The leather was cool against my back, the plug a constant, aching fullness that I'd stopped noticing until the silence made me feel everything again. My wrists were still bound above my head, the rope rough against my skin, and I was floating somewhere between spent and starving.

Brian's hand left mine.

I heard the bag open, and then he was holding something up—a strip of black silk that caught the city light, gleaming like oil.

"I'm not done with you yet."

His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through my skin. He let the silk slide through his calloused fingers, slow, deliberate, and his eyes found mine—dark, possessive, hungry in a way that made my breath catch.

He held the blindfold up. A question and a command in one.

I arched my back, offering him everything I was, and whispered, "Then don't be."

The silk settled over my eyes, and the world went dark.

I heard his breath—slow, measured—and then the whisper of his skin against the ottoman as he shifted. Every sound was louder now. The hum of the city beyond the glass. The rustle of the satchel. My own heartbeat, thudding in my throat.

I felt his fingers brush my thigh, light as a breath, and I gasped. "Yes." His hand traveled up, over my hip, across my stomach, and I felt the heat of his palm before it touched my skin. "But I want to see how much you can take when you can't see anything at all."

His fingers found the plug, pressing it deeper, and I moaned—a raw, broken sound that I couldn't have stopped if I'd tried. He worked it slowly, pulling it almost out before pushing it back in, and I felt every inch of the stretch, every ridge, every pulse of my body clenching around it.

"Please," I breathed, not even sure what I was asking for.

"Please what?" His voice was a growl, close to my ear now, and I felt his breath on my neck. "Tell me what you need."

"You," I said, the word breaking. "I need you. Inside me. Please, Brian—"

I felt him shift, the heat of his body moving over mine, and then the head of his cock pressed against my slick, swollen entrance. He held there, just barely inside, and I whimpered, trying to push against him, but my bound wrists kept me anchored.

"Not yet." His voice was tight, strained, and I could hear the control he was holding onto. "I want to feel you come apart first. I want to feel you clench around me when you can't see it coming."

He pulled the plug out slowly, and I cried out at the loss, the emptiness aching. Then he pushed his cock into me in one long, smooth stroke, the plug still in his hand, and I screamed—a sound I didn't recognize, ripped from somewhere deep in my chest.

He was inside me, filling me completely, and I couldn't see anything. I could only feel—the stretch, the heat, the weight of him, the silk against my eyes, the rope around my wrists, the knowledge that I was his. Completely. And he was going to take me apart.

He moved inside me, slow and deep, and the world contracted to the places where we touched. The silk against my eyes, the rope around my wrists, the stretch of him filling me—that was everything. I could feel his breath on my neck, the slight tremble in his arms as he held himself over me.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice rough. "So wet. So open. Taking me like you were made for it."

I wanted to answer, but the words died in my throat when he pulled out and thrust back in, harder. "You like that," he said, not a question. "You like not knowing what comes next."

"Yes," I gasped. "God, yes."

He set a rhythm then, steady and punishing, each thrust driving me higher until I was clinging to the sound of his breathing, the slap of skin, the creak of the ottoman beneath us. My hands curled into fists, the rope biting, and I felt the pressure building low in my belly, coiling tighter with every stroke.

"Brian—" His name broke from me, desperate and raw.

"I know," he said, and his hand found my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a brand of ownership. "I can feel you. You're so close."

He shifted his angle, and the head of his cock dragged against that spot inside me that made my vision go white behind the silk. I cried out, my back arching off the leather, and he drove into me harder, chasing it, chasing me.

"Come for me," he said, his voice a command that I had no power to refuse. "Now."

I shattered. My body clenched around him in wave after wave, a scream tearing from my throat, and I felt him follow, felt him pulse inside me, felt the heat of him filling me as he groaned my name against my ear.

We stayed like that, tangled and trembling, his weight pressed against me, the silk still over my eyes. I could feel his heart hammering against my chest, or maybe it was mine. It didn't matter.

"You're mine," he said, and it wasn't a question.

"Yours," I echoed, the word tasting like a vow.

