A Hundred Uses for a Pair of Handcuffs #2
My cock presses against the curve of her ass, throbbing with every heartbeat, separated from her skin only by the thin fabric of my boxers—and the nothingness she’s wearing. The silk dress she put back on has ridden up above her waist in her sleep.
Sloane moves.
A slow, sinuous shift.
She pushes back, seeking warmth. Seeking contact.
She rubs against the erection straining my boxers.
A low, involuntary growl slips out of me as I bite into her pillow.
“Mmm…”
I hear her wake. Her breathing changes.
She doesn’t pull away.
On the contrary.
She presses back harder, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate circle that makes my vision blur for a second.
“Awake?” I whisper into her ear, my voice thick and hoarse.
“There’s something very hard pushing against my back, Becker,” she murmurs, still half-dreamy, but threaded with mischief.
“Is that a formal complaint?”
She laughs softly, the vibration rippling through my chest.
“No. It’s an observation.”
She moves again.
I feel the heat. The wetness between her legs.
“Do you feel it?” I ask, tightening my grip on her bound hand, pulling it closer to me. “Do you feel what you do to me even while you’re sleeping?”
“I feel you want me,” she replies.
That’s it.
I can’t resist any longer.
With my free hand—the one tucked beneath her head—I slide down her body, caressing her slowly, until I reach the place where our legs meet.
I tug down the waistband of my boxers impatiently, freeing myself.
Now it’s skin on skin.
My cock, hot and hard, finds the cleft between her ass, sliding against her wet opening.
Sloane gasps, arching her back.
“Cohen…”
“Shhh. Don’t turn around. Stay like this.”
I grip her upper thigh and lift it, opening her for me.
I push.
I enter her from behind, slowly, inch by inch.
The sensation is devastating.
She’s tight. Warm. Welcoming.
The way her muscles clamp around me, pulling me deeper, feels like pleasure pushed right to the edge of pain.
The cuffs jingle softly as my fingers lace with hers in front of her.
“You’re so hot…” I moan against her neck, starting to move.
It’s a slow, lazy, deep rhythm.
There’s only the need to be as close as possible.
My chest drags along her bare back.
My scruff scratches her shoulder.
Sloane buries her face in the pillow to muffle her moans, but I feel her tremble every time I hit the right spot.
“Do you like it like this?” I murmur, nibbling her ear.
“Yes… yes… don’t stop…”
“I couldn’t stop if the house burned down.”
I slide my free hand between her legs, finding her clit as I keep thrusting into her.
The double stimulation wrecks her.
She comes almost immediately, her body tightening in long, delicious spasms that milk me, drag me with her, push me over the edge.
“Come for me, Angel. Take it all.”
I let go inside her, emptying myself in deep, desperate thrusts, my bound hand squeezing her fingers, anchoring me to her as the world narrows to this bed, this heat, this woman.
When it’s over, neither of us moves.
I stay inside her until I soften, unable to break the contact.
Sloane melts back against me, exhausted, satisfied.
She lifts my bound hand and kisses my knuckles.
“Goodnight, Becker,” she whispers.
“Goodnight, Angel.”
I close my eyes, bury my nose in her hair, and drift off with her, still wrapped together.
Hour 24: Freedom
DRIIIIN!
Sloane’s phone alarm goes off, tearing through the afternoon quiet.
It’s 5:00 p.m.
We’ve spent the last few hours sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, watching snow fall outside the window—our hands intertwined, never once letting go.
It’s been a strange, suspended-in-time kind of day.
Leftover pizza. Slow kisses. Sex marathons.
A shared laziness I didn’t even know I was capable of.
But now it’s over.
“It’s time,” Sloane murmurs, stretching. The emerald silk dress is artistically wrinkled, riding up her thighs.
I rub a hand over my face. I still haven’t put a shirt back on. I couldn’t, with the handcuffs.
So I’m shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on my hips, barefoot—looking like a man who hasn’t left a bedroom in a century.
“Let’s go,” I say, helping her up. “Before Aunt Tina sends the sled dogs after us.”
We step out of the chalet. The sky is starting to darken, painting the snow in shades of purple and orange.
We head toward the Main Hall.
When we walk in, the scene in front of us is… devastating.
Twenty-four hours of forced togetherness have completely destroyed almost everyone’s dignity.
Joe and Sarah sit on opposite ends of a bench. Sarah’s mascara has run all the way down to her chin, and she’s staring into the void. Joe’s beard is a mess; he looks like he’s aged ten years. They’re not speaking.
