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“You do care,” he says. “That’s why you’re going to tell me.”

So I do. I say it right into his ear, every word, and I’ve never said anything like it in my life, and saying it is almost as good as what he does about it.

He walks me back until the edge of the chaise is against my calves and sits me down on it, then kneels in front of me, so for once his face is level with mine. He touches the clasp of my bra and stops.

“On or off?” he asks.

“Off.”

He unhooks it with one hand and slides it down my arms, as far as the tie, and leaves it there. His hands are cool on my bare skin. Everywhere they go, I feel it twice, the cold and then the heat answering it. He cups my breasts and runs his thumbs over my nipples, slow, watching my face the entire time, and when I gasp he does it again, harder, and I arch into his hands.

“Look,” he says, and turns my chin toward the mirror.

I look. I see myself on the dark leather with my tied hands resting in my lap, the bra caught on the silk at my wrists, my hair coming out of its braid, my skin flushed down to my chest, and him kneeling in front of me in his white shirt, pale and dark-haired and perfectly composed, with his hands on me. I look like someone I’ve never met.

I look like I’m having the best night of my life.

“Tell me if it’s yellow,” he says. His hand moves down my stomach, slowly, to the button of my jeans. He doesn’t undo it. He rests his palm flat over the denim, between my legs, and presses.

My whole body jolts.

“Not yellow,” I manage. “Not even a little yellow.”

“Do you want me to keep my hand there?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me.”

“Keep your hand there. Don’t stop.” I’m shaking. “Lenart. Please don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He moves the heel of his hand against me through my jeans, slow and steady, exactly where I need it, and kisses me while he does it, and he’s so patient that it’s unbearable. He doesn’t speed up when I beg him to. When I start to shake, he lifts his head and says, “Yellow?” and I say, “Don’t you dare,” and he keeps the same pace, steady as a metronome, his mouth on my neck and then on my mouth and then at my ear, telling me in that low, precise voice how well I’m doing, how lovely I look when I ask for things, and to keep my hands where they are.

When I come, it’s with my face pressed into his shoulder and my tied hands fisted in the front of his shirt and his name coming out of me in pieces. It goes on longer than I knew it could. He doesn’t stop until I’m done, and then he doesn’t let go. He holds me through the end of it, one arm around my back and the other hand still and gentle where it was, and when I finally stop shaking he takes his hand away and puts both arms around me instead.

For a long time, neither of us says anything.

When I can move again, I lift my tied hands and reach for his belt.

He catches the silk with one finger, gently, and holds my hands still.

“Not tonight,” he says.

“I want to.”

“I know.” His voice isn’t entirely steady. “And the first time you ask me for that, I want you to ask with a clear head. Not in the first five minutes after I’ve had my hand on you.” He lifts my bound hands and kisses the inside of one wrist, just above the silk. “Tonight was for finding out what you like.”

I could argue, but he’s made up his mind. And judging by the look on his face, saying no isn’t easy for him.

Then he untangles the tie from my wrists, one turn at a time, and slides the bra free. He takes each of my hands in his and looks at the inside of my wrists, though there isn’t a mark on them. He rubs his thumbs over them anyway. He picks up my bra and helps me back into it, and then my shirt.

Then he gets up, goes to the cabinet in the corner, and comes back with a bottle of water and a blanket. He opens the water and puts it in my hand. He puts the blanket around my shoulders, even though I’m not cold, and sits down beside me on the chaise.

“Drink that,” he says.

I drink half of it.

“How do you feel?”