Chapter 5
W ell.
This escalated quickly.
My wrists tugged against the red velvet ropes, not to escape but to feel their gentle, unyielding pressure against my skin. The soft restraints wrapped around me—secure but never cruel—exactly as I'd asked him for. Exactly as I'd been fantasizing about since I saw him naked.
The ropes crossed my body in an intricate pattern, looping above and below my breasts, framing them in diamond shapes that made me feel both restrained and displayed. Ethan had taken his time with the bindings, checking each one against my skin, asking if they felt right, if they were too tight. The red velvet was expensive – he'd told me that – specially ordered from some artisan rope maker who crafted them for exactly this purpose. They didn't bite into my flesh like I imagined regular rope would. Instead, they hugged me, held me, made me feel both secure and exposed.
I was in my underwear, but I had a feeling he’d specially tied me so that he could remove it.
I tested my mobility again, finding almost none. My arms were tied above my head to the wooden posts of his headboard. My legs were spread and secured to the bottom corners of the frame. The position left me completely vulnerable, yet I'd never felt safer.
The bedroom glowed with the amber light of several candles placed strategically around the room. Their soft illumination cast dancing shadows across the walls and ceiling. The light was just bright enough to see by, but dim enough to feel intimate, private.
A vanilla scent from one of the candles mixed with the deeper, woodsier scent that I'd come to associate with him. The combination made my head swim a little, or maybe that was just the anticipation.
I'd been waiting for fifteen minutes. I knew because I kept glancing at the small clock on his nightstand. Fifteen minutes of being tied to his bed, fifteen minutes of my thoughts racing between nervousness and desperate arousal. Fifteen minutes that felt like hours.
My fingers trembled slightly above the ropes. I couldn't stop the reaction any more than I could stop my heart from pounding against my ribs. A warm flush had crept up my neck minutes ago and refused to retreat. I caught my lower lip between my teeth—that nervous habit I could never quite shake—and tried to steady my breathing.
I heard his footsteps in the hallway, steady and unhurried. My breath caught. The door opened slowly, deliberately, and there he stood. Fully dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, his voice even. He didn't sound sorry at all. He sounded as though making me wait had been entirely intentional.
The contrast between us couldn't have been more stark—him fully clothed and composed, in control; me almost naked, bound, waiting. The imbalance sent a thrill through me that I felt all the way to my core.
He didn't rush to the bed. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe for a moment, looking at me with careful consideration. I felt his eyes tracking over every loop of red velvet. The weight of his gaze was almost physical, like being touched without a single point of contact.
"Are you comfortable?" he asked, finally pushing away from the door and walking into the room.
"Yes," I managed to say, my voice smaller than I intended.
"Good." He circled the bed slowly, like a predator taking stock of its prey. "And the ropes? Still feeling okay?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice again.
"Words, Lily," he reminded me gently. "I need to hear you say it."
"They feel good," I said, my voice a little stronger. "Not too tight."
"Perfect."
He came to a stop at the foot of the bed, both hands resting lightly on the wooden frame. His expression had shifted from careful concentration to something darker, more intense. The change was subtle—a slight narrowing of his eyes, a barely perceptible tightening of his jaw—but I noticed it immediately. Heat pooled low in my belly in response.
"Do you know how long I've wanted to see you like this?" he asked, his voice dropping to a lower register that sent shivers across my skin.
I shook my head, then quickly corrected myself. "No. How long?"
"Since the first time I met you. Do you remember?"
"I remember," I whispered.
“You came out of your place, the most beautiful fucking woman in the world. I knew I was in trouble, living next to a goddess like you.”
He moved to the side of the bed and sat down beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body but not touching me. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, shifting my bound body infinitesimally toward him.
I blushed with pride and arousal.
"You are gorgeous," he said, his eyes traveling from my face down to where the ropes crisscrossed my body.
His hand hovered above the bare skin of my stomach, not touching, just close enough that I could feel the warmth of his skin. I strained upward instinctively, seeking contact, but the ropes held me in place.