He kissed me then, slow and deep, and I tasted myself on his lips, tasted him, tasted the night we'd made. When he pulled back, his thumb traced the line of my jaw, a gesture so tender it made my chest ache.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said, and the promise in his voice sent a shiver down my spine.

He reached for the bag, and I heard the soft the whisper of something new, a pair of velvet-lined cuffs, he tells me.

"These," he said, "stay on until I say otherwise."

The rope loosened around my wrists, and I felt the shift of air as he worked the knots. My arms fell forward, numb and heavy, and I heard him guide me gently, his hands on my hips turning me, repositioning me until my knees found the ottoman's edge.

"On your hands and knees," he said, and I obeyed, the silk still over my eyes, the world a void of sensation. I felt his hands on my wrists again, pulling them behind my back, and then the soft, velvet-lined cuffs closed around them, snug and secure. The click of a buckle. The rope was gone, but I was still bound, still his.

I heard him move, the bag opening, and then something cold pressed against my stomach—metal, smooth, shocking against my heated skin. I gasped, my muscles tensing, and I felt him lay the bar against me, tracing it down my body before he guided my ankles to it, one at a time. The cuffs around my ankles clicked into place, and suddenly my legs were spread, held apart, unable to close.

"What—" I started, but my voice came out breathless, and I heard him chuckle, low and satisfied.

"A spreader bar," he said, his hand running along the metal between my ankles, the cool touch a contrast to the heat pooling between my thighs. "You're open for me now. Can't close your legs. Can't hide anything."

I was on all fours, my knees wide, my wrists bound behind my back, the blindfold still over my eyes, and I had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, more his. The city lights burned somewhere beyond the glass, and I was here, spread open for him, waiting.

I heard him move away, heard the bag rustle, and then the familiar hum of the vibrator. My body clenched in anticipation, and I felt the plug press against my asshole, cool and slick, as he worked it in slowly, stretching me, filling me. I moaned, my forehead dropping toward the leather, and then I felt the vibrator slide into me, the buzz vibrating through me, deep and relentless.

"There," he said, his voice rough with approval. "Both full. Both mine."

I was trembling, my thighs shaking, the spreader bar keeping me wide, the plug and vibrator filling me, and I couldn't move, couldn't close my legs, couldn't do anything but feel. And then I felt him move, felt the shift of his body, and suddenly he was underneath me, sliding beneath my chest, his shoulders against the ottoman, his face pressed between my breasts.

"Brian—" I gasped, but he didn't answer. He just buried his face in my chest, his mouth finding my nipple, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me down onto him as the vibrator buzzed inside me and the plug pushed deeper.

I was straddling his face, my knees spread wide by the bar, my breasts pressed against his mouth, and he was devouring me, his tongue working my nipple while his hands guided me, rocking me against the vibrator. I was so full, so stretched, so overwhelmed, and I could feel the orgasm building, rising from somewhere deep inside me.

"Please," I begged, the word breaking. "Please, Brian, I'm—"

He pulled his mouth away just long enough to say, "Come for me. Come all over my face."

And I did. I shattered, my body clenching around the plug and the vibrator, a scream tearing from my throat as he pulled me down harder, his mouth on my breast, his tongue lapping at my skin. I couldn't see anything, couldn't do anything but feel—the vibrations, the fullness, his mouth, his hands, the spreader bar keeping me open, the cuffs keeping me bound.

He didn't stop. He kept his mouth on me, kept the vibrator pressed deep, and I felt a second wave building, faster this time, my body already oversensitive, already wrecked. I was sobbing his name, my hips grinding against him, chasing it, and he let me, his tongue tracing the curve of my breast, his teeth grazing my nipple.

"One more," he said against my skin, his voice muffled, and I felt his hands tighten on my hips. "Give me one more."

I didn't think I could. But he slid lower, his mouth finding my other breast, his tongue working me while the vibrator buzzed between my thighs, and I felt it crest, a wave so intense it left me gasping, my body convulsing around him. I came with his name on my lips, my thighs shaking against the bar, my wrists straining against the cuffs, and I felt him smile against my skin.

