29. Chapter 29
LONDYN
HE'S NOT COMING.
What was I even thinking? He knows about my past. He knows I'm a complicated disaster. And he doesn't want to get involved beyond just doing his job.
I can't say I'm not sad, but I understand his decision. I wouldn't want to get involved with me, either.
As I sit on the couch with my heart pounding so much I'm on the verge of a panic attack, I glance at the time on my phone: 7:58 PM. Well, I did tell him eight, and there are two minutes left. Technically, Sean could still walk through that door. This morning, Mike did fly home for the weekend.
But between Mike flying home and now, Sean could've had all sorts of thoughts and decided he'd rather be the supporting cast instead of my leading man.
I grip the edge of the couch cushions, my left leg bouncing with enough force to rattle my entire body. One more minute. If he doesn't come, I'll feel like such a fool, and tt'll be so hard to look at him tomorrow, wondering what he might think of me and my unusual 'request.'
No, I can't think that way. I'm not a fool for trying to step outside my cage and for speaking up about something that honors my boundaries, even if it is unusual. And Sean has a right to choose if he wants this. If he doesn't, that's okay. I can deal with the rejection.
Maybe.
My gaze drifts to the chair I've positioned near the couch. There's a black duffel bag on it that contains everything I purchased online. It's physical proof of the hope I let myself feel.
Stupid hope.
I hunch forward and rest my elbows on my knees, the pain of rejection already squeezing every part of me like I'm bracing for my plane to crash. Next time I see him, I’ll keep wondering if he didn’t come because he sees me as a victim, some broken and sad creature.
The clock ticks over to 8:00 PM and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to manifest the sound of someone knocking at the door.
It doesn't come.
My spiraling thoughts drag me into a vortex I know too well, so I push myself up from the couch. My legs are unsteady as I walk to my desk and grab a notepad and pen.
Numbers always make sense. They follow rules. They don't surprise you or leave you or see you as damaged goods.
I settle back on the couch and begin writing out equations. They're simple at first, then they become complex percentages. Soon, my brain gets focused only on what I'm scribbling and stops focusing on how I feel like I'm sinking.
Five minutes crawl by, each second stretching into infinity. I check the clock again. 8:06 PM.
Well. That's it. Reality has settled in and this scenario has come to its inevitable end. He's actually not coming. And while some rational part of me understands, the rest of me crumples inward like a collapsing star.
I was a fool. A complete and utter fool. When will I learn that people like me don't get to have normal relationships? That some damage can't be repaired, only managed? I'm forced to manage it because I have no choice; no man will willingly manage it with me.
I try to focus on the numbers on my notepad, but they blur from the tears. I blink rapidly, refusing to let them fall. I won't cry over this. Shouldn't.
But my body doesn't care. A tear escapes, landing on the notepad and soaking up some ink. Another falls. And another. Soon, I'm viewing my scribbles through a waterfall.
I keep writing anyway, refusing to surrender completely to disappointment. I'm trying to finish some division when I hear three soft knocks.
My head snaps up. Did I imagine that?
Three more knocks, slightly firmer this time.
I gasp and my heart does a few flips.
Sean. Sean is here?
So many emotions flood me at once: relief and terror and joy and panic, all tangling into a knot. I jump to my feet and scurry to the door. I can do this. I'm in control. This is on my terms and I've planned it all out. I'm going to push beyond my fears once and for all, but only at my pace.
God, please don't let me be totally insane.
I swipe at my cheeks to erase any evidence of tears. My fingers comb through my hair to tame whatever mess my nervous fidgeting created. Finally, I turn the knob.
Sean stands in the hallway like a sculpture of understated strength.
Today, his dark-wash jeans are hugging his muscular legs in a way that makes my throat go dry.
And he's wearing something other than a t-shirt: a mint-green button-down that works with his blue hair.
He's wearing his usual bold combat boots, yet somehow he manages to look completely at ease, like he's exactly where he's meant to be.
Where he wants to be?
But it's his face that steals my complete attention. His blue hair falls in soft bangs over one half of his face, leaving a single warm brown eye to peek out at me. That eye—so perceptive and deep and caring—sees all of me in a heartbeat.
Of course, he notices. I watch his gentle smile fade into concern as he studies my face, seeing the signs of my recent crying.
