#serpentcentral

There’s a nervous look in his eyes that you really don’t like, but right now you’re more concerned with getting uncuffed and outside. Maybe your roommate was right. You really should have swiped left. Dilton is turning out to be a real freak in the bedroom, but not in a sexy way.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Would you please uncuff me so we can go?” You would do it yourself but, well, you’re a little tied up at the moment.

Dilton nods slowly, finally calming down and not running in circles like a headless chicken. He takes a deep breath. He reaches into his pocket where he slipped the key earlier. A moment later, Dilton goes horrifyingly still. “I don’t—” He cuts himself off, his brows furrowing in confusion. You shift on the bed, trying to get into a more comfortable position. Dilton pats himself down. “Oh, shit,” he hisses, growing frantic.

It hits you a moment later exactly what’s happening: he lost the goddamn key.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Groaning, you flop back against the sheets. Your hands are still awkwardly bent over your head and your shoulder is starting to go stiff. For the second time tonight, you realize what a horrible decision this was. Frankly, you didn’t even want to bust out the handcuffs in the first place, but damn did it seem like a sexy thing to do in the heat of the moment. But now here you are: stuck to your bed, the fire alarms blaring, with your date looking like he’s about to piss himself or start to cry.

You’re never using Tinder again.

Maybe it’s not all bad. It’s just a little fire. Dilton can probably just go find someone to cut you loose and you’ll all have a laugh over this later. No one will ever let you forget the time your dumbass got handcuffed to the bed and lost the key and a sexy firefighter will have a funny story to tell later tonight. It could be worse.

And that’s the exact moment that Dilton decides to bolt for the door without a word.

For a second, you can only stare in stunned silence at the place he was previously standing. Footsteps pound down the hallway and tell-tale creak of your apartment door lets you know that Dilton has, in fact, abandoned you in the apartment.

“Dilton? What the fuck!” you shout a second too late, more annoyed than anything else. “Son of a bitch,” you snarl, yanking violently at the cuffs around your wrists. The cuff doesn’t budge. Metal digs into your wrist painfully and already you can see the outline of a bruise forming on your skin from the continuous tugging.

You bite back a frustrated scream and drop back against the bed, resigning yourself to lay there and be stuck until your roommate comes home later tonight. The last thing you want is for them to find you half-naked and handcuffed to a bed, but oh well. You’ll probably have to call a locksmith too. Dammit.

A knock at the door startles you from your thoughts.

Frowning, your eyes narrow as you glance back at your bedroom door, twisting awkwardly to see from your position. You arch off the bed slightly, suddenly painfully aware that you are indeed mostly naked when you realize there’s someone coming down the hallway.

The door is pushed open slowly as a man steps into the room. Concerned, brown eyes immediately lock with yours and your jaw drops.

Well, damn. For a firefighter, he’s quite the smoke-show, and if you weren’t mostly naked already, you think you’d strip down immediately just from looking at him. His jacket is wrapped around his waist, leaving him in a black t-shirt that’s a little too tight around his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. He’s tall and fit, six-feet at least, with messy black hair and a look in his eyes that makes you think he must be a troublemaker. Your eyes move back to his bare forearms and biceps that look like they could break you in half and you inhale sharply.

There’s a tattoo creeping up the side of his neck and your first thought is that you want to lick it.

In short, he’s pretty damn delicious and you’re half-naked, handcuffed to a bed, and a little horny.

The firefighter blinks down at you, his brows furrowing. The bewildered look on his face at finding you tied up and in your underwear makes a tiny bit of satisfaction creep through you, despite the awkwardness. You’d be willing to bet he doesn’t see something like this every day.

There’s an awkward minute where the two of you just stare at each other. His gaze stays determinedly on your face, but you’re ogling his biceps with shameless wonder. How could you have ever swiped right on Dilton when this spicy snack exists in the world?

The hot firefighter clears his throat and heat prickles along your skin as he steps further into your room, crossing the short distance towards where you’re tied up on the bed. He crouches beside the bed, eyes locking on yours. “I’m Sweet Pea,” he tells you. “I work with the local fire department.

You tell him your name and there’s a twitch to his lips like he’s trying not to be amused at the situation, ever the professional. “I know,” he chuckles and the sound sends a little thrill shooting down your spine. “Your landlord sent me in to find you, said you weren’t outside, but you were still home.”

Embarrassment curls through you as his gaze flicks up to the handcuffs securing you to the bed. You shift under his gaze and the cuffs single around your wrists. “Yeah, I got a little tied up with something,” you joke, a little more at ease with the situation than you probably should be, but you chalk that up to the shots you took before Dilton came over and whipped out the handcuffs.