He smiled – a slow, knowing curve of his lips that made my pulse quicken. "Patience, little one."
The endearment made me shiver. It was still new between us, this dynamic, still being explored and defined, but that name—little one—did something to me that I couldn't quite explain. Made me feel both small and precious.
His fingertips finally made contact with my skin, just a whisper of a touch tracing a line from my collarbone to the swell of my breast. The simple contact after so much anticipation made me gasp.
"Looking at you, like this," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through me, "makes me think of how you looked at me, when I got out of the shower." His fingers paused their journey. "Do you see that, little one? The parallel?"
The memory flashed hot in my mind—Ethan stepping out of his shower, water droplets clinging to his shoulders, steam rising around him. The way I'd frozen, unable to look away. The shameful, exhilarating knowledge that I was seeing something not meant for my eyes.
And now here I was, positioned deliberately for his gaze, unable to hide any reaction, any response. The parallels were unmistakable.
I nodded, feeling the heat of a blush spread across my cheeks and down my neck.
"Yes," I whispered. "I see it."
"Tell me what you saw that day," he said, his voice soft but carrying unmistakable authority. "By the window. I want to hear it from you."
My mouth went dry. The memory was vivid, almost painfully so, but translating it into something I could say out loud to him was another matter entirely.
"I looked over and . . ." I swallowed hard. "Your bathroom window was open. I didn't mean to look, not at first, but then I saw movement and—"
"And?" he prompted when I fell silent.
"And I saw you. Coming out of the shower."
The confession hung in the air between us. Ethan's expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes—interest, perhaps, or satisfaction at getting me to admit it aloud.
"That's a start," he said. "But I want details, Lily. What exactly did you see?"
Heat crawled up my neck and blossomed across my cheeks. I squirmed against the restraints, the movement involuntary.
"I saw you step out of the shower. You had a towel but you weren't using it yet. You were . . . you were naked. Water was running down your body."
Ethan nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "And you kept watching."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Yes."
"How long?"
God, he wasn't going to let me off easy. "A few minutes. Until you left the bathroom."
His hand moved then, finally making contact with my skin – just his fingertips tracing the edge of my collarbone. The light touch sent a shiver through me.
"I'm going to undress you while we talk," he said matter-of-factly. "Since you've already seen me. It seems only fair, doesn't it?"
My heart stuttered in my chest. "Yes."
His fingers found the thin strap of my bra, sliding it down my shoulder as far as the restraints would allow. "Keep talking. Tell me what you were thinking as you watched me."
I closed my eyes, finding it easier to speak without seeing his reaction. "I was thinking that I should look away. That it wasn't right to watch you like that. But I couldn't stop."
"Why couldn't you stop?"
His hand moved to the front clasp of my bra, flicking it open with practiced ease. The cups fell away, exposing my breasts to the cool air and his gaze. I felt my nipples harden immediately, a reaction I couldn't hide.
"Because . . ." I began, then faltered as his fingertips skimmed the underside of my breast. "Because you were so handsome."
Something changed in his expression—a softening around the eyes, perhaps, or a slight parting of his lips. For just a moment, I glimpsed the man beneath the dominant persona he was projecting. Then it was gone, replaced by that careful control.
"What part of me did your eyes linger on longest?" he asked, gently tugging the bra out from under me and discarding it somewhere beside the bed.
The question made my insides clench with embarrassment and desire. I bit my lip hard enough to hurt.
"Your chest, at first," I admitted. "The way the water ran down it. The definition of your muscles."
"And then?"
I knew what he was asking. Of course I knew. "And then lower. Your stomach, your hips, your . . ." I couldn't finish.
"Say it, Lily." His hand drifted to my stomach, palm flat against my skin. "What were you looking at?"
"Your cock," I whispered, the word feeling foreign in my mouth. "I was looking at your cock."
