Page 74 of Payback On The Ice

"Good."

He tears a strip of tape and puts the end on the inside of my wrist.

And then he wraps it.

He does it exactly how I do it. Heel to toe. Overlap by half. Slow, careful, every pass smoothed down flat with his thumb. He's watching my face while he does it. He's done this before. Not with me. With the sticks I tape for him every night, the sticks he holds in his hands every morning. He knows exactly how I do it, because he's been checking.

I can't breathe right.

He does my right wrist the same way. Then he takes both of my wrists and puts them together, and wraps them together, a figure-eight between them, three times, until they're joined, and he tears the tape with his teeth.

"Lie back," he says. "Arms up."

I lie back. I put my arms up over my head. He wraps the end of the tape around the bar of the headboard, the cheap metal headboard of the Country Lodge, and ties it off.

I pull. Just a little. To see.

It holds.

"Too tight?" he says.

"No."

"Truth."

"It's not too tight." My voice is shaking. "It's perfect. It's—Dane, you did it like the sticks."

"I know." He leans down over me. His mouth is right next to my ear. "Seven wraps."

My cock jumps in my boxers. He sees it. He doesn't touch it.

"You took my bed," he says, very quietly. "You ate my food. You've been saying yes to me all week like it's a joke. You told me to make you."

"I did," I whisper.

"Was that what you wanted?"

"Yes."

"Good." He sits back on his heels. "Then you can wait."

He makes me wait a long time.

He takes my boxers off and leaves me there, naked, taped to the headboard, my cock hard against my stomach, and he doesn't touch it. He touches everything else. He runs his hands over my chest and down my sides, careful, still, over the place where the bruise used to be. He kisses the inside of my arm, up near the tape, where the skin is thin. He bites my hip. Not hard enough to mark. Just enough.

I squirm. I can't help it. I pull against the tape and it holds and that makes it worse.

"Stop moving."

"I can't⁠—"

"You can."

"Make me," I say again, because I'm an idiot, because I'm out of my mind.

He flips me over.

He does it in one smooth move, his hands on my hips, turning me onto my stomach, and the tape twists around the headboard bar with me and holds. My face is in the pillow. My ass is in the air. He puts one big hand flat in the middle of my back and pushes me down.