Page 108 of The Dragon 1
He didn’t touch her right away. First, he knelt and began looping the thick coils of rope, lifting the end and brushing it between his palms as if to warm it.
Then. . .he lifted the rope up to her.
The moment the rope touched her skin, something shifted. Not on her body, but in theair. As if we’d all crossed into another dimension.
She closed her eyes and lifted her chin.
He tied the first knot at her sternum, right between her breasts. The rope pressed against her skin and made her let out a sharp inhale.
I exhaled too, not realizing I’d been holding my breath.
The red rope shimmered under the moonlight.
Then he began wrapping more rope around her but he didn’t just tie knots—he sculpted. He wove the rope like it was silk spun from flame. He threaded lines across her chest, framing the fullness of her breasts. The rope cinched just enough to lift them, emphasize them, showcase them.
He slipped more rope around her waist and let the taut lines trace the dip of her belly and the arc of her ribs.
The fibers sank into her skin.
Her thighs flexed slightly as he moved behind her, pulling the cords tighter around her hips.
He looped them just under the swell of her ass, cinching upward to lift, to cradle, to emphasize.
My thighs clenched without permission. I felt the phantom trail of that rope across my own skin.
As he continued to work, she never flinched. Her breath remained steady.
Knots began to adorn her body with a stunning pattern that paralleled the moon phases tattooed on her skin.
Then he moved back to the front, his hands running over the ropes, checking their grip and tension.
His hands plunged into the coils again, threading it from her back around the left thigh, then crossing behind to wrap it around her right thigh.
She was a canvas of rope and skin.
Soon, he stopped tying the rope around her and stepped back, taking a few seconds to examine his handiwork.
Wow.
As if hearing my thoughts and wanting to show off more, he pulled sharply at the rope.
Her body lifted off the ground, just an inch at first.
Then he pulled more, she rose and was suspended entirely.
Her feet no longer touched the platform.
The rope held.
The knots cinched.
And she hung there like a spell suspended mid-syllable.
She was floating.
The cellist played on.
The woman's face was a serene mask, her eyes closed, her posture relaxed as if she were lounging rather than hanging in mid-air.
