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A sound breaks from deep in his chest—low, guttural—a moan that echoes off the tile and fills the room with heat.

Then, slowly, he lifts his hands for me, wrists offered like a prayer.

I wrap the belt around them, knotting it snug but not cruel, watching the muscles in his arms twitch as he lets me take the last of his control. Then I hold the tail of the belt up between us.

“Bite,” I command. “Now, pull tight.”

His eyes lock onto mine as he leans in, takes the leather between his teeth, slow and deliberate, the pressure making the veins in his arms strain beneath the skin.

He pulls.

Hard.

His bound wrists tighten with the motion, and he doesn’t break eye contact. Not once.

I nearly come from the sight alone. I step in close and place a gentle hand against his chest.

He lets me guide him without a word, his body moving with mine as I slowly back him into the bathroom door. There’s no resistance. Just the quiet weight of trust, heavy between us.

When his back meets the wood, I run my hands along his arms—slow and deliberate—feeling the strength there, the way he holds so much without ever letting it show. My fingers find the belt still binding his wrists, and I lift them with care, hooking the leather over the brass hook screwed into the door.

He’s tall enough that it makes his shoulders stretch tight, his chest broad and rising with each slow breath. The muscles along his arms flex slightly with the shift, but he doesn’t fight it. He just watches me.

When I glance up, he’s already looking down.

There’s that smirk—faint, crooked, tugging just at the edge of his mouth beneath his mustache. Not mocking. Not cocky.

Just…his.

I let my hand slide up over my own chest, fingers curling around the curve of my breast until I find the barbell and roll it between my fingertips. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the movement like it’s the only thing in the room worth looking at.

I give it a slow tug, just enough to make my breath hitch, and his jaw tightens. The muscles in his arms pull against the belt overhead, the hook in the door giving a faint creak under his weight. He doesn’t break free, but I can see it—the urge straining right there beneath his skin.

My other hand finds the twin on the other side, the cool metal pressing into the heat of my palm. I play with both at once, dragging my thumbs over the hardened peaks, letting the ache bloom sharp and sweet while I watch his breathing go shallow.

“You could break this if you wanted,” I murmur, knowing full well the only thing stopping him is me.

His gaze lifts, slow and deliberate, and there’s nothing soft in it now—just that dark, caged hunger that makes my stomach tighten. He stays exactly where I’ve put him, but every line of his body is wound tight like a promise.

I let my hands drift down from my breasts, trailing over my stomach, then lower still until my fingers find the top button of his jeans. His breath catches—quiet, almost unnoticeable—but I hear it.

I take my time, working the button free with a slow twist of my fingers, watching the tension in his jaw deepen. The zipper comes next, metal teeth parting inch by inch in the still air between us.

His hips shift forward—just barely—but it’s enough to make the hook in the door groan again. I glance up at him, letting my hand rest against the sharp line of his hipbone, my thumb brushing the head of his cock.

“You’re so easy to read like this,” I murmur, pressing my palm flat against the front of him, feeling the heat there. “Straining, but not moving. Just waiting for me to decide.”

His eyes never leave mine, but I can feel the restrained force behind them, that caged promise coiled tight in every line of his body. I slip my fingers beneath the denim, tracing the edge inside, close enough that the muscles in his abdomen jump under my touch. “Still holding,” I say, soft like a taunt.

My fingers slide deeper, curling around the thick, hot length of him through his jeans, feeling that urgent, straining heat begging for me. His breath goes ragged against the back of my neck, and the hook above us groans as his arms flex hard against the belt.

“Patience,” I murmur, even as I pop his button, drag the zipper down, and shove the denim low enough to wrap my hand around him bare. Thick, hard, already slick at the tip. I stroke him once, slow from base to crown, and his hips twitch forward like his body’s stopped listening to him.

I step forward, turning so my bare back presses to his chest, his cock heavy and hot against me. Reaching behind, I guide him down, dragging the blunt head through the wet heat between my thighs, letting him feel every slick inch of how ready I am. Then I press back and sink down on him, slow and greedy, until I’m stuffed full and my spine arches with the stretch.

A sound rips from my throat, shameless and low, as my walls clench tight around him. His bound wrists yank against the belt, but I grind harder, keeping him buried deep where I want him.

“Stay,” I whisper, reaching back and curling my hand around the strong column of his throat. My grip is firm—not choking, just enough to remind him exactly whose pace this is. His groan rumbles under my palm, the vibration sliding through my arm and down my spine.