He dropped to his knees behind her. The sound of denim against the floor was deliberate, a statement. Chan felt the air shift, and then his breath—hot against the backs of her thighs, where the glitter caught the dim light and sparkled like she'd been dusted in stars.
Her whole body locked. Every nerve ending she owned migrated to the space between her shoulder blades and the backs of her knees. The blindfold made it worse—made the anticipation a physical weight pressing down on her chest, made every second stretch into something almost unbearable.
His mouth pressed against the curve of her left calf. Open-mouthed and wet, the shock of contact making her gasp against the gag. He didn't just kiss her—he tasted her. His tongue dragged across her skin, slow and deliberate, collecting the glitter, the salt, the faint sweetness of the body oil she'd used an hour ago. She felt it like a brand.
The dress was still on, barely. The straps had slipped down her shoulders at some point during the waiting, and the fabric hung loose across her chest, her breasts nearly exposed. She didn't know when that had happened. She didn't care.
His mouth moved higher. Trailing up the back of her calf, past the bend of her knee, pausing at the sensitive skin there. His teeth grazed her—just barely, just enough to make her jump. The cuffs bit into her wrists as her knees buckled, but the beam held her upright, and she hung there, trembling, caught between the need to escape and the need to press back into him.
He made a sound. Low and appreciative, almost a hum, like he was savoring something rare. The vibration of it traveled through her skin and settled somewhere deep in her gut, a coil of heat that had been winding since the first moment she'd heard his boots on the floor.
His hands found her thighs. Not grabbing—just resting, his palms flat against the backs of her legs, his thumbs tracing slow circles on her skin. The glitter clung to his fingers now. She could feel it, the faint grit of it against her flesh as he touched her, marking him the same way he was marking her.
She wanted to say something. Beg. Curse him. Tell him to stop or don't stop, she didn't know which. The gag turned every sound into a raw, needy whimper that she hated and couldn't control. The sound of herself—that desperate, animal sound—made her cheeks burn under the blindfold.
His mouth reached the back of her knee. He pressed a kiss there, soft and almost reverent, and then his tongue traced the crease where her thigh began. She felt his breath against the most sensitive skin, the heat of his mouth inches from where she ached for him, and she thought she might die from it.
"You taste like waiting," he said. His voice was low, almost conversational, as if he were commenting on the weather. But there was something underneath it—a roughness that hadn't been there before. "Like every second you stood here, not knowing when I'd touch you."
She shook her head. A denial, or a plea, she didn't know which. Her fingers curled into fists above her head, the cuffs clinking against the beam.
His hands slid higher. His thumbs hooked under the hem of her dress, lifting it just enough to expose the backs of her thighs, the curve where her ass began. The air hit her skin, cooler than his mouth, and she shivered.
"You're wet," he said. Not a question. "I can smell you from here."
Chan bit down on the gag. The fabric was soaked with her saliva, and her jaw ached from clenching, but she couldn't stop. If she let herself relax, she would fall apart completely. She would beg. She would say anything. She would tell him exactly what she wanted, and then he would make her wait again, and she would shatter.
His mouth pressed against the back of her thigh. Open-mouthed, wet, his tongue dragging up toward the hem of her dress. She felt his nose nudge the fabric aside, felt his breath hot against the bare skin of her ass, and her hips bucked backward involuntarily, seeking contact.
He pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough that she felt the absence of him like a wound.
"Not yet," he said. The same words as before, but softer now. Almost gentle. "I'm not done tasting you."
His mouth returned to her calf. Started over. Trailed upward again, slower this time, as if he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it. Chan's head fell forward, her hair brushing her shoulders, and she let herself hang from the cuffs, suspended between the beam and the heat of his mouth, knowing that this was only the beginning.