I collapsed forward, my chest pressing down on him, my body spent, trembling, utterly his. He pulled the vibrator out slowly, and I whimpered at the loss, but he kept the plug in, kept me full, and I felt his hands on my back, soothing, grounding.

"You're still mine," he said, his voice a low rumble against my chest. "And I'm not done with you yet."

I couldn't see him, but I could feel him—his heart beating against mine, his breath warm on my skin, the weight of his claim settling over me like a brand. The spreader bar held my legs apart, the cuffs held my wrists, the plug held me open, and I knew, with a certainty that went bone-deep, that I would let him do anything. Anything at all.

The cuffs around my ankles clicked open, one after the other, the metal falling away. But the bar stayed, a cool weight between my legs, and I felt his hands close around my waist before I could ask what he was doing.

Then I was airborne.

A gasp tore from my throat as he lifted me, my bound wrists pressing against his chest, my legs dangling, the spreader bar keeping them apart. I couldn't see anything—couldn't brace myself, couldn't prepare—and the darkness was a living thing, swallowing me whole. His arms were iron around me, and I felt his breath on my ear, warm and steady.

"Trust me," he said, and I did. God, I did.

I felt the shift of his body, the rhythm of his steps across the carpet, and then the air changed—cooler, crisper—and I heard the faint hum of the city beyond the glass. He pressed me back, my spine meeting the cold window, the shock of it drawing a sharp breath from my lungs. The city was out there, vast and unknowable, and I was here, splayed against the glass like an offering.

His fingers found the knot at the back of my head, and the silk slid away.

Light flooded my eyes, and I blinked, disoriented, the world sharpening into focus. And there it was—the sky, bleeding pink and gold at the edges, the sun a molten coin rising over the skyline. I stared, transfixed. Neither of us had noticed the night ending. Neither of us had noticed anything but each other.

"Brian," I breathed, the word soft with wonder.

He kissed me then, hard and deep, his mouth claiming mine as his hand found my throat. I felt the cool kiss of leather against my skin, and then the click of a buckle, snug and secure. A choker. He pulled back, his eyes dark and satisfied, and I felt the weight of it against my pulse, a brand I could feel with every heartbeat.

He turned me around, my breasts pressing against the glass, the city sprawling below us, and I felt the heat of his body behind me, the hard length of him against my ass. My breasts flattened against the window, the glass cold and unforgiving, and I gasped as his hands found my hips.

He didn't give me time to adjust. He pushed into me in one long, brutal stroke, and I cried out, my palms flat against the glass, my bound wrists straining. He was deeper than he'd ever been—the spreader bar keeping my legs wide, tilting my hips, letting him reach places I didn't know I had. I felt him in my throat, in my chest, in the space behind my eyes.

"Fuck," I gasped, the word fogging the glass.

He set a rhythm, hard and punishing, each thrust driving me against the window, my breasts sliding against the cold surface, my nipples aching. The city lights blurred below us, the sunrise bleeding brighter, and I was caught between the glass and his body, pinned, possessed.

His hand found the chain at my throat, and he pulled.

The leather tightened, cutting off my air, and I felt the world narrow to a single point—the stretch of him inside me, the pressure at my throat, the darkness creeping at the edges of my vision. I should have been afraid. I was soaring. My body clenched around him, a helpless, instinctive response, and I felt him groan against my ear.

"That's it," he said, his voice rough. "Take it. Take all of it."

He thrust deeper, the bar holding me open, the chain holding me captive, and I came—a violent, shattering orgasm that ripped through me, my body convulsing against the glass. He didn't stop. He kept going, kept thrusting, and I felt a second wave building, faster, sharper, my body already wrecked.

I came again, and again, each orgasm bleeding into the next until I lost count, lost myself, lost everything but the feeling of him inside me and the pressure at my throat and the sunrise burning beyond the glass. I was sobbing, begging, my voice raw and broken.