The metal clinks against the headboard and his gaze flicks between your wrists and your face. His lips twitch again. “I can see that.” Sweet Pea stands from his crouch and leans over you. One of his knees presses against your outer thigh as he reaches for your bound wrists. Warm fingers brush against your forearms and you shiver. His thumb rubs the reddening skin where the metal is digging into your wrists and his lips purse, his eyes narrowing in irritation, and you suddenly find yourself fascinated by the curve of his strong jawline, wondering how it would feel beneath your lips. “This hurt?” he asks, snapping you out of it.

You twist your wrists, nose wrinkling. “A little,” you tell him honestly. You’re a little sore, but they haven’t been on long enough to really hurt yet. If anything, you’re too distracted by his muscular frame hovering over you to really think about your wrists right now.

Sweet Pea glances at you again, searching your face to make sure you aren’t lying. Eventually, he turns back to your wrists, surprisingly gentle as he touches you. “Your boyfriend leave you here?” he asks, like he’s trying to distract you. There’s a hint of anger behind the question.

Humming, you crane your head back to watch him tug at the chain looped around one of your bedposts. “Shitty date,” you correct. The hands on your wrists still and he glances down at you. The intensity of his gaze has your thighs squeezing together, and you clear your throat. “What happened with the fire?” you ask, voice a little higher than normal.

Sweet Pea snorts. “There was no fire,” he says, “just a lot of smoke. But we still needed to clear the building.”

“Lucky me,” you murmur, causing his lips to curve up at the edges.

“You have the key?” he asks, giving up on lightly pulling at the chain.

How the hell Dilton came across handcuffs this sturdy, you really don’t want to know. “He said he lost it,” you say, snorting slightly. You’re not sure if you believe that or if Dilton’s just a major dumbass, but you’re willing to bet on the latter. With your luck, he left it on the counter in your kitchen or in his back pocket. Regardless, you really can’t complain too much as you get a good look at the chiseled hunk leaning over you.

Sweet Pea swears under his breath. His eyes narrow in annoyance, and a muscle in his jaw flexes when he clenches his jaw. “Okay. It’s gonna be fine.” Those dark eyes lock on the handcuffs securing you to the bedpost again, and you wonder what the hell he’s planning to do about that. His gaze slides back to yours. “I’m gonna have to break the headboard,” he tells you, not sounding the least bit apologetic, but you don’t really give a shit.

Hell, he can break your headboard anytime he wants.

Fascinated, you watch the way his bicep flexes as he pulls at the thin, wood posts on the headboard, checking to see how sturdy they are. The firefighter towers over you, giving you an eyeful of his well defined chest beneath that tight, black shirt. Sweet Pea shifts his grip on the bedpost and then yanks. It snaps easily beneath his grip and damn if you weren’t wet before…

“Next time,” he says softly, leaning in so that his lips are close to your ear, “you probably shouldn’t use the real thing.” Your breath catches at how close he is, and Sweet Pea’s gaze is amused as he pulls away, but there’s something else there, too.

His hand is hot on your back as he helps you off the bed and wraps his jacket around your shoulders, your hands still cuffed in front of you.

It takes nearly a half-hour for Sweet Pea to finally get the handcuffs off of you, and by the time they pop free you could kiss him. His jacket is warm around you, and he’s nothing but professional as he finally unlocks the cuffs and slides them from your wrists.

“Thanks,” you say to him as you rub the raw skin on your arms. You’re still wrapped up in his jacket, and though the fire has long been put out and everyone else has gone back inside, the rest of the firefighters are still crowded around their truck, talking and occasionally sending Sweet Pea sly looks that he ignores.

His eyes soften around the edges as he looks at you, a small smile on his lips. “Don’t worry about it.” A deep, baritone laugh rumbles in his chest and your breath catches. “You’d be surprised how many people we’ve had to get out of handcuffs before.” He stands and helps you onto your feet for the second time tonight.

Sweet Pea’s hand lingers a little too long on yours before he crosses his arms over his broad chest. You just stare at him for a second, uncaring of the fact that you’re naked aside from the long, fireman’s jacket and your lacy underwear. Maybe it’s the looks from his friends or the fact that you’re hardly dressed, but somehow you get the courage to ask, “what are you doing tonight?”

For a second, he’s taken aback. His eyes widen just a little. “Not much,” he finally tells you after a moment of silence. “I have tomorrow off.”

“How would you feel about dinner? There’s an Italian place across town.” His lips part, and suddenly you’re afraid you’ve over-stepped. “You know,” you hurry to continue, “as a thank you for saving my life.”

He chuckles, but there’s a faint flush on his neck as he looks you over. “Are you asking me out on a date?” The amusement in his tone is palpable.

“Well, you did see me naked, so…”

Again, he looks at you like he can’t quite figure you out. “My shift ends in half-an-hour,” he tells you.