“Maybe if someone wasn’t distracting me,” I shot back, very aware of how he’d pressed closer, his chest solid against my back. The kitchen smelled amazing—herbs and spices mixed with the scent of cedar and storm that always clung to his skin. It was strange how comfortable this felt, how easily we’d fallen into this domestic scene after watching him break a man’s wrist less than an hour ago.
“Distracting? Me?” His laugh rumbled through both of us. “I’m being helpful. Look—“ He guided my fingers to fold the leaf tighter. “Like swaddling a tiny, delicious baby.”
“That’s a disturbing way to think about food.” I leaned into him, letting his warmth chase away the lingering chill of the cemetery. There was something soothing about this—his hands directing mine, teaching instead of demanding. It reminded me of watching my mother in the kitchen, though I pushed that thought away before it could sting.
“Says the man who used to glamour his way into extra fries.” His teeth grazed my ear, sending a shock straight to my dick. “Besides, I seem to recall someone being very interested in my texts about rope.”
Heat flooded my cheeks as fragments of those messages hit me—him promising to tie my wrists so tight I couldn’t move for shit, spreading my legs wide open with rough rope, positioning knots right where they’d dig into all the spots that made me squirm. Last night’s text was the worst—or best, depending on how you looked at it. Him describing how he’d tie me up like a fucking present, ass in the air, face shoved into the mattress, arms wrenched behind my back while he teased me for hours, never letting me cum until I was practically crying for it.
I hardened against my zipper. Fuck. I shifted awkwardly, hoping he wouldn’t notice how easily he got to me. For months, those filthy messages had been my nightly ritual—phone in one hand, dick in the other, coming so hard I had to bite my pillow to keep from waking Twyla next door. Nobody had ever made me this fucking desperate before, and the bastard knew it.
“The food’s going to burn.”
“Not for hours yet.” His hands stilled over mine, the half-rolled grape leaf forgotten. “These need to simmer. And I can think of several ways to pass the time…”
The grape leaves were rolled—some more neatly than others—and simmering with the rest of dinner when Kronos caught my hand. “Come with me,” he said, his voice carrying that gentle authority that made my pulse quicken. “There’s something I want to show you.”
I followed him into the living room, where the hunting scenes in the paintings were calmer tonight, less predatory. I wondered if they only looked alive when I was drinking. Three coils of rope lay arranged on the coffee table, each one catching the light differently—deep royal purple that shone like silk, stark white that looked sturdy but flexible, and a rich red that was unyielding.
“I’ve been thinking about this since that night in the alley,” he said, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist. “How to introduce you to this properly.” He led me closer to the table. “Feel them. See which one calls to you.”
The intensity in his voice made my mouth go dry, but there was no pressure in his touch, no demand.
My fingers trailed over each rope in turn. The red was too intimidating, almost severe in its stiffness. The white felt like a compromise, neither too harsh nor too soft. The purple...I lifted it, letting it slide through my fingers.
“This one,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice was. The texture reminded me of his silk sheets from that first night, luxurious and somehow safe in the aftermath.
His smile was approving. “Excellent choice. The softest one—perfect for beginners.” He took the rope, but didn’t move to use it yet. “Tonight isn’t about sex. It’s about trust. About feeling safe enough to let go.”
I swallowed hard, watching his hands work with the rope. “And if I want to stop?”
“Then we stop.” He showed me a simple knot, demonstrating how it would work. “One pull here releases everything. The end stays in your hand the whole time.” His fingers brushed mine as he explained. “You’re in control of this, Alex. I’m just here to guide you.”
“How does it work?” I asked, torn between nervousness and curiosity. “The rope, I mean. The...technique?”
“First, I check circulation points.” He traced the veins on my wrist with gentle fingers. “Make sure nothing’s too tight. We go slow. I ask how you’re feeling. You tell me the moment anything feels wrong. May I?” he asked, holding up the purple rope. When I nodded, he moved behind me, his chest pressed to my back like when we were cooking. “Hands in front, palms together, like you’re praying.”
I followed his instruction, trying to control my breathing as he brought the rope around my wrists.
“How’s that feel?” His fingers checked the spaces between rope and skin. “Not too tight?”
“No, it’s...nice.” The word felt inadequate. “Different than I expected.”
“Rope is an art form,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “It’s about connection, trust. The Japanese call it Shibari—the beauty of binding.” His hands moved to my shoulders, massaging gently. “Feel how the rope moves when you do? But the end is always in your control.”
He was right—I could feel the release knot against my palm, easily within reach. Something about that simple fact made the rest of the tension drain from my shoulders.
“Good boy,” he praised. “Now, I believe dinner’s almost ready. Let me take care of you.”
He guided me to sit on one of the plush leather chairs at his dining table, the rope a constant gentle presence around my wrists. The scents from the kitchen were mouthwatering—herbs and spices I couldn’t name mixing with garlic and roasted meat.
“How are your hands feeling?” he asked, checking the rope again. “Any numbness? Tingling?”
“No, they’re fine.” I flexed my fingers to show the rope moving smoothly with the motion. “It’s almost...comforting?”
He set a plate in front of me. The gyros looked like something from a food magazine, nothing like the street cart versions I used to charm my way into getting. “That’s the point. Safe.” He picked up a piece of the meat, holding it to my lips. “Open.”
Heat crept up my neck at being fed like this, but I parted my lips. The flavors exploded across my tongue—perfectly seasoned lamb, the tang of yogurt sauce, fresh herbs.
