The mattress dipped again, a different weight this time, closer to my hip. I felt the shift of air before I felt him — that cheap woodsy cologne moving through the space between us like a current. My hands stayed flat on the sheets, fingers spread, every muscle locked into the lie of stillness.

Then his fingers found the hem of my shirt.

Just the hem. Just the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, a pinch of cotton at my side, above my hipbone. He didn't pull. He held it, like he was waiting for something — for me to flinch, to twitch, to give him a reason to stop.

I didn't move.

The silence stretched. I could hear my own pulse in my ears, a dull drumbeat that felt louder than any sound I'd made all night. His breath was slow and even, patient in a way that made my skin prickle. He was waiting. That was the thing about Ethan — he could wait forever. He had the stillness of a cat watching a bird through glass, all that coiled attention hidden behind pale blue eyes I couldn't see.

His fingers tugged. Just an inch. The fabric lifted from my skin, cool air sliding against my stomach, and I felt the hairs on my arms stand up. He was going to take my shirt off. That was where this was going. And I was lying here, blindfolded, hands flat, pretending I didn't know what that meant.

The shirt pulled higher. He worked it up my side, slow, deliberate, the fabric dragging across my ribs. I kept my arms at my sides, but my hands curled into fists against the sheets, nails pressing into my palms. The cotton bunched under my armpits, and I felt him pause again.

He wanted me to lift my arms.

The rule was simple: don't move. Don't talk. Don't make a sound. But he couldn't get the shirt off without me. He'd have to pull it over my head, and I'd have to lift my arms, or he'd have to wrestle me out of it like a sack of laundry. Neither of those things could happen with me lying flat and still.

Unless he sat me up.

I felt his hand slide under my back, palm flat against my spine, fingers splayed across my shoulder blade. He was warm. That was the first thing I noticed — how warm his hand was through the thin cotton, how solid his grip felt. He curled his fingers around my side, just under my ribs, and pulled.

It wasn't rough. It wasn't a yank. It was a slow, steady pressure, guiding me upward, and I let him. I let my body rise off the mattress, my spine bending, my head tipping forward until I was sitting up on the bed, blindfolded, shirt still bunched around my chest.

The blindfold didn't slip. Of course it didn't. He'd tied it too well.

His hands found the hem again, this time at the back of my neck. He gathered the fabric in his fists and pulled it up, over my head, and I felt the cotton slide across my face, my nose, my lips. Then it was gone, and the air hit my bare chest, cool and sharp, and I was sitting on his bed shirtless.

He didn't touch me right away.

I could feel him there, close, his breath warm on my shoulder. The silence was thick enough to chew. I could hear him breathing — slow, even, unhurried — and I realized he was looking at me. Blindfolded as I was, I couldn't see his face, but I could feel his attention like a weight against my skin.

His fingers touched my collarbone.

Just the tips. Just a brush of callused skin against mine, tracing the bone from my shoulder to the hollow of my throat. I held my breath. He followed the line of my collarbone back the other way, slow, deliberate, like he was reading something written on my skin.

I was hard. I'd been hard since before he pulled me up, since the first brush of his lips against my throat, and sitting up had done nothing to hide it. My jeans were still open, my boxers strained, and I knew he could see it. There was no way he couldn't — I was sitting right in front of him, shirtless, aching, and the only thing between him and the evidence was a thin layer of cotton.

His fingers moved lower.

Down my chest, tracing the line of muscle beside my sternum. His touch was light, almost clinical, like he was mapping me. He found my nipple and brushed across it, and I felt it tighten under his fingertip, a sharp little jolt that went straight to my cock.

I didn't make a sound.

He did it again. Slower this time. A full circle around the nipple, then a soft pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and I felt my hips twitch — just a fraction, just a betraying little jerk that I couldn't stop. My hands gripped the sheets on either side of my thighs, knuckles white.

He let go.

I heard him shift, felt the mattress move as he adjusted his weight. Then his hand was on my shoulder, pushing me back, guiding me down until my spine met the mattress again. The sheets were cool against my bare back. I'd been lying on them shirtless for the first time tonight, and the sensation was different — more exposed, more there. I could feel every wrinkle in the fabric, every cool spot where the cotton hadn't warmed to my skin yet.

His hand stayed on my shoulder for a moment, then slid down my arm, slow, deliberate, tracing the line of muscle to my wrist. He wrapped his fingers around my wrist — loose, not tight — and lifted my hand off the mattress.

I froze.

This was new. He hadn't touched my hands before. He hadn't moved them. My hand hung in the air, suspended by his grip, and I could feel the calluses on his fingers pressing into my skin. He turned my hand over, palm up, and I felt his thumb trace the lines of my palm, slow and curious, like he was reading my fortune.

Then he pressed my hand back down to the mattress.

Not flat. Not relaxed. He pressed my palm down, fingers spread, and held it there for a moment — a silent instruction. Stay. I felt the weight of his hand on mine, the pressure of his palm against my knuckles, and then he let go.

My hand stayed where he'd put it.

He did the same with my other hand. Lifted it, turned it over, traced the lines of my palm with a thumb that lingered on the callus I'd gotten from years of gripping a steering wheel. Then he pressed it down beside my head, fingers spread, and let go.

