when he says, “And it’s not like you’re going anywhere.”
“Funny.” I pick my head up and shift over, trying to keep my expression blank as sparklers light up in my crotch.
As he climbs over me, I set my other cheek on the pillow, my forehead against the arm he’s done with. While he’s got one knee on the bed, his other leg is planted on the floor. I study the way the worn denim creases toward his knee, the way it clings to his thigh just above that. How close his body is to mine.
“Open your hand a little.”
I uncurl my fingers.
Click. Click.
“All right. Time to get your head out of the way.”
I start to lift myself up to scoot backward, but he grabs my ankle and yanks, fast. Sparks shoot from my groin. I bury my face in the rumpled comforter, my arms stretched taut over my head. My toes push against the floor beyond the end of the bed. The footboard digs into my thighs.
The shutter goes off. Derek adjusts the lights again. I clench my hands, holding on to the fading tendrils of pleasure that being dragged down the bed stirred up.
The camera goes off a few more times before Derek says, “That should do it.”
I keep my face in the comforter. I really, really want to cant my hips forward and push the head of my cock against the blankets. I do press them forward, just a little, and it feels amazing—the stretch in my arms, the cuffs holding on, keeping my hands out of reach.
Derek’s bent over my arm, his fingers brushing my skin as he turns the lock toward him.
I grip the bedpost and pull myself back up, onto my knees instead of dragging myself over the bed.
He pulls the lock out, freeing my wrist.
I feel like I’m all cock as I look down at my hand, opening and closing my fist.
He unloops the strap from the post.
“These look so awesome,” I say. They’re the iron-cross cuffs. Pretty badass, even if they’re not the top tier.
Derek, closing the lock and strap into his palm, looks over at my wrist. “They do look pretty cool. I don’t usually get to see them on someone else’s wrist.”
“You try them on yourself?”
“Not since I worked out the pattern.”
I’m watching his mouth as he says it. He turns his attention to stuffing the strap into his pocket. I realize what’s missing from his mouth. “What happened to your toothpick?”
“Broke. I haven’t grabbed a replacement yet.”
I lie down on my side, my head resting on the arm that’s still attached to the bed. “I’m not used to seeing you without something in your mouth.”
He smiles as he reaches for the other lock. “That’s me.”
His hair’s falling toward his eye again.
I hook the strands in the crook of my finger and drag it out of the way.
He glances down at me, then says, “Shit,” turning his attention to looking for the key he just dropped.
I lift my head, looking for it too, somewhere near my arm. Then I feel it, just under my forearm. I push my fingers under and have it.
“And here I was thinking you were gonna be stuck here,” he says with a grin. He reaches to take it from me.
Smiling, I pull my hand out of the way, the key pinched between my fingers.
His eyebrows come down—and I lob the key over his side and across the room.
He turns to look where it went, then back to me. He’s practically leaning over me, braced on one arm, the fingers of his other hand relaxing now that they’re not expecting to have a key in them.
I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.
“Guess you’re not in any hurry to get free,” he says. His empty hand turns. I feel it come to rest on my hip.
“I guess not.” I put my head down, looking up at him. Swallowing.
“I must make comfortable cuffs.”
“Very.” I pull my wrist a little, and the lock holds with a satisfying tug. Reaching up with my free hand, I move that lock of hair off his eyebrow. “That’s always getting in your way.”
“Yeah.” He hooks his thumb into my belt loop.
Instead of dropping my arm, I let it rest on his
“Funny.” I pick my head up and shift over, trying to keep my expression blank as sparklers light up in my crotch.
As he climbs over me, I set my other cheek on the pillow, my forehead against the arm he’s done with. While he’s got one knee on the bed, his other leg is planted on the floor. I study the way the worn denim creases toward his knee, the way it clings to his thigh just above that. How close his body is to mine.
“Open your hand a little.”
I uncurl my fingers.
Click. Click.
“All right. Time to get your head out of the way.”
I start to lift myself up to scoot backward, but he grabs my ankle and yanks, fast. Sparks shoot from my groin. I bury my face in the rumpled comforter, my arms stretched taut over my head. My toes push against the floor beyond the end of the bed. The footboard digs into my thighs.
The shutter goes off. Derek adjusts the lights again. I clench my hands, holding on to the fading tendrils of pleasure that being dragged down the bed stirred up.
The camera goes off a few more times before Derek says, “That should do it.”
I keep my face in the comforter. I really, really want to cant my hips forward and push the head of my cock against the blankets. I do press them forward, just a little, and it feels amazing—the stretch in my arms, the cuffs holding on, keeping my hands out of reach.
Derek’s bent over my arm, his fingers brushing my skin as he turns the lock toward him.
I grip the bedpost and pull myself back up, onto my knees instead of dragging myself over the bed.
He pulls the lock out, freeing my wrist.
I feel like I’m all cock as I look down at my hand, opening and closing my fist.
He unloops the strap from the post.
“These look so awesome,” I say. They’re the iron-cross cuffs. Pretty badass, even if they’re not the top tier.
Derek, closing the lock and strap into his palm, looks over at my wrist. “They do look pretty cool. I don’t usually get to see them on someone else’s wrist.”
“You try them on yourself?”
“Not since I worked out the pattern.”
I’m watching his mouth as he says it. He turns his attention to stuffing the strap into his pocket. I realize what’s missing from his mouth. “What happened to your toothpick?”
“Broke. I haven’t grabbed a replacement yet.”
I lie down on my side, my head resting on the arm that’s still attached to the bed. “I’m not used to seeing you without something in your mouth.”
He smiles as he reaches for the other lock. “That’s me.”
His hair’s falling toward his eye again.
I hook the strands in the crook of my finger and drag it out of the way.
He glances down at me, then says, “Shit,” turning his attention to looking for the key he just dropped.
I lift my head, looking for it too, somewhere near my arm. Then I feel it, just under my forearm. I push my fingers under and have it.
“And here I was thinking you were gonna be stuck here,” he says with a grin. He reaches to take it from me.
Smiling, I pull my hand out of the way, the key pinched between my fingers.
His eyebrows come down—and I lob the key over his side and across the room.
He turns to look where it went, then back to me. He’s practically leaning over me, braced on one arm, the fingers of his other hand relaxing now that they’re not expecting to have a key in them.
I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.
“Guess you’re not in any hurry to get free,” he says. His empty hand turns. I feel it come to rest on my hip.
“I guess not.” I put my head down, looking up at him. Swallowing.
“I must make comfortable cuffs.”
“Very.” I pull my wrist a little, and the lock holds with a satisfying tug. Reaching up with my free hand, I move that lock of hair off his eyebrow. “That’s always getting in your way.”
“Yeah.” He hooks his thumb into my belt loop.
Instead of dropping my arm, I let it rest on his
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