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Stepping around her so we’re facing each other, I can only stare. My lungs burn with the need for oxygen and my mouth goes dry, but I don’t breathe. Don’t move. I just look in wonder at the most beautiful woman on the fucking planet.

Her skin is soft, creamy-looking, dotted here and there with dark brown freckles. The way her tits are fuller on the bottom, her nipples pointing high, has me biting back a string of cuss words that’d make Lucifer himself blush. I love the way her torso curves into her hips. And those legs, the silkiness of her thighs—my God, how perfect.

Everything about this woman isperfect. Especially the way she looks me in the eye, her gaze somehow fiery and sweet all at once. She sure as hell ain’t overthinking anything right now.

She’s comfortable. With me.Onlywith me.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in…

Only I can’t make my chest work. I’m on the verge of passing out, but I just?—

I can’t take it. Sally isnaked. She’s looking at me with desire in her eyes. My finger is still wet with her saliva. Her arousal.

This is actually happening, and it’s so much better than I fantasized it would be.

“You all right?” Her voice is husky.

The sound wakes me from my trance. I suck in a lungful of air. “You’re beautiful, Sal. So fucking beautiful.”

Her cheeks flush pink. “I thought you were going to pass out there for a second.”

“I was.”

“You need a minute?”

I shake my head. “I need you.” I give the rope a tug, tightening it over her tits. “Trust me?”

“Wyatt,” she pleads, “I’m so close. Please.”

I lean in. Press a gentle kiss to her mouth. “Tell me you trust me.”

I don’t know why I crave the words. Maybe I just crave Sally’s assurance. Her approval. I don’t ask anyone for anything, but this?—

This, I need.

Her eyes meet mine. “Of course I trust you. I always have.”

Now is not the time to take a deep dive into what it means that someone as smart and accomplished and honest as Sally Powell trusts me. What it means that she’s putting herself in my hands because she believes I’m capable of taking care of her.

Maybe that means I am capable of taking care of her.

Maybe I need to trust myself as much as Sally trusts me. Maybe I can trusthernot to hurt me.

I tie the other end of the rope to the beam that forms the corner of a nearby stall. Now Sally is literally tied up, her arms bound to her sides, the rope drawn taut over the swell of her breasts.

I’m a fool for you, I think as I drink in the sight of her panting, ready, waiting. Not for Beck Wallace. Not for some Yankee douchebag.

For me.

I love the slopes of her belly and the strong yet feminine lines of her back.

Walking around to face her, I adjust the rope so that it’s tight over her nipples.

“Lean forward,” I say. “Just a little one.”

She does, and it pulls the rope tighter against her nipples. She whimpers. The rope slips a little—it’s not very wide—but I move it back in place, brushing my knuckle against her nipple before settling it underneath the rope.

“Oh, Wy, I like that.”