All I feel is...satisfaction.
A bone-deep certainty that this is exactly where I'm supposed to be—handcuffed to a bed in townhome number thirteen, bonded to a beautiful disaster who probably has plans to destroy me in the best possible ways.
The shower turns off.
The sound registers distantly—water cutting out, the soft squeak of feet on tile, movement in the bathroom just beyond the bedroom door. I track her through the bond, feeling the shift in her emotional state as she transitions from the warm comfort of the shower to the cooler air of the bathroom.
A spike of anxiety.
Brief, quickly suppressed.
She's nervous about something.
About me being here? About what we did? About facing the consequences of a bond neither of us planned for?
I can't tell.
The emotions come through clearly, but their causes remain a mystery—snapshots of feeling without context, colors without shapes.
I'm still figuring out how this works.
How we work.
The bathroom door opens.
And there she is.
Naked.
Completely, gloriously, devastatingly naked—walking into the bedroom with the casual confidence of someone who owns every inch of space she occupies. Water droplets still cling to her skin, tracing paths down her shoulders, her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach with its network of scars that I spent half the night mapping with my tongue.
Her pink hair hangs in wet tangles around her face.
Her mismatched eyes find mine immediately—blue and green bright with something that might be amusement, might be satisfaction, might be the bond making her as aware of me as I am of her.
I have to lick my lips.
Can't help it.
The hunger that rises in me is immediate and visceral—a want so intense it borders on need, my cock stirring against the soft fabric of...
Wait.
I look down at myself, confusion momentarily overriding the lust.
I'm wearing sweatpants.
Comfortable, grey sweatpants that definitely weren't on me when I fell asleep. The bed has been made around me—crisp sheets, properly tucked corners, pillows arranged in a way thatsuggests deliberate care—with me positioned on top like some kind of decorative centerpiece.
How the fuck did she manage this?
I was unconscious. Knotted inside her, then deflating, then drifting off with her body still wrapped around mine like she never intended to let go.
And somehow, between then and now, she:
Got us both cleaned up.
Dressed me in borrowed clothes.
