The bag creaked as I worked the zipper, and fell open like a mouth. Inside, coiled neat as a snake, lay the rope—hemp, the color of sand, the fibers rough against my fingertips when I lifted it. The weight of it surprised me. So did the way Brian's eyes went dark, tracking my hand like he was watching something sacred.

He ran it between his calloused fingers, slow, deliberate, like he was testing a blade. "Won't leave marks unless you want them."

The words landed low in my belly—a pull, a heat, a yes I hadn't spoken yet. I held his gaze, and I offered him my wrists.

His breath caught. I heard it, that small hitch in a man who never faltered. He took my left wrist in his hand, his thumb pressing against my pulse, and he wrapped the rope around it once. Twice. The pressure settled against my skin like a brand, rough and warm and impossibly right.

He stopped.

His eyes found mine, and in them I saw the question he wouldn't ask—one last chance to pull away. The rope hung loose between us, a gap I could slip through if I wanted. I didn't move. I didn't blink. I just held my wrist steady in his grip and let him see the answer.

"You're sure," he said. Not a question. A confirmation.

"Yes."

He pulled the rope taut.

The fibers bit into my skin, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind me they were there. He worked the knot with those hands that knew how to fix anything, and I watched the rope settle into place like it had always belonged there. My left wrist bound. Then my right, lifted to meet his, the same careful pressure, the same patient fingers.

When he finished, he sat back, and his eyes traveled over me—naked on the couch, wrists bound in front of me, the rope a pale line against my skin. He looked at me like I was something he'd been waiting his whole life to see.

"How does it feel?" he asked, his voice rough.

I flexed my fingers. The rope held, firm and unyielding, and something in my chest went quiet. "Like I'm yours."

His jaw tightened. He reached out, hooked a finger under the rope at my wrist, and pulled me toward him until I was on my knees on the floor between his spread thighs. His cock was hard, thick, leaking against his stomach, and he looked down at me with those dark eyes that saw everything.

"You have no idea," he said, "how long I've wanted to see you like this."

He ran a hand through my hair, gathering the auburn curls at the nape of my neck, and he tilted my head back. The rope bit into my wrists as I braced myself, and I felt the heat of him against my lips, the salt of him on my tongue when I leaned in and took him.

He groaned—low, guttural, a sound that vibrated through me—and his grip tightened in my hair. "That's it," he breathed. "Take me, Tara. Take all of me."

I couldn't use my hands, so I used my mouth. I worked him deep, my tongue tracing the vein on the underside, feeling his pulse against my lips. He tasted like salt and musk and him, and I wanted more. I wanted all of him, every inch, every drop.

His hips rolled against my mouth, and I let him set the pace, slow and deep, his fingers tangled in my hair, his breath ragged above me. The rope chafed against my wrists, a constant reminder of where I was, who I belonged to in this moment.

"Look at me," he said, and I did. His eyes were black, blown wide with want. "You're so beautiful like this. Bound for me."

I moaned around him, the vibration making him shudder, and he pulled me off with a wet sound. Spit connected us, a thin strand that broke as he leaned down and kissed me, hard, tasting himself on my lips.

"Get on the ottoman," he said, his voice a command. "On your back. Arms above your head."

I moved, clumsy with bound hands, and he followed, his body covering mine, the rope pressed against the leather above my head. He looked down at me, his cock hard against my thigh, and he smiled—that slow, devastating grin that made my heart stutter.

"Now," he said, "let's see how loud I can make you scream."

He moved off me long enough to reach into the bag, and I heard the clink of something heavier than rope. When he turned back, the vibrator was in one hand, and in the other—a plug, larger than the one from earlier, its base a deep burgundy that caught the dim light. I hadn't seen it before. He must have hidden it beneath the rope, waiting for exactly this moment.

"Ready to be completely dominated?" he asked, his voice low and rough, the words curling through me like smoke. "Ready to let me use you however I want?"

I moaned, the sound escaping before I could shape it into words, and the rope bit into my wrists as I arched against him. "Yes, Brian. Do whatever you want to with me." The words came out almost a scream, raw and desperate, and I watched his eyes go black with want.

He smiled—that slow, devastating grin—and he pressed the vibrator against my inner thigh, letting me feel the hum before he moved it higher. The moment it touched my clit, my hips bucked off the ottoman, a cry tearing from my throat. He held it there, steady, unrelenting, while his mouth descended on my nipple, his tongue circling the peak before he sucked hard.

"That's it," he murmured against my skin, the vibration of his voice adding to the hum between my legs. "Let go, Tara. Let me take you apart."

I was already gone. The orgasm rolled through me like a wave I couldn't outrun, my back bowing off the leather, my bound hands pulling uselessly above my head. He didn't stop. He kept the vibrator pressed against me, riding me through the crest until I was gasping, trembling, slick with sweat.

Before I could catch my breath, he pulled the vibrator away and replaced it with his mouth. His tongue swept through my folds, lapping up the wetness, and I felt him groan against me—a sound that vibrated through my entire body. He licked from my entrance to my clit, slow and deliberate, then dragged his tongue down my inner thigh, tasting the juices he'd left there.

"You taste like heaven," he said, his voice thick. "I could eat you forever."

His fingers found the plug, and I felt the cool pressure of it against my asshole, teasing, waiting. "Breathe for me," he said, and I did—a shaky inhale as he pressed, the resistance giving way to a slow, burning stretch that made me moan. He worked it in inch by inch, his mouth never leaving my pussy, and when the base settled against me, I was full—so full I could barely think.

He turned the vibrator back on, pressing it against my clit, and the twin pressures sent me spiraling. Another orgasm crashed through me, harder than the last, my walls clenching around the plug as I screamed his name. He lapped at me through it, drinking me down, and I felt myself dripping onto the leather beneath me.

He didn't give me time to recover. He moved up my body, his lips trailing fire across my stomach, my ribs, the valley between my breasts, until his face was level with mine. His cock was slick and hard, and he guided it to my lips, the taste of myself and him mixing on my tongue.

"Open," he said, and I did.

He pushed past my lips, slow, filling my mouth inch by inch, and I moaned around him—the vibration making his hips stutter. The vibrator was still pressed against my clit, the plug still buried in my ass, and his cock in my mouth, and I was lost. Completely, utterly lost in the overwhelming fullness of him, of this, of everything.

He fucked my mouth with shallow thrusts, his fingers tangled in my hair, his breath ragged above me. "That's it," he breathed. "Take all of me. Every inch."

I couldn't move my hands, couldn't do anything but lie there and take it, and the helplessness was intoxicating. My body was his—every hole, every nerve, every trembling inch of skin. I felt another orgasm building, the vibrator driving me relentlessly toward the edge, and I moaned around his cock, desperate and wanting.

"Come for me," he commanded, and I did.

The orgasm ripped through me, violent and consuming, my body convulsing around him. He pulled out just in time, his cum painting my lips, my chin, my chest, and I watched him through half-lidded eyes as he stroked himself, spilling the last drops onto my tongue.

He collapsed beside me, his breath ragged, his hand finding mine despite the rope. "You're mine," he said, his voice wrecked. "Every part of you. Forever."

I couldn't speak. I could only lie there, bound and filled, my body still trembling with aftershocks, and I knew he was right. I was his. Completely. And I never wanted to be anything else.