Brenda and Steve stand stiff as boards. They look like they’ve swallowed insults—and possibly bodily functions—for an entire day just to preserve appearances.
Silas and Daisy have collapsed onto a lobby sofa. Daisy is asleep with her head in Silas’s lap; his eyes are closed, his expression one of resigned peace as he strokes her hair.
And then there’s us.
Me—half-naked, muscles loose, skin clearly marked by the night (and the morning).
Sloane—rumpled, hair messy, that slip of a dress clinging to her, looking like a very satisfied cat.
The room goes silent.
Aunt Tina, waiting in the center with a golden key in her hand, stares.
Her gaze drops to my bare chest, then slides over my back as I turn to close the door.
I see the cameras zoom in.
I hear the frantic click-click-click of photographers.
I can’t see my back, but I feel the sting of Sloane’s nails. I know I’m sporting a full topographic map of red scratches from my shoulders to my lower back.
Tina smiles. A wide, wicked smile.
“Well, well, well!” she booms into the megaphone. “I see someone took the concept of ‘Bonds’ very… seriously!”
The other couples stare.
Joe is green with envy.
Silas cracks one eye open, sees my back, and gives me a nod that’s half respect, half well done, soldier.
Tina steps closer.
“Sloane, sweetheart, you look… radiant.” She tilts her head. “And a little rumpled.”
“It was a long day, Tina,” Sloane replies without a shred of shame, tightening her grip on my arm.
“I can imagine,” Tina chuckles.
She inserts the key.
CLICK.
The mechanism releases. The cuffs fall open.
Sloane rubs her wrist where the skin is red.
I expect her to step away.
To reclaim her space.
Instead, she stays.
She looks at her now-free wrist. Then she looks at me.
The physical distance between us—those ten inches of air—suddenly feels like a cold abyss.
I reach out and take her fingers, lacing them with mine. Skin on skin.
“Don’t even think about running,” I whisper.
“Never,” she says—and my heart does a little victory lap.
Tina throws her arms wide.
“All right! Let’s tally the results! Tiffany and Brent withdrew at three in the morning (amateurs!), so—fifty Heart Points deducted for them!”
A murmur of approval.
“And for all you heroes who survived twenty-four hours without killing each other… plus fifty Heart Points!”
Tired applause.
Then Tina turns to me, pointing at my bare torso for the camera.
“And finally… I’m awarding +20 Extra Hot Points to the Captains.”
“For what?” Joe snaps.
“For public service!” Tina shouts. “For gifting us the sight of Becker without a shirt—and for those scratch marks on his back, undeniable proof that passion here in Elm Hollow is alive and well!”
Sloane blushes hard, hiding her face against my bare shoulder.
“Put a shirt on, Becker,” she whispers, laughing. “Everyone’s drooling.”
I pull her close, possessive, unconcerned with cameras or stares.
“Let them look,” I reply, kissing her messy hair.
WhatsApp Group: LAKEWOOD LOCKER ROOM ???? (Minus One)
Turbo (Tayler): ?? CLACK. Free at last!
Turbo (Tayler): Although, judging by your HD close-up on the jumbotron, you would’ve preferred to throw away the key.
Blaze (Liam): Can confirm. I’ve never seen a man so devastated to be unchained from a woman. You looked like a kicked puppy whose bone got taken away.
The Wall (Derek): Coach update: coach’s Heart stopped chewing. He held a slice of pizza in his cheek for a full two minutes like an enraged hamster.
Doc (Harrison): Let’s talk physiology. The blood that returned to your wrist… or did it all rush somewhere else? Because that walk to the exit was suspicious, Becker. Very stiff.
Saint (Javier): Leave him alone. He kept it together. More or less.
Turbo (Tayler): “More or less”? Javi, his hands were shaking! I swear he was two seconds away from begging her to take him home as a wrist accessory.
Blaze (Liam): Technical question, though: did you pocket them? Those handcuffs were screaming “after-dinner souvenir.”
Me: You’re disgusting. And my wrists are sore, thanks a lot.
Turbo (Tayler): Aah, so you like it rough. Knew it. ??
Turbo (Tayler): ?????? Becker, Fifty Shades of Lakewood. You’re my hero.
Me: I hate all of you.
Blaze (Liam): You love us. And you love handcuffs. Good night, Houdini. ??