His hand tensed almost imperceptibly against my stomach. "And what did you think when you saw it?"
The question sent a pulse of heat between my legs. I forced myself to meet his gaze. "That it was bigger than I expected." The words tumbled out before I could censor them.
Ethan laughed softly, the sound rich and warm. "Honest. I appreciate that." His fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties. "May I?"
I nodded, then remembered his rule. "Yes."
He tugged the fabric down slowly, navigating around the rope ties at my ankles. The air felt cool against my newly exposed skin, making me acutely aware of how wet I already was. When my panties joined my bra on the floor, I lay completely naked before him, still bound by the red velvet ropes.
"How did seeing me make you feel?" he asked, his hand now resting on my thigh, just above my knee.
"Embarrassed," I admitted. "Guilty."
"And?"
"And turned on," I whispered. "So turned on I could barely stand it."
His fingers tightened slightly on my thigh. "That's what I thought." His hand began a slow journey upward, tracking a path that made my breathing quicken. "What did you do after you saw me? Once you went back inside?"
His question neared dangerous territory, and we both knew it. His hand paused its upward journey, waiting for my answer. His thumb traced small circles on my inner thigh, devastatingly close to where I was aching for him to touch.
"I closed my curtains."
"And then, Lily?" His voice had dropped lower, taking on a rough edge that hadn't been there before.
I closed my eyes, unable to look at him as I confessed. "I lay down on my bed."
"Keep going."
"I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd seen. About you." The words came easier now, as if one confession had broken a dam. "I kept seeing you in my mind, the water on your skin, the way you moved."
His hand resumed its upward path, torturously slow. "Did you touch yourself, Lily?"
There it was. The question he'd been leading me toward all along. My breath caught, and I felt a fresh surge of wetness between my legs.
"Yes," I breathed.
"Tell me how." His voice was a low command that sent shivers across my skin.
"I started with my breasts," I said, surprised by my own boldness. "Touching my nipples, imagining it was your hands. Then I moved lower. I was already so wet from watching you."
His fingers stilled on my thigh, so close to where I needed him that it was almost painful. "Did you come thinking about me?"
"Yes," I whispered. "Harder than I had in a long time."
At this admission, I saw his careful composure slip. His pupils dilated visibly, and his hand tightened on my thigh, fingers digging in slightly. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and for a brief moment, I glimpsed what it would be like to see this controlled man lose himself completely.
"How many times have you touched yourself thinking about me since then?" he asked, his voice rougher than before.
Truth was my only option under that intense gaze. "Every night. Sometimes in the morning too."
A small, satisfied smile curved his lips. "Every night," he repeated, savoring the words.
His hand finally moved those last few inches, fingers brushing against my core so lightly it might have been accidental if not for the deliberate way he watched my reaction. I gasped, hips jerking upward instinctively, seeking more pressure.
"You're so wet," he observed, his clinical tone at odds with the heat in his eyes. "Just from talking about it."
"Just from being here with you," I corrected, finding a moment of boldness.
His smile widened fractionally. "Such an honest little one." His fingers withdrew, leaving me aching and empty. "I think things need to be even between us now, don't you? You've seen me. You've studied me. You've fantasized about me." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "I think it's only fair that I get to do the same. Don't you?"
I nodded, then quickly added, "Yes. That's fair."
"Good girl." He straightened up, his eyes traveling deliberately down my bound body. "Now I'm going to explore you the way you've been imagining. The way you've touched yourself. But first, I need your explicit consent. Do you want me to touch you, Lily? To explore your body the way you explored mine with your eyes?"
I didn't hesitate. "Yes. Please, yes."
His eyes darkened at my eagerness. "I'm going to touch you," he said, shifting on the bed to sit more directly beside me. "Not to rush into anything, but to learn you. To see what makes you respond. What makes you tick." His voice dropped lower. "What makes you wet."
My breath hitched at his words, at the clinical way he laid out his intentions while his eyes betrayed something far less detached.