I was spread out on his bed. Shirtless. Hands pinned above my head, palms flat against the mattress, my cock pressing against the inside of my boxers. And I couldn't see anything.

I could hear him breathing. That was it. That was the only sound in the room — his breath, slow and even, and my own, faster, shallower, trying to stay quiet.

The mattress dipped.

He was moving. I could feel the shift of weight through the bed, the subtle change in pressure as he moved from beside me to somewhere else. I tried to track it — left, right, closer, farther — but the blindfold took away all my landmarks. I only had sound and the feel of the mattress beneath me.

His weight settled near my hip.

Then I felt his hand on my stomach.

Just flat, palm against my skin, warm and still. His thumb traced a slow circle around my navel, and I felt my stomach clench, a muscle twitch I couldn't control. He didn't move his hand. He just left it there, a warm weight on my belly, his thumb resting just below my ribs.

I waited.

He didn't move.

Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes. The silence pressed in on me, thick and heavy, and I could feel my own heartbeat in my throat. His hand was just sitting there, not moving, not touching anything else, just resting on my stomach like it belonged there.

I wanted to say something. I wanted to ask what he was doing, what he was waiting for, why he was just sitting there with his hand on my belly like he had all the time in the world. But the rules were the rules. No talking. No sound. And I'd already broken them once — twice, maybe, if you counted the twitch of my hips, the shudder that ran through me when his lips touched my throat.

He knew. He had to know. He was reading my body like a map, and I was lying here, spread out for him, every involuntary response on display.

His hand moved.

Slow. So slow. Sliding down my stomach, palm dragging across my skin, leaving a trail of warmth that made my breath catch. He reached the waistband of my jeans and stopped, fingers resting on the button I'd already undone.

I felt him hook his fingers into the denim.

He pulled. Just an inch. The jeans slid down my hips, and I felt the cool air hit the sensitive skin above my boxers. He pulled again, and the denim scraped across my hipbones, and I felt my cock jump against the cotton of my boxers, a twitch I couldn't stop.

He paused.

I could feel him looking at me. I could feel the weight of his attention on the tent in my boxers, the damp spot where I'd been leaking — I knew it was there, I could feel the slickness against my thigh. He had to be able to see it. The lamp in the corner cast a low yellow glow, and I was lying here, shirtless, jeans shoved down to my thighs, and I was hard as a rock.

His fingers touched the waistband of my boxers.

Not pulling. Just touching. Just the tips of his fingers resting on the elastic, like he was deciding whether to cross that line.

I stopped breathing.

Everything in me went still — not the practiced stillness of the game, but a real, animal stillness, the kind that comes when you're standing on the edge of something and you don't know if you're going to jump or fall.

His fingers pressed into the elastic. Just a little. Just enough to stretch it, to let a sliver of cool air slide against the skin of my hip.

Then he let go.

The elastic snapped back against my skin, a soft little thwack that made me flinch. I heard him shift, felt the mattress move, and then his weight was gone from beside me.

I heard the chair creak.

He was sitting down. I could picture it — him leaning back in the chair beside the bed, pale blue eyes watching me from the shadows, that worn leather bracelet catching the lamplight. He was waiting. He was always waiting.

I lay there, shirtless, hands still pressed flat above my head, jeans around my thighs, cock aching against my boxers. My throat was dry. My heart was hammering. And I could feel his eyes on me, even through the blindfold, even across the room.

The silence stretched.

He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just sat there, watching me, and I realized — this was the game. This was the whole game. Not the touching. Not the tasting. This. The waiting. The not knowing. The lying here, spread out on his bed, hard and desperate, while he sat in the dark and watched me fall apart.

My hands twitched against the mattress.

I could take off the blindfold. That was the rule — the only way to end the game was to take it off myself. One move. One pull of the fabric, and I'd be looking at him, and the game would be over.

I didn't move.

I lay there, breathing slow, listening to the creak of the chair, feeling the cool air on my bare chest, and I wondered how much longer I could do this. How much longer I could lie here and pretend I didn't want him to come back. How much longer I could pretend this was just a game.

The chair creaked again.

He was standing up.

I heard his footsteps — soft, barefoot on the carpet — moving toward the bed. The mattress dipped beside me, and I felt his warmth settle in close, his breath ghosting across my cheek.

His lips brushed my ear.

Not a kiss. Just a brush, a whisper of contact that made my skin prickle. I felt his breath warm against my skin, and I knew he was leaning in, close enough to speak if he wanted to.

He didn't speak.

He just stayed there, close, breathing slow and even, his lips hovering near my ear. The silence was unbearable. I could feel the heat of his body, the weight of his attention, and I wanted — God, I wanted — I didn't even know what I wanted. I just knew I didn't want him to stop.

His hand found my hip.

Just resting there, fingers splayed across the jut of bone, thumb brushing the waistband of my boxers. He didn't pull. He didn't push. He just held me, like he was waiting for something, and I felt the question hang in the air between us.

How much longer could I do this?

How much longer could I lie here and pretend I didn't want him to keep going?

And the answer, burning in my chest, was simple and terrifying:

I didn't know.