He sinks to his knees.

“Now put your hands behind your back.”

He does that, too. I skirt around him, still pointing the gun at him, until I reach his duffel. The duct tape comes out next. My heart is hammering as I pull out a length, and my hands shake like crazy as I bind his wrists together. I keep expecting him to whip his own hands away and grab hold of me but he doesn’t. He lets me do it, although his breathing has kicked up a notch, coming faster and louder.

I remain behind him, taking a moment to regroup. I know what I’m going to do to him. I know exactly what I’m going to do, and the prospect is at once thrilling and terrifying. I reach out and I bury my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, grabbing hold of it and pushing his head forward. He grunts, but doesn’t react. Not until I press the gun against the back of his head. He stops breathing. I know his eyes are open because his long, dark eyelashes are visible in slanted angle I hold his head in, but he’s not blinking. He’s not moving. He’s just staring at the floor, holding his breath.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” I demand.

Zeth blasts a full lungful of air out of his nose. “Oh, really? We’re sharing our feelings? Right now? Come on, Sloane.”

I cock the hammer on the gun.

“Fuck! Okay. Okay. Well, I guess you could probably say I’m wondering if you’re gonna blow my head off. Happy?”

“Great. That’s what you’re thinking. How does that make you feel?”

“What the fu—”

“You’re kneeling on the floor with a gun pressed against the back of your head, wondering if you’re about to die. Don’t fucking tell me you’re not feeling anything, Zeth.”

“Alright, I’m fucking shitting my pants. I’m losing my shit. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Yes.”

He lets out a scathing laugh. “Wonderful. I’m glad I’m not the only sadist in this relationship.”

“I’m not a sadist. And neither are you.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing, Sloane?” He sounds exasperated. Completely at his wit’s end. I put the gun back into the duffel, remembering to snick the safety first, and then I kneel down behind him. I carefully stroke my fingertips down the defined grove between his shoulder blades, taking great pleasure in the way he shivers at my touch. From there I lace my arms through his so that I can run my hands down over his chest and his abs. I’m so close to him, my chest pressed to his back. His skin still smells of outdoors and the faint tang of masculine sweat. He’s incredible. I can’t stop myself; I carefully press my lips to his back, closing my eyes.

“God, Sloane,” he whispers. Nothing else. He doesn’t ask anything of me. He just trembles as I trace my fingers across the planes of his stomach and downward, to the tops of his thighs. I kiss his shoulders, running my tongue over his heated skin, licking and biting at him, gently this time. Not hard like before. My knees hurt like hell, but it’s worth it if only for the way his body comes alive against me, twitching and reacting to each and every considered stroke.

The anger that I just utilized, living inside of me, eventually turns to something more heady, sexual and basic. The power that I have over him right now—it feels incredible. I could do anything I wanted to him and…and realistically he could probably stop me. He’s still kneeling where I told him to because he wants to, not because I’m forcing him. But still…

I slide my hands lower, and then lower still until I find what I’m looking for. His cock is rigid, pressing against his boxers, begging to be set free. He sucks in a sharp breath when I take him in my hand and squeeze, the way he did back in his apartment the second time I slept with him. No, not slept with him. He was right earlier. I fucked him.

“Do you want me?” I whisper into his ear, grazing my teeth against his ear lobe.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to behave if I let you come play with me on the bed?”

Zeth makes a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat. His breathing is fast now; he’s never actually been like this with me before. I’ve never felt like he’s completely lost in what was happening. Control is a big thing for Zeth. He’s always in charge, always handling what’s happening between us, but for the first time I realize that he’s not handling anything right now. I don’t think he’s even realized himself yet.

I stand and let him rise as well. His eyes are hooded by his half-lowered lids. I take the knife from his duffel and I cut the duct tape, freeing his hands—I want him to be able to participate in what I plan on doing next. He hooks his thumbs into his boxers and strips out of them without me asking him to. And then, not two seconds after thinking he’s actually giving himself over to me, I realize how wrong I was. I think I’ve tricked myself into a false sense of security, because I’m actually surprised when he rockets forward and grabs hold of me by the waist.

“Zeth!”

In less than a heartbeat, a hungry, angry look has replaced his lazy, sex-doped expression. He’s lit up, fizzing with fury. “You’re fucking crazy, you know that?” He has me off my feet, practically over his shoulder. Three long strides and then he throws me forcefully onto the bed. I hit the mattress with a very unladylike, ufff! as the oxygen leaves my lungs. I lash out with my feet, trying to push myself up the bed and away from him, but it’s no good. I’m all arms and legs, panicking, and Zeth is a dangerous predator. He has my arms pinned over my head before I can scramble my way off the bed. “Stop struggling.”