"Is everything okay?" he asks. "We don't have to—"
"No!" I blurt out because I don't want him to leave. "I mean, yes. Everything is good. Please come in. I'm okay."
As he moves past me, I catch a whiff of his smokey cologne, and it sends butterflies swarming through my stomach, their wings beating against my insides in a way that almost tickles.
Sean doesn't rush, doesn't crowd me, just glides into my space like he's testing the waters with each step.
His presence fills the room without overwhelming it.
Then his gaze lands on the new folding chair and the duffle bag.
His eyebrow arches with a question and a small smirk lifts those kissable lips.
It feels like someone lit my veins on fire. "That's, um, well…" I clear my throat but the explanation is stuck and refusing to come out.
Instead of waiting, Sean crosses to the chair with unhurried steps. He lifts the duffle bag and sets it carefully on the floor. Then he lowers himself into the seat, his hands resting casually on his thighs. His posture is relaxed and legs open.
"Is this where you want me?" he asks.
I swallow, my heart racing. How is he making this awkward situation feel so normal?
I move closer, drawn to him in a way I can no longer resist. "Yes. I thought I could…" With shaking hands, I reach into the duffle bag and pull out a few of the things I ordered—soft nylon ropes and padded handcuffs.
Sean's smirk deepens, the browns of his eyes become more saturated. "Tie me up?"
The way his voice drops makes my thighs clench, and the desire sparking inside me gives my voice strength. "Yes. It'll help me feel safe. Not that I don't trust you. I just don't trust my own reactions and—"
"I get it." His voice is so gentle it nearly breaks me. "Like I said, whatever you need, I'm game." He extends his hand toward me, remaining seated in the chair.
The gesture is so sweet, so non-threatening, and it says so much. I step closer to take his solid hand in mine. His skin is warm, his palm slightly calloused. The touch grounds me.
Standing above him like this, with Sean looking up at me from the chair, creates a shift in the power dynamic. For once, I'm the one in the higher position. The one in control. The director of this scene.
I know he's doing this deliberately, the way he always does. He's making himself smaller and less imposing to give me the advantage. The way he always secretly cares for me fills me with a tenderness so intense it's almost painful.
I hold his hand tighter. "Thank you. Is it okay if we… I mean, I also need some safety words."
"Absolutely. Like what?"
"I read about a color system. Green means I'm okay and we can keep going. Yellow is I'm a little uncomfortable or starting to feel triggered. Red is stop immediately."
His smile is the kind that says he's more than willing for whatever I have in mind. "Give me a color, beautiful."
Beautiful.
My heart flutters again and my jitters disappear. I'm more grounded in these sexy feelings as I run a finger along my lower lip. "Green."
"Then tell me what you want to do."
I set the rope down for now, keeping the handcuffs. "First, we should get you secured. Can you, um…" I motion at his torso.
"Take off my shirt?"
My pussy muscles pulse from the lava in his voice. "Yes. If that's okay."
Sean undoes the buttons, which also undoes me, and shrugs it off in one smooth movement, revealing trained, large muscles that the low light sculpts into sharp definition. "Anything," he says.
I'm not sure how much more heat I can stand because my body is already a furnace.
"Is the security feed off? It's not recording, right?"
Sean pulls out his phone and does a few quick taps. "Done. I turned off the feed for the living room. The rest are on, though. No sound. Don't want to turn too many off."
I nod, knowing we'll stay in the living room and that most of the cameras are pointed at windows. "Ready?" I ask, barely believing I'm this brave while he's sitting there half-naked, waiting for me to take charge.
He nods, watching me so intensely it feels like he’s the one tying me up, even though I have the handcuffs.
My fingers tremble as I start with his wrists, securing Sean's hands behind the chair by looping the handcuffs around one of its metal bars. The position stretches his chest muscles, making every sinew stand out sharply beneath his tan skin.
Next, I grab the rope and let my fingers slide over the texture. The fibers feel softer than I'd imagined but strong enough to hold someone like Sean in place—hold him just for me and only because he wants it.
I bend and quickly secure Sean's ankles to the leg posts, trying to remember the knots I learned from a video I watched earlier.
When I finish, I step back. Sean tests the restraints but doesn't pull against them too hard; he's giving me control over everything, even how much he seems restrained. "I'm very secure." His deep voice sends another wave of desire between my thighs.
We've barely started and I'm already unbearably wet.
"What now?" he asks.