by cloven and loveonthefarm
Slowly, the rope pulled taut.
“That should do it,” Reagan said. Careful, he ran his finger along the edge of the rope, touch featherlight and electric where it brushed against Seth’s skin. “How are you feeling?”
Every breath felt like a hurricane. Seth was trembling–he could feel it where the rope dug into his skin, a siren blaring a call to arousal to every part of him–leaflike in the face of Reagan, his hands, his ropes, his smile.
“I,” Seth began, breathy; and then Reagan slid his hands (beautiful, strong, so so kind) down the tight curve of Seth’s back and squeezed his ass once, firm.
Each of his muscles drew taut as a bow; shivers claimed him, relentless, crashing over him like waves until he felt like he might come from this, just this, Reagan’s touch and the heat of his body and the drag of the rope singing against his skin.