"If anything becomes too much, you'll tell me immediately. What's your safe word?"
"Rose," I answered, the word we'd agreed on earlier that evening.
"Good. And if you can't speak?"
"I'll snap my fingers three times," I said, demonstrating with my bound but still mobile fingers.
"Perfect." He reached out, finally, his fingertips just barely making contact with my forearm. "Let's begin."
The touch was so light it might have been imaginary if not for the trail of goosebumps that followed his fingers as they traveled from my wrist to my elbow. Just that – just the barest contact – and already my skin felt electrified, hyper-aware of every point where his skin met mine.
"Sensitive," he observed, his voice taking on that slightly clinical tone again. "Do you always respond this quickly to touch?"
"No," I admitted. "It's different with you."
That seemed to please him. His fingers continued their journey, tracing up to my shoulder, then across my collarbone. The restraints limited my movement, but I found myself arching slightly into his touch anyway, seeking more pressure.
His hand moved to my neck, fingers splaying across my pulse point. "Your heart is racing," he noted.
"I wonder why," I replied, a hint of sarcasm breaking through my nervousness.
He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "There she is. I was wondering if being tied up had taken away that spark."
"Nothing could take that away," I assured him.
His hand drifted lower, tracing the curve of my breast without touching the most sensitive parts. "What do you want most right now?" he asked, his eyes following the path of his fingers.
The question seemed simple, but we both knew it wasn't. What did I want? To be touched more deliberately? To have him inside me? To be let out of these restraints so I could touch him back? All of those things and more.
"I want . . ." I hesitated, then decided on honesty. "I want whatever you're willing to give me."
His hand paused its exploration. "That's not an answer, Lily. That's deflection. Try again."
I flushed, caught in my attempt to please rather than be honest. "I want you to touch my breasts properly. Not just around them. I want to feel your hands on me."
A smile of approval. "Better." His hand completed its circuit around my breast, then finally, finally cupped it fully, his palm warm against my skin. "Like this?"
"Yes," I breathed, relief and new tension spiraling through me simultaneously.
His thumb brushed across my nipple, and I gasped at the jolt of pleasure. "Or this?"
"Both," I managed. "Definitely both."
He continued his careful exploration, touching and squeezing, watching my face for every reaction. When he replaced his hand with his mouth, the wet heat of his tongue against my nipple had me straining against the ropes, desperate for more contact.
"Still okay?" he asked, lifting his head to check in.
"More than okay," I assured him, trying to control my ragged breathing.
His hands moved lower, skimming over my ribs, my stomach, my hips – everywhere except where I most wanted to be touched. The anticipation was torturous and exquisite.
"When did you know you wanted to be tied up?" he asked, his tone conversational again despite the intimate nature of his explorations.
The question caught me off guard. "Since . . . since a long time. But more since I saw you naked. I never told anyone before you."
"Why me?" His fingers traced the indentations where the ropes pressed into my skin.
"Because . . ." I struggled to articulate something I barely understood myself. "Because you make me feel safe enough to be vulnerable. I love it when you call me Little One."
His eyes darkened at that. "Tell me more about that feeling. What happens when I call you that?"
I closed my eyes, finding it easier to explain without watching his reaction. "It's like . . . like everything gets quieter. Simpler. Like I don't have to be in control or have all the answers. I can just be."
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
I opened my eyes.
"That's my good Little One," he said, his voice deeper, richer with meaning.
The words sent a ripple of pleasure through me that was almost as physical as his touch. I felt myself getting wetter, my body responding to the dynamic between us as much as to the physical contact.
His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing patterns on my inner thighs. He was so close to where I needed him most, yet made no move to touch me there.
"Please," I whispered, unable to stop myself.
"Please what, Lily?" he asked, all innocence despite the knowing look in his eyes.
"Touch me," I breathed. "Where I need it."
"Here?" His fingers moved closer but still avoided my center.
"You know where," I said, a hint of frustration bleeding into my voice.