A Hundred Uses for a Pair of Handcuffs
Cohen
Getting back to the chalet wasn’t as difficult as I expected—mostly because we planned ahead. We kept our jackets draped over our shoulders instead of sliding our arms into the sleeves.
The moment the door closes behind us, the warmth of the fireplace hits us full force.
Sloane drops her coat to the floor with a sigh.
“I’m sweaty, I’m sticky, and I need a shower,” she announces, eyeing the pink-fur-and-metal link binding us together. “But I have a problem.”
She turns her back to me.
“This thermal suit.”
My gaze drops.
The tight white fabric hugs every curve, and right there—on her perfectly rounded ass—are two red hearts that feel like a personal summons.
“It’s a crime against fashion,” she adds.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I counter, using my free hand to smack one of the hearts. “But yeah. I see the problem. It’s not coming off past the handcuffs.”
“We’ll have to cut it.”
My brain short-circuits.
“Cut it?”
Sloane hands me a pair of scissors she’s pulled from the emergency sewing kit in the drawer.
“Cut it, Becker. I want to shower. Now.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
The sound of fabric tearing is the most erotic noise in the world. I slide the cold tip of the scissors into her neckline and cut downward, splitting the suit open like I’m unwrapping a gift.
She shivers—but not from the cold.
The suit falls to the floor in a heap of white and red.
Sloane is naked.
And I’m still fully dressed, handcuffed to her, with an erection threatening to rip my jeans apart.
Hour 2: Advanced Plumbing
The shower water is scorching hot. Steam fills the glass enclosure almost instantly, fogging up everything except the two of us.
I’m naked now. Or almost. Our clothes are a wet pile on the floor.
The logistics are a nightmare—one that quickly turns into my favorite erotic fantasy.
The short chain forces me to keep my right arm raised, pinned against the tiled wall, linked to her left. We’re suspended from each other, bodies slick with soap and water.
“Look at me,” I growl against her skin as I drag the sponge down her neck, pressing hard.
Her eyes are closed, her head tipped back, water running down her throat.
“I can feel you,” she pants.
I drop the sponge. I don’t need it. I want to touch her.
My soapy hands slide over her hips, grip her, turn her. I press her against the cold glass of the shower.
She arches her back, offering herself.
Entering her standing up, with one arm trapped overhead, takes strength—and desperation.
I lift her, locking her leg around my waist.
When I thrust into her, Sloane cries out.
The sound ricochets off the tiles, amplified by the water.
She’s tight. Hot. Wet.
I start to move, and the handcuffs clink with every thrust—a wild, metallic rhythm.
I can’t kiss her easily. I can’t hold her the way I want to. So I take her. I drive into her hard, trying to erase the distance, trying to fuse us together.
She scratches my shoulder with her free hand, biting her lip until it bleeds.
“Cohen… fuck… don’t stop…”
“Never,” I swear, thrusting deeper, hitting that spot that makes her eyes roll back.
We come together, shaken by spasms that nearly send us slipping and breaking our necks—and I’ve never cared less about my physical safety in my life.
Hour 4: Emergency Wardrobe
We step out of the shower wrecked, skin flushed from the scalding water—but the night is just getting started.
The clothing problem makes a comeback.
Sloane rummages through her suitcase with her right hand and pulls out an emerald-green silk dress. Thin as a whisper. Barely-there straps.
She slips it on.
It glides over her still-damp body, clinging to every curve, leaving her arms free and her back completely bare. No underwear. Obviously.
I have fewer options. My T-shirts won’t make it past the handcuffs.
“Sweatpants,” I decide, pulling on my favorite gray pair.
I stay shirtless.
Sloane looks at me. Her eyes trace my chest, my abs, the line of hair disappearing beneath the waistband hanging low on my hips.
She bites her lip.
“These are going to be a very long twenty-four hours,” she murmurs.
“Am I distracting you, Angel?”
“You’re making me want to undress you again.”
Hour 8: Sweet Sins.
We sit on the faux-fur rug in front of the fireplace and eat the pizza the production team left outside our door.
We eat with our hands, feeding each other. Taking our time. Letting the moment stretch.
There’s something primitive about watching her bite into the slice from my fingers, about licking a smear of tomato sauce from the corner of her mouth with my tongue—stealing kisses between bites.
We finish the pizza in a silence heavy with unspoken things.
Then Sloane opens the last box.
“Oh, they’re bastards,” she laughs, but it comes out low and husky.
Inside is a bowl of oversized, blood-red strawberries and a can of whipped cream.
She looks at me—pure challenge in her eyes.
