My Wet Playground

The responsibility of love:

To keep another’s heart safe.

Her wrists are bound behind her back, and that alone makes something primal tighten inside him. She isn’t struggling; she’s waiting. He can feel her pulse in every small movement, in every breath that shudders through her chest.

“Mine,” he breathes against her neck — not loud, not a declaration for the room, but a promise meant only for her skin to hear. His mouth hovers just close enough that she feels it more than hears it.

He loves the way she leans back into him, the quiet surrender that tells him she trusts him enough to give up control. His grip tightens, possessive, anchoring her exactly where he wants her. Every little sound she makes only feeds the calm fire running through him.