She was perfection. Every bruise, scar, and bandage paid tribute to her strength and determination. I wanted to become intimately acquainted with each dimple, kiss every freckle, run my tongue across every mole. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” I said, spinning her back around.
Her expression softened. “You’re not bad yourself. I mean, if you’re into those perfect stripper body, probably-works-out-everyday, sexy-as-hell types. Which I am.”
I chuckled and pulled her into my arms again. “Good. Is this okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”
She swallowed. “I don’t want that either.” The desire in her eyes made her desire clear, but the way she chewed on her lip and the slight tremble in her arms told me she was scared.
“What can I do?” I asked. “What do you need from me?”
She looked over our scattered clothes and scooped up my shirt. Turning me around, she used it to tie my hands behind my back.
I flexed, noting how loosely her bonds held me. “I can break out of this,” I said honestly.
She turned me around to face her again, her green eyes pleading. “I know. Don’t.”