It's dark when the cuffs snick-click-closed around my wrists.
Quiet, too, because I'm kissed to silence a moment later, breath stolen, robbed of the protest that my sleepy mouth forms.
I'd said he could do this anytime; surprise me, sure, but half of me is wishing it wasn't now, tonight. Been a long day and I'm bone-deep tired. But I've made indulging him a habit since we met and my legs are spreading for him already.
It's dark and he can't see me wearing his shiny new cuffs.
But he spends long minutes touching them where they press and glance against my wrists; first fingers, then tongue, until the metal's clouded and warm and I can feel the blood beat hot and strong in a dozen places he doesn't touch even though I'm rousing from drowsiness and ready for him.
He won't leave the cuffs alone. He's biting them, gagging himself on the steel, teeth scraping at my wet skin, moving from wrist to wrist, his hair soft on my stomach where my linked, bound hands rest, palms curved, holding the darkness captive and safe. I can hear the sounds he's making and the ones that don't get voiced, caught in his throat, interrupted because he's talking so fast inside his head that even he can't keep up.
I'm not getting words from him. Not tonight. Not even my name, which is something I'm used to hearing from him all the way through when we're having sex, a single syllable he can drag out or snap at me, moan or shout out.
Or just murmur over and over, punctuated with 'my' and 'mine' and 'love you' until my throat aches with the need to reply but I never say a word when he does this, not before, during, or after.
It's the only way I can let it happen.
I'm not there. It's not me.
I'm not begging to be fucked with every hoarse, sharp breath I take, every piteous lift of my hips, imploring, adoring.
I'll tell him he's loved when I take him, easing into his body quietly, carefully, or when he's hurt -- or when we're walking down a busy street, just to see his mouth curve happily as he glances at the people passing, people who aren't lucky like him, like us.
I'll kiss him for as long as he likes, lie snuggled beside him on the couch, rub his shoulders, his feet, his hands when he's been typing too long.
He wants that kind of attention, often, and so he gets it, all of it.
But this, this is for me. I've made him enjoy this; taught him to want it, pushed his limits past the point where mine broke and shredded. He's never drawn back from anything I've asked for, and now I don't need to ask, only beg.
And he's started asking me for things I can't give him, stuff I won't do, and I wonder if he means it, because some of it's out there, serious shit, and it scares me because if he ever asks me a second time, convinces me he wants it from me, I'll give it to him, I know I will.
He hasn't yet. I have to trust him and I do; that's easy.
Maybe tonight I'll tell him I love him before it's too late to count, while I'm still bound.
He shifts higher, hanging over me in the darkness, fitting his cock to the waiting curve of my cuffed hands, fucking the shape they make, my fingers clinging, squeezing as best they can. He comes quickly, faster than I'd expected, with a sound that echoes in my head, desperately chasing, embracing the split-second of stunning, numbing pleasure.
His come coats my palms, and I can tell that it's on the metal, too, because the smell of it changes, subtly, in a way he'll never know. He's never going to use these cuffs outside this room. I won't let him. I'll think of a convincing story for him to tell when he requisitions another pair but these stay here.
He pushes my hands down, urging me to finish myself with hands wet with his come and it's too much, just the first touch is too much, and he can't see me, not well, but he knows from the moan I give that it's going to be fast, soon, now, and he bends his head so that the first spurt of come tangles messily in his hair and the second stripes his cheek.
And the final one, tearing a grunt from me, goes where I want it, slicking his mouth until he's ready to lick his lips clean.
"Guess that's broken them in," he murmurs a while later, sprawled on me, by me, over me.
And I try, I really do, but I can't say it.
He slips a finger between my wrist and the cuff, see-sawing it slowly, making me wonder if he wants more or if it's just the afterglow talking.
"I love doing it," he says, abstracted but sincere. "Love you."
There's a beat of silence and then he unlocks the cuffs.
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