The Super Fixed My Sink, Then Everything I Hadn't Said Was Broken novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: The Straps

I gave him the ties at the bedroom door, before he'd even taken his jacket off.

There were two of them, navy and burgundy silk, folded flat in a shoebox on the top shelf of my closet where they had been for two years.

They had been my ex-husband's.

He had left them behind with the rest of the things he didn't want to carry.

Rafa took them from me and ran the navy one through his fingers, slowly.

"These are his."

"They were," I said.

"Do you want me to use them?"

"I want you to use them on me." My voice was steadier than my knees. "I'd like them to be good for something."

He looked at me for a long moment, and then he smiled, with the chipped tooth, and it was not a gentle smile.

"Take off your clothes," he said.

I undressed in front of him.

It was easier than on Thursday.

I took off my sweater and my jeans and my bra, and I stood in my underwear and then I took those off too.

I did not cover myself, and I watched his face while he looked.

"Lie back on the bed. Head toward the iron."

I lay back with my head on the pillow and my arms stretched up over it.

The headboard is old black iron, with rails that curve in a row of posts, a thing I'd bought secondhand and never thought about twice.

He took my left wrist.

He drew the navy silk around it twice and laid the ends over the rail, and then he knotted it.

I felt the pull of the knot along the bone.

"Tell me if it's too tight."

"It isn't," I said.

"Move your fingers."

I wiggled them.

"Good."

He took my right wrist and did the same with the burgundy.

When he tied it off I felt something in my chest give way that I hadn't known was holding.

I pulled my arms, once, to see.

They didn't move.

My hands were bound above my head to an iron frame with my ex-husband's neckties.

I was naked on my own bed, and I had never in my life felt so safe and so exposed.

"Rafa."

"Mm," he said.

"I'm not scared."

"I know." He stood at the end of the bed and unbuttoned his shirt without hurrying. "I'd stop if you were."

He took the shirt off.

He took off his boots, and his jeans.

He stood there at the foot of the bed in the lamplight with his cock already hard and heavy against his thigh.

He did not touch me.

He only looked.

He looked at my face, and my throat, and the places where my arms pulled my breasts up and apart, and the soft rise of my stomach, and my thighs pressed tight together.

"Open your legs."

I opened them.

"More."

I opened them more.

"That's it." His voice had dropped. "That's what I've been thinking about all day. You, like this, waiting."

"You've been looking at me for two minutes," I said, "and you haven't done anything."

"I know."

"It's making me crazy," I said.

"That's the idea."

I felt myself go wet under his eyes.

He saw it, and he made a sound low in his chest.

He climbed onto the bed on his knees between my feet and started at my ankles.

He kissed the bone of the left one, and my calf, and the soft place behind my knee.

I had to bite my lip to keep from making noise.

He worked his way up my thigh with his mouth and the beard, with a slow wet drag of lips, and stopped an inch from where I wanted him.

I tried to push my hips up.

"No," he said, and put a hand on my belly and pressed me down. "Not yet."

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