips stutter, and I realize I have more power than I thought. Even tied up. Even bent over. The effect I have on him is its own kind of control.
He leans over me, his chest almost flush against my back. His hand slides into my hair and he pulls me up to his chest.
“You feel incredible,” he groans. His other hand is gripping my hip hard enough that I’ll feel it tomorrow, and he drives into me. It’s fast, deep, and relentless. I cry out, arching my back and gripping the laces between my fingers because it’s the only thing I can hold on to. The sound of skin and breath and the creak of the chair fills the room. My body is tightening toward something that’s going to destroy me.
“Zach—I’m?—”
“I know. I can feel it.”
He can. He reaches around with one hand and presses, and that’s it. That’s all it takes. I come, crying out his name in a room where the acoustics are designed to carry sound. I feel him follow me maybe two seconds later, his hips slamming forward, his whole body going rigid against mine.
We stay like that, bent over the chair, catching our breath. Hisweight on me, his face in my hair, his hand still on my hip. I can feel his heartbeat hammering against my back.
I feel like I’ve been taken apart and put back together in a different order and I don’t want to move. I want to stay in this exact position in this exact room for the rest of my life.
“Untie me,” I whisper.
He pulls out slowly, and I feel him press his forehead between my shoulder blades. Then he reaches between us and pulls the end of the laces. They fall away, and my hands are free. I turn around, put both hands on his face, and kiss him. He kisses me back so gently that my throat closes up. His hands are on my waist holding me, his thumbs moving back and forth on my skin.
He takes my wrists and turns them over. We both look down at the faint pink lines where the lace sat. He presses his mouth to the inside of one wrist, and then the other. I’m crying, which I wasn’t expecting, and he doesn’t say anything about it. He just keeps his lips on my wrist and breathes there.
“Hey,” he says quietly, still holding my hands. “Come back to me.”
“I’m here. I’m right here.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “I’m good. I’m so far past good I need a new word.”
“We could ask Barrett. He seems knowledgeable.” He grins at me.
I choke out a laugh and shove his shoulder. I want to take a photo. I want to frame it. I want to show it to him when he’s sixty and sayremember that time in the video room when you absolutely ruined me.
We slowly begin to put ourselves back together. I find my underwear on the floor and shove them in his jacket pocket without asking, because at this point it’s tradition. He pulls me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. He puts his mouth against the top of my head and says, “you’re the bravest person I know,” so quietly I almost miss it.
