Page 79 of The Equation of Us

She considers for only a moment before extending her wrists. “I want to.”

The simple submission—so at odds with her usual need for control—sends heat rushing through me. I take her right wrist first, wrapping the lace around it with practiced ease. The dark material contrasts beautifully against her pale skin.

“Not too tight?” I check, sliding a finger between the lace and her pulse point.

She shakes her head. “It’s good.”

I secure the other wrist, leaving enough slack between them for her to be comfortable but not enough to fully separate her hands. The sight of Nora—brilliant, analytical, always-in-control Nora—bound by my hockey laces stirs something primal in my chest.

“You look perfect like this,” I tell her, my voice rough with desire.

A hint of vulnerability crosses her features, quickly replaced by trust. “What now?”

I guide her to lie back on the table, her bound hands above her head. “Now I make up for seven days of not touching you.”

Her breath catches, chest rising and falling more rapidly as I work the button of her jeans, slowly lowering the zipper. The denim is tight, requiring her to lift her hips as I pull it down her legs. She’s wearing simple black cotton underwear—practical, like everything about her—but on Nora, it’s sexier than any lingerie.

“You’re beautiful,” I murmur, my hands skimming up her legs, feeling the slight tremble under my touch.

“Dean,” she whispers, a plea and a warning wrapped in one word.

I understand her concern—we’re still in a study room, still at risk of discovery despite the locked door and isolated location. We need to be quick, quiet, controlled.

But I’ve had seven days of nothing but imagination. Seven days of wanting her. I’m not rushing this moment.

“Quiet,” I instruct, leaning down to place a kiss on her inner thigh. “Can you do that for me?”

She nods, biting her lower lip.

“Good girl,” I praise, continuing my path up her leg, my mouth trailing where my hands have been.

When I reach the edge of her underwear, I look up to find her watching me, eyes dark with desire, wrists straining slightly against the laces. The position—her partially clothed, bound, and vulnerable on the table; me standing between her legs, fully dressed and in control—sends a surge of heat through me.

I hook my fingers in the waistband of her underwear, pulling it down with deliberate slowness. She lifts her hips again, allowing me to remove the fabric completely, leaving her exposed from the waist down.

“Beautiful,” I repeat, hands sliding up to push her sweater higher, revealing the smooth skin of her stomach. I want her completely naked, but the risk is too great. This partial exposure, this controlled vulnerability, will have to be enough for now.

I lean down, placing open-mouthed kisses along her abdomen, feeling the muscles tense beneath my lips. Her breathing quickens, hands flexing in their restraints as I move lower, toward the heat between her legs.

“Remember,” I murmur against her skin, “quiet.”

She nods again, more urgently this time.

The first touch of my mouth against her core tears a gasp from her throat—quickly stifled, but still audible in the silent room. I look up, a warning in my eyes that she understands immediately. She presses her lips together, determination replacing the momentary loss of control.

I return to my task, using everything I’ve learned about her body over the past months. I know exactly how much pressure she needs, what rhythm makes her muscles tense, and what movement of my tongue will send her spiraling toward release.

The combination of the restraints, the semi-public location, and seven days of anticipation has her more responsive than usual. Within minutes, I can feel her approaching the edge, her thighs trembling beneath my hands, her breath coming in short, controlled pants.

“Not yet,” I murmur against her heated skin. “Wait for me.”

A small sound of frustration escapes her, quickly suppressed. I smile against her, enjoying this power—the ability to push her toward release and then pull her back, to control not just her body but her pleasure.

I straighten, admiring the sight before me—Nora spread out on the study table, wrists bound with my hockey laces, sweater pushed up to reveal the bottom curve of her breasts, naked from the waist down, skin flushed with desire. It’s a picture I want to burn into my memory.

“Please,” she whispers, the rare plea making my control slip further.

I unbutton my jeans, lowering them just enough to free myself. The action draws Nora’s gaze, her lips parting slightly in anticipation. Seven days of nothing but my own hand has me fully hard, aching for her.

---