Page 86 of Going Deep
“Perfect,” he told her, and picking up another coil of rope, this one a gleaming gold, bound her forearms together. “Try to get out of that.”
“Why?” she asked, turning her head to look over her shoulder. “I like it.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, lips twitching. “I just want to see if you can.”
“Oh.” She wiggled for a moment, twisting and bending and an effort to get free, then stopped and shook her head. “Nope. Can’t get out.”
“Good.” He slid the rope that was left on the table up to the far end, then winced and reached down to adjust himself. Watching her contort herself had been…stimulating. “Can you—what are you humming?”
“Soda Pop, from KPop Demon Hunters,” she said and kept humming. “Isn’t it a bop?”
“Sure,” he agreed, smiling. “Can you climb up onto the table by yourself, or do you need help?”
She eyed the table, hip height, and stopped humming to frown. “I probably need help.”
“All right, then.” He reached for her waist, grabbing hold and hoisting her up. She let out another giggle, like helium escaping from a balloon, and hummed.
“I feel all floaty,” she sighed and smiled into his eyes.
“I can see that,” he said, and he wasn’t surprised. She’d floated when she was in the straps, he should’ve known rope bondage would send her down the same subspacy trail.
“And safe.” She leaned forward, her head bumping into his. “I feel safe with you.”
“I’m glad.” He closed his eyes for a moment, just breathing her in, then opened them. “Okay, silly girl. On your back.”
“Okay,” she said agreeably and tipped backwards.
“Whoa, not so fast.” He caught her by the shoulders and eased her down, snagging the foam wedge he’d stashed under the table to tuck under her head. “Is there too much pressure on your arms?”
She wiggled, testing. “Uh-uh. It’s good.”
“Okay.” Keeping one hand on her abdomen—she was way too wiggly—he reached for one of the thicker coils of rope above her head. “Feet up on the table, legs together.”
Her lower lip jutted out in a pout. “Aw.”
He snorted out a laugh. Definitely rope drunk. “Don’t worry. I’ll still be able to get to your pussy.”
“Yum,” she said and, propping her feet on the end of the table, clamped her thighs together.
He shook his head and went to work on her legs, winding the rope around them about six inches above her knees. He could see the moisture slicking the skin of her inner thighs, and the pretty pink flesh between—hell, he could smell her, ripe and ready for the fucking he wanted to give her.
Already aroused and half in subspace, just from the ropes. The spanking he’d planned as a warmup would put her into orbit, the flogging would have her dancing on the moon, he thought with amusement. At which point he could probably stand her on her head and she’d happily let him.
Or ask her why the hell she’d turned down the job at the Center.
His hands stuttered on the rope, fumbling it out of pure shock at the turn his thoughts had taken. He shook his head, taking a firmer grip. He wouldn’t, of course. He would never take advantage of her when she was that deep, that vulnerable. To do so would violate every principle, every value he held as a Dominant, as a practitioner of BDSM. Hell, it violated his values as a human fucking being who believed in autonomy and choice and free will.
So why had he considered it, even for a moment?
He fumbled the rope again, dropping it this time, and it seemed to him that he watched from far away as it fell, uncoiling like a snake, to the floor.
Ginger lay on the table, her brain happily fuzzy, her body humming with arousal. It wasn’t urgent, not yet, and she was enjoying the buzz, happy to lie there and anticipate while Michael tied her up.
She wondered what he’d do after he had her trussed up like a Christmas goose. Did they still truss gooses? Geese? She thought they did. Anyway. Maybe he’d spank her. She liked getting spanked. But they’d talked about flogging, too, and she’d been wanting to try that, so maybe he’d pull one of those out of his big bag of naughty tricks.
She took a deep breath in, filling her lungs as much as she could, feeling the press of the rope around her chest. It was kind of like being hugged, if the hug was focused and aggressive, and she liked it. She breathed in deep again, savoring the constriction around her chest—not bad, she could totally breathe, and she really liked the way it sort of tightened the skin around her breasts so it felt like they were being aggressively hugged, too. Delighted with the analogy, she looked down at her legs where Michael was winding more rope to see when she could try to pull her thighs apart to see what an aggressive hug felt like there.
But instead of wrapping snug, even lines of rope around her legs to match the ones around her chest, Michael was unwrapping them.
