Page 10

That would fucking destroy me.

I'd wrap the ribbon around your wrists slowly, checking that it was comfortable before tying them above your head to the headboard exactly the way you'd already told me you wanted. Nothing you couldn't stop, nothing tighter than you asked for, but enough that when you tested it you'd feel the satin hold and know you had deliberately put yourself there for me.

Blindfolded, wrists tied, and waiting.

Christ, sweetheart.

I think I'd stand there for a few seconds just looking at you because after months of taking whatever pieces of you I could steal, having you offer me something would feel almost fucking dangerous.

Then I'd start touching you. Slowly at first, because I'd want you aware of every inch. My hands over your shoulders, down your arms, across your ribs and stomach while my mouth followed wherever I could make you shiver, and every time you pulled against that ribbon I'd have to remind myself you wanted the restraint there because the sight of you testing it would make whatever control I had left disappear fast.

I'd worship every part of you that you keep criticizing, sweetheart. Every soft place you try to hide. Every curve you inspect in mirrors like it owes you an explanation. I'd kiss and touch and praise you until you stopped thinking about what any of it looked like and started caring only about how fucking good it felt.

And because you couldn't see me, you'd just feel my hands moving over you, my mouth against your skin and the ribbon tightening slightly whenever pleasure made you pull against it.

I'd keep asking if you were good and you'd keep telling me yes. And every yes would make me greedier. I'd take my time until your breathing was wrecked, until you were trembling beneath my hands and whatever clever insult you'd planned had dissolved into half-finished words and sounds you weren't even trying to hide anymore.

That's the part I can't get out of my head, you letting yourself be loud, letting yourself want. Letting me keep going because you're not worried about being demanding or greedy or too fucking much.

I'd keep worshipping you until you were shaking, until every time I touched you somewhere sensitive your body reacted before you could think about it, then I'd keep giving you pleasure because you had already told me you wanted everything I could give.

Again.

Then again.

Until you were completely wrung out, sweetheart, wrists still resting above your head in that black ribbon, sleep mask still covering your eyes and your whole body soft against the mattress because I had taken every bit of tension you carried around all day and fucked it right out of you.

And afterward I'd untie you myself, and I'd rub the marks from the ribbon away with my thumbs. Then I'd pull the blanket over you and sit there touching your hair while you fell asleep knowing every single thing that happened had been something you chose.

That might be the filthiest part of the whole fantasy, you trusting me enough to sleep afterward.

And fuck, sweetheart, that fantasy is exactly why I need to draw the line again before I start talking myself into shit you never agreed to. Wanting more doesn't mean I get more.

Reality still gets the exact limits I gave you and nothing else, no matter how worked up I am when I walk into that room. If you leave the orange lights off, I stay outside and spend the night being a miserable bastard about it. If you leave them on but change your mind before you fall asleep, untie the ribbon or take the sleep mask off and I'll leave when I see it. You can change your mind right up until the second I get there, sweetheart. I'm more nervous about those stupid orange lights than I have ever been about getting caught inside your apartment, and that fucking annoys me because apparently you've managed to make being invited somewhere feel more dangerous than breaking in.

Yours, if you decide you want me closer.

P.S. Text your friend when you're ready. You can still be pissed at her and miss her at the same time, and I'd rather spend tomorrow jealous that she made you laugh than know you lost somebody you love because of me.

October 29

Hello my sweet little problem,

Those orange lights were still glowing after eleven, and I stood across the street staring at them until I started feeling like the pathetic one in this arrangement. My hands were actually shaking, sweetheart, and I want that on the record because you should know what you're doing to me now. I have broken into your apartment, hidden six feet away while you got yourself off and stolen underwear you later found out I wrapped around my cock, yet apparently the thing that finally makes me nervous is you deliberately leaving a light on because you want me to come closer.

I waited until the apartment had been quiet for almost an hour, then came inside wearing my black mask because you invited the man from the letters, not the face underneath it. The orange lights were still glowing over the bookshelf, and when I reached the bedroom I saw the ribbon tied in a neat little bow around the bedpost and you asleep with the black sleep mask covering your eyes. I stood there looking at that bow, then at your covered eyes, and had to remind myself that the entire reason this felt so good was because you had chosen it.

I turned the lights off for you before I sat down because I know you hate sleeping with them glowing all night, then I touched your ankle through the blanket exactly the way I said I would and waited when you shifted. Once your breathing settled I moved the hair away from your mouth, let my fingers rest against your hand for a few seconds and finally put two fingers over the inside of your wrist. Your pulse was steady under them, and sweetheart, I don't have a clever fucking line for what that did to me. Yesterday I got myself off with your black lace in my hand and somehow sitting there feeling your heart beat while you slept was the thing that made me feel more exposed.

I wanted more. Christ, I wanted more badly enough that my jaw hurt from keeping still. I wanted to put my mouth against your wrist, crawl beneath the blanket and find out whether your body would react to me before the rest of you woke, and I wanted to touch every place I had spent the last week writing about. But I didn't. You hadn't agreed to any of that for the real visit, so I kept my hands exactly where I had promised they would stay, left the ribbon tied to the bedpost, left the sleep mask exactly where you had put it and got the fuck out before wanting became an excuse. I'm telling you because I need you to understand that I meant what I said yesterday. You gave me permission to be there and to touch four specific places. That was all I did.

This morning you woke up, pushed the sleep mask onto your forehead and immediately looked at the ribbon before touching your wrist. Then you smiled, slow and private, and whatever progress I had made toward behaving like a functioning adult died right there. Your friend called not long after and you answered. You didn't tell her about last night, which I understand, but you apologized for shutting her out and she apologized for trying to tell you what you were allowed to feel. When she said she still thought you were making a terrible mistake, you answered, 'Maybe. It's still mine to make,' and I had to sit the fuck down because apparently you choosing me in tiny, deliberate pieces is going to be what finally ruins me.

And now I need to ask you something I absolutely should not be asking twenty-four hours after proving I can sit beside your sleeping body without taking more than you offered. Have you ever fantasized about sleep-play for real, pretty girl? I mean the version where you tell a man while you're fully awake exactly what you want him to be allowed to do after you fall asleep, then you go to bed knowing he might want you badly enough to start before you wake. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to surface already deep in pleasure because the man beside you had been too desperate for you to wait, with every part of it something you had asked him for beforehand? Would waking to my mouth between your thighs turn you on? Would knowing you had given me permission to be inside you before your eyes ever opened make that first confused, sleepy second hotter instead of frightening? Fuck, sweetheart, I have been asking myself those questions all day and none of the answers in my head are helping me behave.

Because the honest answer is that I would not be able to wait.

Let me tell you exactly what I mean by that, sweetheart, because this is the fantasy I have been circling since I sat beside you last night with two fingers on your wrist and your pulse steady underneath them like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. This isn't something I did. I need you to understand that before you read another word. Last night I kept every promise I made you, and I am telling you this fantasy tonight because I want you to know what I am asking before I ask it.