Page 130 of Where the Snakes Sleep

I nod. “Yes.”

I lead the way. He follows three steps behind, careful not to close the distance. By the time we reach his room, every step has pounded my heart against my ribs.

The door opens onto familiarity—the low bed with rumpled sheets, the dresser catching a last sliver of sunlight, the scent of his cologne lingering in the air. Memories knot together painfully in my chest—every time I’ve been here, I’ve surrendered.

Now I intend to take control.

“Take off the sweater.”

He lifts his arms, the dark knit falling away in a smooth arc. I watch the muscle along his spine ripple.

“And the shirt,” I add softly.

He peels that off too, revealing the plane of his chest. His movements remain reluctant, giving me too much time to second-guess. I do not.

“And your pants. I want you naked.”

He grunts, and I watch as he unbuttons himself and steps out of his pants, his cock already hard and standing.

“Now stay there,” I instruct.

He stands still, vulnerability exposed.

I circle him, gauging the tension in his shoulders, the rise and fall of his breath. He’s used to studying me; now I get to observe him. Every inch I advance, his stance tightens. Finally, I stop behind him.

“What would you use if you wanted to tie someone’s wrists without hurting them?”

He freezes, then tilts his head. “Is that what you want?”

I inhale, the air warm on my skin. “Yes.”

He moves to the wardrobe, lifts the door, and retrieves a long, soft robe sash—cream-colored silk with just enough give. He hands it to me. Our fingers brush for a heartbeat, and I yank my hand back.

“Turn around.”

He does, facing away. I look at the sash in my hands. My pulse roars. This is real. This is me taking control; he’s agreed to surrender.

“Hands behind you.”

His wrists come together at the small of his back. I wrap the sash around them, knotting it with a firm tug that leaves no slack. He tests the restraint gently.

“Comfortable?” I ask quietly. I don’t want it to actually hurt him.

“Yes.”

“Can you get out?”

“If I needed to.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“Not without effort.”

“Okay. Good.”

I step around to face him. He looks contained—no longer free to touch me, unless I allow it. My chest loosens. Yesterday, every brush of his hand felt loaded with doubt. Now there is nothing he can do without my say-so.

I take another step closer, close enough to see the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. I press one finger to the center of his chest.