"Please," I gasped, the word barely a breath. "Brian, please—I can't—I can't take any more—"

He pulled the plug out in one swift motion, and I cried out at the sudden emptiness, the loss almost as overwhelming as the fullness had been. But then he was driving into me again, deeper, harder, and I felt him shudder, felt his cock pulse inside me, felt the heat of him flooding me as he came with a groan that vibrated through my bones.

I collapsed against the glass, my forehead pressed to the cold surface, my body trembling, utterly spent. The choker was still around my throat, the spreader bar still holding my legs apart, and I felt his hands on my hips, gentle now, grounding.

He turned me around, and I saw the sunrise fully—a blaze of gold and rose, the city waking below us. He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs tracing the tears on my cheeks, and he kissed me, soft and slow, a benediction.

"Mine," he said, and the word settled over me like the dawn itself.

The sunrise was still bleeding gold through the window when Brian's hands found the buckles at my ankles. The spreader bar fell away with a soft clink, and I felt my legs try to close, trembling, weak. He caught them, eased them together, his palms running up the inside of my thighs like he was memorizing the feel of me.

"Shh," he murmured, his lips against my forehead. "I've got you."

His fingers found the cuffs at my wrists next, and I heard the click of the buckle, felt the velvet-lined leather fall away. My arms dropped, numb and heavy, and I swayed against him, the world tilting without the anchor of restraint. He caught me, his arm sliding around my waist, and I pressed my face into the warm hollow of his throat.

Then his hands were on me again, lifting me, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist, and let him carry me. The world swayed with each step, the darkness of the blindfold long gone, the sunrise painting everything in shades of rose and gold. The bed was soft beneath me when he laid me down, the sheets cool against my overheated skin.

He stretched out beside me, propping himself on one elbow, and I felt his gaze on me like a physical weight. I opened my eyes, and there he was—sun-weathered skin, dark hair mussed, brown eyes dark and soft at the same time, tracing the line of my jaw like I was something precious.

"You're still shaking," he said, his voice low, rough with something I couldn't name.

"I know." I reached for him, my hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him down. "I don't care."

He kissed me, and it was different this time. Slower. Softer. A long, languid exploration that made my bones melt into the mattress. His tongue traced my lower lip, and I opened for him, let him in, let him taste me and let myself taste him back. Whiskey and salt and something that was just him, just Brian, just the man who had taken me apart and put me back together all night long.

The kiss deepened, and I felt the ache between my thighs stir again, a low, insistent pulse that I should have been too spent to feel. But his hand found my hip, and his thumb traced a slow circle on the skin there, and I arched into him, wanting more.

"You're insatiable," he murmured against my mouth, but there was no censure in it, only wonder.

"You made me this way."

He laughed, a low, warm sound that vibrated through my chest, and kissed me again. His hand moved up my side, over my ribs, and I felt the heat of his palm against my breast, his thumb brushing my nipple. I gasped, and he swallowed the sound, kissing me deeper, harder.

We made out like teenagers, all heat and hunger and hands that couldn't stay still. His mouth found my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breast, and I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, arching into him.

The sunrise climbed higher, the room filling with light, and we were still kissing, still touching, still drowning in each other. I lost track of time, lost track of everything but the feel of his mouth on mine, his hands on my skin, the low, rumbling sounds he made when I bit his lower lip just right.

At some point, I felt his breathing slow, felt the weight of his hand on my hip grow heavier, and I realized he was fading. The exhaustion of the night was catching up to him, pulling him under. I kissed his forehead, his temple, the corner of his mouth, and felt him smile against my skin.

He pulled me closer, tucking me against his chest, and I felt his heartbeat against my cheek, steady and sure.His hand found mine, lacing our fingers together, and I felt him press a kiss to the top of my head. I closed my eyes, let the warmth of him seep into my bones, and felt the exhaustion finally catch me too, pulling me down into a deep, dreamless dark.

The last thing I heard was his voice, soft and rough with sleep, a promise murmured against my hair.

"You're mine, Tara. Forever."

And I believed him.