He shrugs a little, but doesn’t say anything. My breasts are displayed on either side of an X across my breastbone, and the rope is soft but sturdy; I can feel it pressing into the tender skin all along my torso.

“Is it too tight?” he asks, drawing a finger in a small circle around my nipple.

I swallow back a gasp. “No.”

“Do you like it?”

I hear genuine concern in his voice. I can tell from his trembling hand, intense gaze, and the pressing shape of his cock beneath his jeans that Finn likes this. A lot. But it matters to him that I do, too.

And fuck, I do. I don’t mind having my arms pinned at my sides as much as I thought I would. And I feel everything: the silken slide of the rope as I wiggle a little under his inspection, the cool air over my breasts, the thudding echo of my pulse in my neck, chest, between my legs.

I forgot how rough his hands are, calloused from constant work—rough and so huge he covers much of my body as his splayed fingers slide up my legs to my inner thighs, spreading me.

I resist, and he makes a quiet tsk sound, easily overpowering me as he shakes his head. He’s not looking at my face, he’s looking at me, there, between my legs.

I like to consider myself a pretty progressive woman—lots of talk about being comfortable with anything and trying everything once—but mostly, so far, it’s only been theory. At twenty-two, I’ve never had a lover who was experienced enough to be slow and force me to still under his acute attention. I’ve never been with anyone who was confident enough to be still and calm while he just looks at me. I’ve certainly never been tied up. And I’ve never had someone savor me the way Finn is right now, not even the Finn I thought I knew from before.

He settles, propped on his elbows between my legs, and kisses my thigh, looking up the length of my body at the red rope against my skin. “You look amazing.”

I whisper out a raspy “Thanks,” watching rapt as he bends, lips parted. And, God, I believe him.