Rope burns on his wrists, his ankles. Skin bare to the cool air of the room and he’s covered with sweat. Callused fingertips that move so knowledgeably on him. Sliding over smooth planes of muscle, pressing into sensitive nerves. Taking him up and up and never letting him have the release. Standing on the edge of a cliff and swaying in the breeze and he wants to fall, but that isn’t going to be allowed. Not for a long, long time.
His body thrums and sings, piano-wire tight, hard.
“Who has the best smirk?” Chris asks him again and again.