Three some

Make a move

He tied the final knot and stepped back. "There," he said. "Now you can't go anywhere."

Lucas's gray eyes found hers, still holding the trailing rope. He tilted his head toward the open bathroom door where the showerhead dripped onto the tile. "Let's see how long you stay quiet with the water running."

Ryan's mouth curved. He pushed off from the headboard and walked past the bed, his bare feet leaving damp prints on the carpet. At the bathroom threshold, he stopped and looked back at her — a long, measuring look that traveled from her bound wrists to her tied legs to the wet hair still dark against the pillow.

He reached inside and turned the shower handle. Water hissed from the head, loud in the quiet room, hitting the tile floor in a steady stream. He left it running — hot, from the steam beginning to curl through the doorway — and walked back, his c**k swinging, already half-hard against his thigh.

The sound filled the room now. A constant rush, like rain against a window, drowning out the small noises of their breathing. Zoe's pulse was loud in her own ears, the vibration of the water thrumming through the floorboards.

Lucas moved to the side of the bed, the rope trailing from her bound wrists to his hand like a leash. He sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight, and reached for her ankle. The rope there was tight — he'd done good work — but he slid two fingers under the lowest loop, testing the give. She felt the pressure shift, the rope biting into her skin.

"You're going to lie here," he said, his voice low, almost conversational, "and we're going to see if you can hold it together when you can't hear yourself think."

Zoe's eyes tracked to the bathroom door. The steam was thickening, fogging the mirror again, clouding the glass of the shower stall. The water drummed against the tile in a rhythm that didn't settle — just noise, white and blank and constant.

Ryan climbed onto the bed at her head, his knee landing beside her shoulder. He straddled her chest, his thighs bracketing her ribcage, and looked down at her with that half-smirk. His c**k hung above her face, still softening, and he wrapped a hand around the base, giving it a lazy stroke.

"I think she likes it," he said. "The noise. The ropes. Being stuck."

Lucas's hand left her ankle and traveled up her calf, over the rope binding her shin, to the inside of her thigh. His fingers pressed into the soft flesh there, pushing her legs apart as far as the rope allowed — which was barely an inch. The rope cut into her inner thighs, the pressure a dull, hot border.

"She hasn't tried to close them," Lucas said. His thumb found the seam of her cunt through the rope, pressing against her where the fabric crossed her flesh. "She's holding herself open for us."