“What’s a chest harness?” I asked.
“May I touch you?” Wes asked, softer now. His hesitation sharply contrasted with his lethal form.
I nodded. “Yes.”
Wes moved closer. When his cool, tattooed hand brushed the top of my chest, just below my collarbone, I couldn’t help my involuntary shiver.
“Rope would go here,” he said. He traced up my shoulders, then back down.
I went perfectly still, tingles spreading from everywhere he touched. He traced around each of my breasts. As fingers made a circle around my ribcage, I was overwhelmed by his scent—the clean smell of wood, pine, leather, and subtle, crisp cologne.
“You’re wearing a dress,” he said, his voice gravelly. He inhaled and retracted his touch. “So as long as you’re comfortable with me tying over it.”
“It was like twenty dollars,” I breathed.
Wes smiled. He waited for my verdict. Something about the care in his eyes, the patience—the recognition that all of this was difficult and frightening for me—it made it easier to let go with him. Even bringing me down here, away from the loudest, most violent displays of debauchery… it felt like Wes paid attention. Like he knew what I needed.
“Chest harness,” I said with a braver nod than what I felt.
“I won’t touch you anywhere except where is necessary for tying. I won’t go too tight, not enough to affect airflow. Alert me if you’re ever uncomfortable. Are there any other limits or concerns you want to voice?”
I shook my head.
There was nothing to overthink. I was about to be topped by my pal Wes. This was nice. Normal, even.
With a loop of rope in one hand, Wes made a twirl of his fingers. “Turn around for me.”
Something about him shifted, and my body recognized it on an unconscious level. I turned, keeping my back straight and legs folded to the side.
Wes snaked the rope around my upper ribs, his chest to my back. I was aware of every rise and fall of my chest, Wes’s hands so close to the nipples that were slowly hardening against my will.
He pulled the rope through the bit, and I felt him working on a knot at the center of my back. The previous floaty feeling threatened to return, a wave of subtle pleasure washing over me.
“It might’ve been difficult to minor in English Literature without the ability to read,” Wes said softly.
Surprise and curiosity bloomed inside me. “Where?” My skin flushed at the breathy sound of my voice.
Wes’s steady movements faltered for the briefest blip. “Columbia,” he said. He pulled at the knot at my back. “Breathe deeply.”
I followed his command, feeling the slightest of restriction from the placement of the rope. For whatever reason, this only increased the burgeoning hyperawareness of everywhere Wes touched.
“Is that comfortable? Let me know if anything is ever too tight.”
“It’s… good,” I said. I cleared my throat. The mental image of Wes—with his buzz cut and neck tattoos and finely sculpted muscles—reading classic literature in one of Columbia’s libraries was a compelling vision. “What was your major?”
“Business.” He said it almost like a sigh, as if it wasn’t something he was proud of.
“And your business is furniture?” I asked, remembering the interaction he had with the waitress at the diner.
“I’ve done a lot of different things,” he said vaguely. “Woodworking is one of my current passion projects. I like doing things with my hands.”
I swallowed, aware of exactly where his hands were on my body.
“Another of my passions is data and tech privacy. I’ve been in that space for several years now.”
How Wes spoke of his work was confusing. He’d already admitted The Circle saw him as a source of funding, which meant his so-calledpassion projectsclearly made him money. Or he alreadyhadmoney. But how would they know that? He hadn’t even given them his last name.
I thought of the mysterious PicWave ads. Unless… The Circle already knew everything about us without us having to tell them anything. A feeling of dread sank low in my guts. After all, @O had messaged me after orientation, and I never gave them my social media handle.
