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“When I was making this, the willow went around my wrist.” He turns one hand over and traces a circle around it with the other. “I needed both hands for the weave, so I looped one strand around my wrist to hold the tension.”
He stops there.
“And?”
“I liked it.”
I stop with one hand on the refrigerator door while the meaning catches up with what he’s telling me. For a second, I’m not sure I’ve understood him correctly. Then I picture it: Kell on the floor with willow wrapped around his wrist, testing the hold because some part of him wanted to know what it would feel like not to be able to move.
It’s strange. It’s also hot.
“Liked it how?”
“The way I like things during sex.”
I close the refrigerator. Dinner can wait.
“It surprised me,” he says. “I didn’t know being restrained from moving could feel good.”
There is nothing embarrassed in the way he says it. No hesitation. He might as well be telling me he discovered he likes a new kind of paintbrush, which does absolutely nothing to make the image in my head less vivid.
“What did you do?”
“I untied it.”
“Right away?”
He waits a second before answering. “No.”
Heat moves low through me before I can do anything useful with it.
“How long did you leave it?”
“A little.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, but he catches the effort anyway.
“Why are you trying not to laugh?”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You’re almost laughing.”
“Because you discovered bondage while making a placemat.”
“It’s a mat.”
“Sorry.”
His expression shifts, just enough that I know he’s amused too. Then he looks down at his hands.
“I kept thinking about it afterward.”
My fingers loosen from the edge of the counter.
“About being restrained?”
“Yes.”
