“Yes,” she whispered, and although I had fully expected her to assent, hearing her say it sent a jolt of arousal through my body.

“I haven’t fucked in a twin bed since college,” I said. “It’ll be like reliving my youth.” I pulled her closer, seating her hips fully against mine and grinding upward. My cock, already noticeably interested in the proceedings, swelled to full hardness at the pressure and closeness. Her dress rode up around her hips, and I could feel the heat of her through her tights and whatever lacy underpants she had underneath. It was maddening, and I suddenly couldn’t bear being separated from her by anything as inconsequential as clothing.

“I want you,” I said, “and I’m going to have you.” I drew her face toward mine and kissed her deeply, tasting her soft mouth, combing my fingers through her hair and relishing the way she shivered against me. I had never known a woman as responsive as Regan, and I was self-aware enough to admit that it fed my ego: that I could make her quiver and moan, that she kept coming back to me for more.

She was incredible. She was my favorite vice, one I never wanted to relinquish.

I wrapped my arms firmly around her waist and stood up, lifting her with me, and carried her across the room to the bed. I knelt on the mattress and lowered her down onto her back, her head resting on the pillow. She clung to me, trying to pull me down with her, and it was a tempting thought—to lie on top of her and let her wrap her legs around my waist, kiss her neck and yank down her tights and take her like that—but I had other plans. I drew back and stood up, gazing down at her, her flushed face and rumpled dress.

I wanted her—I always wanted her—and I wanted her helpless and docile, submitting to me. I knew she wanted it too. The evening’s many possibilities unfolded before me, overwhelming in their variety. Regan would do whatever I wanted her to, and it was both a gift and a responsibility. She trusted me to make this an enjoyable experience for her, and I was determined that it would be.

It would be enjoyable for both of us. There was nothing I enjoyed more than having her writhing and begging, insensate, driven to the very edge of rational thought and language.

Her bed frame had posts at each corner. The germ of an idea sprouted in my mind. I looked around the room for something I could use, and spotted a collection of scarves draped over the coat rack. Precisely what I needed. I took the few steps to the coat rack and took two scarves in my hands.

Regan had turned her head and was watching me, eyebrows drawn together, inquisitive. Not questioning, though, and not moving from where I had set her.

I went to her and crouched beside the bed, bending to kiss her and stroke her hair out of her eyes. “I want you to raise your arms above your head,” I told her. She did, obedient, and I tied her left wrist to the bedpost with one of the scarves. She made a noise and lifted her head, but I frowned at her and she subsided. I reached across the bed and tied her other wrist to the opposite bedpost, and then she was trapped there, both hands tied in place above her head.

God. I reached down and adjusted myself in my trousers. Just the sight of her like that was doing me in.

I realized the flaw in my otherwise clever plan: I wouldn’t be able to get her dress off unless I untied her again.

A surmountable problem. She didn’t need to be fully nude.

She did, however, need to lose the tights. I slid her dress up enough to expose her lower body, and tucked my thumbs beneath the waistband of her tights. Whoever invented these things deserved a stern word or two: they were impossible to get off. With some effort, I was able to work them down Regan’s hips, and draw them down her legs and off. I muttered a curse and tossed them on the floor.

Then it was just her smooth, bare skin, and the silky black fabric between her thighs. Regan had a penchant for lacy, sexy underwear that I very much appreciated. I stroked my thumb along the crease of Regan’s thigh, tracing the line of her panties up toward her hip. She twitched at my touch, and I smiled. “I like these,” I said.

She turned to look at me, and then glanced away again, eyelids lowering, shy. “I thought you probably would.”

“You wore them for me, then?” I asked, oddly pleased by the thought of Regan rifling through her lingerie drawer that morning, choosing her underwear with my preferences in mind.

I clambered onto the bed and knelt between Regan’s thighs, spreading her legs further apart to make room. I trailed my fingers up the insides of her thighs, skimming lightly over her sensitive skin. She closed her eyes and readjusted on the bed, lifting her pelvis, a silent invitation. I took it. I bent and kissed her lower belly, just above the waistband of her panties, and slid my fingers up and up, drawing closer to her hot center, until I stopped just short of the lacy edge of her underwear.

I waited.

She opened her eyes and blinked at me, eyelids heavy. “Carter?” she asked.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Are you, um.” She shifted her hips again, pressing up toward me, asking me to touch her.

“Am I what?” I asked, amused, delighting in teasing her.

“Will you—touch me?” she asked, biting her lip, looking away, so sweetly embarrassed that I felt my heart clenching in my chest.

And she had asked, so how could I deny her? I moved my right hand and stroked my thumb over her panties, damp between her legs, and she shuddered beneath me, thighs falling open, revealing herself to me.

Oh, she was perfect. I could have teased her like that for hours, touching her through her underpants, but I wanted to see her, stroke her wet flesh directly, feel her tighten around my fingers. It had been so long, months and months since I had her like this, willing and wanton beneath me. Too long.

I bent to kiss her again, feeling her belly jump beneath my lips, and drew her panties down her legs.

She pulled her knees together and tucked her legs up toward her chin, hiding herself, and then took a breath and relaxed, letting her legs sprawl on the mattress again.

“Shy?” I asked. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen you like this, you know.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s just—it’s been a while. Habit, I guess.”

“Sure,” I said. Christ, she looked incredible. I wanted to take off her dress and look at her full breasts, with their dark, peaked nipples, but it would take too long—at least a minute to untie her, tug off her dress, and tie her up again. Next time. I was too impatient. I wanted everything all at once, and I didn’t want to wait.