Tie Me Up: Chapter Three

The storm may have passed, but the tension between Brynn and Wade hasn’t.

What starts as a final photoshoot turns into something far more intimate—a test of trust, touch, and control neither of them saw coming.

When the rope comes back out, it’s no longer just a prop.

It’s permission. It’s connection. And by the time the camera clicks again, they’ve both revealed more than they ever meant to.

Chapter Three

Brynn

When the Storm Settled

The storm hit hard enough that driving back wasn’t an option. Wade didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. He tossed me a blanket, pointed to the couch, and went quiet again, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I told myself I’d fall asleep to the sound of rain. Instead, I spent half the night listening for his footsteps in the next room.

The rain finally lets up, leaving the cabin wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after a storm. The air smells like pine and smoke, damp and heavy, like the whole forest is exhaling. The world outside drips and settles, soft and quiet, like it’s trying to remember how to breathe again.

Wade moves around the small kitchen barefoot, coffee steaming in one hand, the hem of his T-shirt tugged low like it’s been slept in. There’s nothing remarkable about the sight, except the way my pulse won’t stop tripping over itself watching him. 

We didn’t cross any lines last night. Not really. It was just that one kiss. If you can call something that intense just a kiss. But it’s the kind that rewires you a little, leaves your skin tuned to someone else’s frequency.

He doesn’t say much. Doesn’t have to really. The air between us says plenty.

“Storm passed,” he says finally, nodding toward the window.

“Seems like it.” I cradle my mug between both hands, pretending to study the condensation on the glass. “Kind of liked it, though. The quiet.”

He looks at me then, over the rim of his cup. “You don’t strike me as someone who likes quiet.”

“I like it when it feels… full,” I say. “Like there’s something underneath it.”

His mouth twitches, half smile, half challenge. “You mean like when you’re trying not to talk about what happened last yesterday?”

I should blush. Instead, I match his stare. “Maybe.”

He takes another slow sip of coffee. “You’re not the first to get caught up in the storm, Brynn.”

“Probably the first to photograph it,” I murmur.

That earns me the smallest huff of laughter. It’s barely there, but it’s enough to loosen something tight in my chest.

I glance toward my camera on the counter. The lens cap’s off. The strap’s twisted, the battery light blinking red like it’s daring me. “You know,” I say, voice lighter than I feel, “I never did get that final shot.”

Wade raises a brow. “You got plenty.”

“Not the one I want.”

He doesn’t look away this time. “What kind’s that?”

I pick up the camera, brushing my thumb along the edge. “The one that tells the truth.”

The words hang there, heavy and unintentional. He sets his mug down, slow and deliberate, then crosses the short space between us until the air feels like static.

“What truth’s that?” he asks quietly.

“That you liked it,” I whisper. “Last night. The rope. The kiss.”

His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t move back. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“No,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I’m just sure I wasn’t the only one shaking.”

The silence after that hums, thick enough to lean on. He’s close enough that I can smell the faint trace of cedar smoke clinging to his shirt, the salt of skin, the clean scent of soap.

Then his hand lifts, hesitant, maybe, but steady when it lands just above my hip. His thumb traces the seam of my jeans like he’s checking for permission, not taking it.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” he says, voice low, rough.

“You’re not,” I whisper.

The camera strap slips from my shoulder, landing against the counter with a soft thud. I don’t care. Not when his hand moves higher, fingers curving against my waist.

This time, it’s me who reaches up, pressing my palm to his chest, feeling the steady drumbeat there. “Maybe we finish what we started,” I say, the words barely a breath. “Just one more shoot.”

He studies me, eyes darkening. “You sure that’s all you’re asking for?”

I smile, small but sure. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The rain has stopped, but the world outside still hums with the sound of it dripping from the eaves and sighing through the trees. The light through the cabin window is low and gold, soft enough to make everything look a little more dangerous.

Wade stands where I tell him to, framed in the glow from the window. He’s not resisting anymore, not even pretending. Just watching me with that quiet, unreadable patience that makes it impossible to tell who’s in control.

“Turn a little,” I say, lifting the camera. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s too careful, too steady for the way my pulse is racing. “Good. Now… chin up. Eyes on me.”

He obeys, slow and deliberate. The movement shouldn’t feel intimate, but it does. Everything does.

“Breathe,” I whisper, and I swear I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

“Bossy, aren’t you?” His tone is low, teasing.

“Occupational hazard.”

“Sure it’s the job?”

“Positive,” I lie, snapping a photo that doesn’t matter in the slightest.

The shutter sound is a heartbeat between us—click, inhale, click. I keep shooting because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. The lens can’t save me this time. Not when he’s looking at me like that.

“You done?” he asks, and I realize I’ve stopped pretending to photograph.

“Almost.” My gaze drifts toward the coil of rope still sitting on the bench. “One last thing.”

He follows my eyes, then looks back at me. “Visual metaphor again?”

I nod, my throat suddenly dry. “Exactly.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, wordlessly, he holds out his wrists.

The gesture steals my breath. It’s not submission, it’s trust, quiet and deliberate. The kind of thing you don’t ask for and don’t take lightly.

I pick up the rope, fingers remembering the pattern he showed me the night before. My hands are steady, but my heart isn’t. The fibers slide against my skin, soft but certain, and I loop them slowly around his wrists.

“Like that?” I ask, voice barely audible.

His eyes never leave mine. “Close.”

I tighten the knot just enough to hold, feeling the shift of his pulse under my fingertips. The rope looks small against his hands, the kind of strength that doesn’t need proving.

I take a step back, camera dangling uselessly against my chest. “You trust easy for someone who hates being seen.”

“Doesn’t feel like I’m the one being looked at right now.”

He’s right. I’m the one trembling.

