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“I like it hot,” I say with a grin as I shimmy out of my pants.

When I’m naked, I walk freely, knowing he’s watching, and go to his belt, fumbling to release the item I need.

“Handcuffs?” he laughs as he drops his head back to the edge of the tub and looks at me with one eye. “Should I be scared?”

“Probably,” I say as I step into the tub, turning the faucet off as I sink into the water with a longahh!On a stool next to us, there’s a stack of towels and washcloths. I exchange the cuffs for a washcloth and position myself between Ford’s long, outstretched legs, dunking it under before dragging it along the side of his neck and down one arm he has draped along the edge.

He makes a small moan, and his eyelids go heavy as I repeat the motion on the opposite side. “I’m sorry about the kid,” I say, straddling him so I can squeeze water over his head. “That’s hard.”

He opens his eyes. “You see death every day.”

“I don’t see it happen.” I dunk the cloth underwater again and reach my arms around him to scrub the slopes of his shoulders. “I don’t have hope when I’m dealing with bodies—you do. There’s a difference. Hope’s the MVP of cocksuckers.”

He chuckles softly, running his bubble-covered fingers through my hair. “Not always though. Hope sometimes gives you a reason to keep trying. Keep showing up.” He smiles and leans forward, dusting a kiss on my lips before relaxing back. Beneath the water, his hands find my hips and drag me toward him. “Without hope I wouldn’t be in this ridiculously big bathtub with you.”

The look in his eyes is genuine, and it sparks a nascent flame of panic in me. At the intimacy of the moment. How good it feels. How much I want him. How much I want him to want me. The tug of what I want against everything I’m so sure I don’t deserve to have.

I grab the handcuffs—the abruptness of my movements a stark contrast to the slowness of the music drifting from downstairs and the tenderness on Ford’s face. He watches but doesn’t react. Not as I fumble to get them open. Not as I wrap one around my right wrist and the other one around his left, tethering me to him.

He holds his hand up, elbow still submerged, amused expression on his face. “Not what I expected.”

“I want to love you,” I blurt. “Without looking away. But I’m not sure how, so”—I tug at my wrist chained to his—“I’m forcing myself. To look. This was plan B.”

He chuckles and spins our hands so our palms face one another and fingers interlace. “And plan A?”

“A choke collar and cage.”

A loud laugh bubbles out of him and then his mouth is on mine. With the hand not chained to mine, he pulls me onto his lap where I feel all of him. He’s hard—the way he’s been since I stripped his pants down his legs. My heart beats fast; his mouth moves slow. It’s terrifying. Far from a virgin, it’s exactly how I feel.

I position myself on top of him, straddling him so I can take him inside of me. I lower; my body willingly yielding to him where we meet. I’m greedy for more—he stops me, serious look on his face. “You sure?”

I nod.

His eyes flare, breath quickens. Then he grips my hip and slams me hard, sending soapy water sloshing over the lip of the tub as I cry out from the sensational severity of it.

And as much as I crave movement, I still, zeroing in on his gaze and letting it consume me.

It’s nothing—just eyes pointing toward each other—but the intensity of it nearly swallows me whole.

“What do you need?” he whispers.

My simple response: “You.”

With the cuffed hand, he cups my face, and I drop my forehead to his as my hips find a rhythm grinding against him. All I needhim to do is be there and let me work, and that’s exactly what he does. Through every rock of my body and cry from my lips, he stays there, eyes locked with mine as water leaves the tub in buckets over the edge and splashes onto the floor.

Rock after rock after rock of my hips.

“Scotty,” he grunts, eyes not moving off mine as I grind. “I’m close, baby.”

I whimper but can’t speak. Can barely keep myself moving. He feels the shift and picks up my slack, guiding me with his free hand, water sloshing.

I stare at him through every emotion each thrust brings. The grip of panic. The fear he’ll hate what he sees. The sting of tears from the magnitude of the moment.

Through it all, I look. Even as the orgasm slams into me as fast and hard as a freight train.

My head fights to jerk away; Ford holds it firm.

My eyes start to close; “Look at me, Scotty.”