She grabs the whipped cream.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn her, but my voice has already dropped an octave, a growl thick with anticipation.
She smiles. That dangerous smile that wrecks me every time.
“Too late.”
She presses the nozzle.
A thick, cold stripe of white cream lands on my left pectoral, over my heart, slowly dripping down toward my abs.
The cold makes me hiss; my muscles tense instantly.
“Oops,” she murmurs, feigning innocence. “I should clean that up.”
She leans over me.
Her warm, rough tongue touches the icy cream on my skin.
The contrast is violent. Electric.
Sloane licks slowly upward, alternating wet kisses with light suction. I feel her hair tickle my chin, her breasts pressed against my cuffed arm.
When she reaches my nipple, she takes it into her mouth, sucking hard—and I have to dig my fingers into the rug to keep from flipping her over immediately.
But I don’t last long.
“My turn,” I say, my voice wrecked.
With one smooth motion, using the chain that binds us, I push her onto her back on the fur rug.
The emerald silk dress slides up, bunching at her hips, leaving her pale, smooth thighs exposed.
I look down at her.
Blonde hair fanned out against the white rug.
Swollen lips.
Her chest rising and falling fast.
It’s a beautiful sight, but I want her completely naked.
Luckily, this dress comes off very easily.
I shake the can.
“Open your legs, Angel.”
She obeys—slowly—locking her gaze on mine.
I don’t go there right away.
I draw a line of whipped cream starting at the hollow of her throat, down the valley between her breasts, all the way to her navel.
Sloane shivers violently, arching her back.
“It’s cold…” she moans.
“Wait until I warm it up.”
I lower myself over her.
I don’t use my hands.
Just my mouth.
I start at her neck, licking away the white sweetness with long, slow, deliberate strokes of my tongue. I savor the mix of sugar and salt on her skin.
Lower.
My tongue circles her breast, gathering the cream, teasing the areola already hardened from the cold.
“Cohen…” Her free hand fists in my hair, pulling my head closer.
I take her nipple into my mouth and suck hard, then nip it gently between my teeth.
The taste is unreal—sweet, warm, hers.
She arches again, offering herself, moaning my name.
I keep going, cleaning every last trace of white down to her navel. There, I stop, pressing my tongue into the hollow, making her writhe beneath me.
I straighten up, picking up a strawberry from the bowl. It’s large. Ripe.
I dip it into the cream clinging to the nozzle.
“Open up,” I order.
Sloane opens her mouth. I push the strawberry past her lips, slowly, my fingers following it in. She sucks the fruit and my fingers together, her eyes locked on mine with a lust that makes my blood pound.
I feel her tongue wrap around my index finger and thumb, drawing out the juice.
It’s the most erotic image I’ve ever seen.
“Do you want dessert, Becker?” she whispers, her mouth still smeared with cream.
“I want you. All of you.”
I squirt a final dollop of cream—on the inside of her thigh, right near the center of her heat.
Sloane’s eyes widen, her breath catching.
I settle between her legs. The chain of her handcuffs forces us close, my bound arm pressed against her side.
I lick the cream from her thigh, moving upward, the scent of her arousal overpowering the sweetness of strawberries.
When my tongue finds her clit, she screams.
It’s a guttural, unrestrained sound.
I lick her devoutly, alternating slow movements with quick, precise strokes, while my free hand slips inside her.
She’s tight. Hot. Sticky with desire.
“Fuck… yes… there…”
Her thighs crush my ears. The handcuffs clank frantically as she searches for purchase, her nails digging into the carpet.
“You’re sweet,” I murmur against her, before sucking again—harder. “You’re delicious.”
I feel her reaching the edge. Her body tenses like a drawn bow.
I pull away, moving up her slick, overheated body. My mouth is smeared with her and cream.
I kiss her, sharing her own taste with her, as I position myself at her entrance.
“Watch me take you,” I growl.
I enter her in one hard thrust as she opens for me, sliding into the moist heat that feels made just for me.
We make love there on the carpet, in a dirty, sweet rhythm, sugar still on our lips, the handcuffs a constant reminder that there’s no escape.
And I don’t want one.
Hour 16 – Nighttime Friction
I wake up in the middle of the night.
We’re spooning.
My left arm has slipped under Sloane’s neck, serving as a pillow, anchoring her to me. My right arm is draped over her hip, our shackled hands resting entwined on the mattress in front of her chest.
We’re an inextricable knot.
But what’s driving me crazy is the contact lower down.
Sloane is pressed into me. Her round, warm ass is glued to my groin.
And I’m hard.
Painfully, violently hard.