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Paint lets me change direction in the middle of a stroke and discover something better than what I intended. Willow does not.

Too much force distorts what came before. Too little and nothing holds.

Locke enjoys this. I am not certain I do.

I keep going anyway. After a while the pattern becomes easier to follow. I still have to think about every few crossings, but the mat begins to resemble something that might actually hold together when I pick it up.

Laura shifts on the sofa and tucks one foot farther beneath her. Her book rests against her bent knee, and a strand of hair has fallen across one side of her face. She brushes it back without taking her attention from the page.

One of the long willow strands keeps sliding free while I work another through it. I need both hands, so I loop the loose end once around my wrist to hold the tension while I pull.

The wet willow draws snug against my weave. I finish the crossing, then move my hand.

The loop stops me.

Not completely. I could work my way out of it. But for one unexpected second, my wrist is held where I did not decide to leave it.

I pull lightly. The willow tightens.

Something low inside me answers.

I stop.

Across the room, Laura turns a page. She has settled deeper into the corner of the sofa, one shoulder bare where her shirt has slipped down. She has no idea what has happened a few feet away from her.

I pull against the loop again. This time I know what I am testing.

The willow holds, and my cock begins to harden.

For several seconds I only stare at my wrist. I had been making a mat. I had not been thinking about sex. Laura has not touched me. She is not even looking at me.

Still, I want the loop tighter.

The thought arrives so quickly that another follows it before I can examine the first. Not just tighter. Tight enough that I could not free myself.

My attention shifts to Laura. What would happen if she were the one who tied it?

My internal rhythm stutters.

The image comes all at once. Laura naked beside me. Her hands on the willow. Her voice telling me not to move. Me pulling once and discovering that I cannot. Not until she decides I can.

Heat and resonance move through me together.

I think about last night. Laura pressing her palm to my chest and saying wait.

I stopped because she asked me to.

I remember wanting her even while I stood still. Maybe more because I was standing still.

The loop around my wrist suddenly feels like the beginning of a question I did not know enough to ask yesterday.

I pull once more. It holds.

I look at Laura again. She turns another page.

I could say her name. I could show her my wrist and ask her to pull the willow tighter. The idea sends another hard rush through me.

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.