His hands had just found her waist, guiding, steady, when she stepped back, a faint smile playing at her lips. “Cute,” she said, and before he could ask what was funny, she reached for the silk scarf draped over the chair, twirling it once around her fingers. He raised an eyebrow, curious, until she took his wrists, crossing them in front of him, and tied them loosely—loose enough to feel, not to bind.
“Not so fast,” she said, her voice soft but firm, as she stepped closer, her body pressing against his. He’d thought the rhythm was his to set, the pace his to control, but the scarf was a reminder: she didn’t mind letting him think he was leading, until she decided to rewrite the script.
She kissed him, hard, and when he tried to reach for her—instinct, habit—his bound hands caught against her chest, a quiet reminder of the new rules. “Ah-ah,” she murmured, pulling back, her fingers trailing over the knot. “No leading. Just feeling.”
This wasn’t about restraint. It was about surrender—his, to her. He let himself lean into it, the frustration melting into something hotter, sharper, as she moved against him, slow, deliberate, showing him exactly how she wanted it. By the time she untied the scarf, his hands were trembling, not from wanting to lead, but from wanting to follow—wherever she chose to go.