My back hits the poster of my bed with a crack. Cal's eyes fly open, worried, searching mine. But I'm fine--more than fine. Touched, if anything, that he thought to panic.
You darling thing, I think. "Good boy," I whisper to him, stroking his cheek, and kiss him fast.
Cal whimpers into my mouth.
Now my blood is rushing down my body and my heart is whirring, and it's only building and building the more he kisses me like this. I briefly wonder if Cal will need to catch up, buta shift of my weight against him that momentarily brushes my hips lower on his and I realize I don't have to worry.
He's hard. Straining against his jeans, actually, and when I shift against him again—deliberately, this time—his whole body shudders.
“Do you—should I?—”
"Shh." I put a finger to his lips. "I'll tell you."
He nods, instantly quiet, eyes half-lidded, andGod, that's heady. That's?—
My gaze catches on the box on my nightstand. Morgan's gift. The twillies, still nestled in tissue paper, gleaming faintly in the low light: one deep blue, one burgundy, both shot through with gold.
You can use them as a headband, Morgan had said.Or around your wrist like a sort of bangle.
I have a different idea.
"Give me your hands."
Cal blinks, but extends them without hesitation. I hold his wrists together in one hand—not easy—and reach over and pluck the blue one from the box with the other. The silk is petal-soft, cool and slippery between my fingers as I loop it once, twice around his wrists, knotting it loosely enough that he could escape if he wanted to.
He…doesn't want to.
"This okay?" I ask, tugging the knot snug.
Cal's breath hitches. He nods.
"Good." I lean back against the pillows, watching him. "Now. On your knees."
He drops so fast I almost laugh. Almost. But then he's kneeling at the edge of the bed, wrists bound in blue and gold silk, and I forget how to breathe.
"You're going to use your mouth.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "And you're not going to stop until I say so. Understand?"
He nods. Swallows. "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
The words slip out before I can second-guess them, and for a split second I wonder if I've gone too far—but Cal just shivers, his bound hands pressing into the mattress for balance.
"Yes, Gwenna," he whispers.
Damn. Damn, I like this.
I hook my fingers into my waistband and shimmy out of my clothes—graceless, probably, but Cal watches intently like it’s some kind of recital. When I settle back against the pillows and part my thighs, his breath catches audibly.
"Well?"
He moves. Eager, clumsy, hampered by his bound wrists—he can't brace himself, can't use his hands to guide or steady. And
He glances at me. “Do I--”
I shake my head. I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t give turn by turn directions when I am this far gone, because suddenly I am too desperate. “Figure itout,Callahan.”
“Okay. Okay.”