The rope drags faintly when he moves, the sound rough and low, matching the breath between us. I circle him without thinking, the way I would during a shoot, studying light and line, but all I can see is the way his breath changes when I pass close enough for my shoulder to brush his.

“Brynn,” he says, voice rough. Just my name, but it lands everywhere at once.

I stop behind him, my fingers brushing over his shoulder, tracing the rope down his arm until I reach his wrist. The contact is electric, tiny, deliberate, and impossible to pretend away.

He exhales, low and steady. “Your hands are shaking.”

“Maybe you should’ve done it yourself.”

He turns his head slightly, catching my gaze over his shoulder. “Maybe I like watching you try.”

The air thickens again, warm and heavy, humming with the same energy that’s been building since the first click of the camera. I rest my palm flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat. “Guess I need another lesson.”

“Guess you do,” he murmurs.

Then, with a small shift of his wrists, the rope slides through his fingers and catches mine instead. My breath stumbles. His hand closes around both of ours, guiding, not forcing, pulling me closer until there’s no space left to pretend this is just a shoot.

The camera strap slips against my arm as I whisper, “Wade—”

“Your turn,” he says softly.

The rope catches between our hands, still warm from the last breath of the storm.

Wade’s eyes flick from my mouth to my wrist—the place where the knot sits, loose but waiting.

He gives the faintest pull. Not enough to restrain, just enough to remind me I could be.

My pulse trips hard in response.

“Still think this is about the photo?” he asks, voice a rough whisper.

“Not anymore.”

He steps closer until my back meets the edge of the table. His body doesn’t press—just hovers, heat and intent held in place by sheer will. My fingers tighten on the rope, unsure if I’m holding it or if it’s holding me.

When he leans in, the scent of him hits first—pine, smoke, rain, the faintest trace of soap from the sink. His breath grazes my cheek before his lips do, and when they finally touch, the world narrows to a heartbeat and the slide of skin.

The kiss starts patient, almost cautious. Then it deepens—slow, deliberate, reverent. His hand finds the curve of my neck, tilting my face up, the other tracing the line of the rope until his fingers close around my wrist.

“Too tight?” he murmurs.

“No.”

“Good.”

The word falls against my mouth like a promise.

He guides my hands to his chest, rope still between them, his body crowding mine against the table now. The air is thick, hot. Every movement feels choreographed by instinct.

My fingers slide under his shirt, finding heat, muscle, and the soft scratch of hair along his stomach. He groans quietly—low and real, the kind of sound that feels like a reward.

“Tell me what you want,” he says against my jaw.

“You,” I whisper. “You… here… now.”

The sound he makes is heady. His hips press forward, subtle but certain, and my back arches in answer. The table edge digs into me, grounding every electric second as heat blooms low in my stomach.

He kisses me harder, deeper, his mouth claiming mine in a rhythm that leaves no space for thought. The rope between us slides higher on my wrist when I move, a whisper of friction that sparks through every nerve it touches.

I reach for him, finding the edge of his shirt again, tugging it over his head. The fabric sticks to his skin before giving way, baring muscle and warmth and the faint sheen of sweat. He helps me with the rest, unhurried, deliberate, never breaking eye contact.

My fingers trace the scar along his collarbone, and his breath catches. “Brynn,” he murmurs, the word half warning, half plea.

“Don’t stop,” I whisper

He doesn’t.

He drags my hips forward until I’m perched at the edge of the table, knees parting easily to fit him there. His hands grip my hips instead, fingers tightening through denim as his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just above the waistband. The heat of him settles between my legs, teasing, testing.

I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrist, eyes locked on mine.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I’m sure.”

He lets go, and I don’t hesitate. My fingers make quick work of his belt and zipper before he does the same, the small metallic clink swallowed by our breathing. His hands sliding to my waist, thumbs hooking in the denim. He pauses. I nod, and he tugs and I lift my hips, slow and deliberate, easing my jeans and panties down over my hips.

The rough fabric drags against my skin, replaced by the warmth of his palms as he helps me step free. Then his hands are back, finding the hem of my shirt. He lifts it slowly, knuckles brushing my ribs, eyes never leaving my face. The shirt clears my head and falls somewhere behind us.

The air hits my skin, cool against the heat that feels like too much.

He takes a second—just one—to look at me, eyes sweeping slow and reverent like he’s memorizing instead of judging. No smirk, no joke, just that quiet, reverent focus that makes my pulse stutter.

Then he’s back on me, mouth kissing a line down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, the rope brushing between us as I move.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice rough as he lines up.

I nod, breathless. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

The first push steals away any that was left.

It’s slow—achingly slow—the kind of movement that feels like discovery more than conquest. My hand finds his shoulder, nails biting in when he rolls his hips again, deeper this time. The sound that leaves me doesn’t feel like mine.

He catches it with a kiss, swallowing it whole. The world narrows to pressure and breath, to the rhythm of his body against mine. His hand slides up my spine, anchoring me closer, holding me together when everything inside wants to come apart.

The rope drags faintly between us, forgotten but present, a reminder of how close we still are, how much of this is trust.

He moves again, harder now, and I meet him without hesitation. The sound of the storm starting outside again is nothing compared to the one inside the cabin, wood creaking, breath colliding, quiet words that don’t need to be understood.

When I finally fall apart, it isn’t from the pace or the pressure, it’s from the way he says it.

“Brynn,” he groans against my neck, the sound low and reverent, breaking on the last breath.

Hearing my name like that, with his voice rough, aching, full of everything he isn’t saying, it undoes me completely.

He follows a heartbeat later—hips stilling, a rough sound catching in his throat as his forehead drops to mine. Sweat slicks between us, breath shuddering against my lips. Every muscle in him trembles, the effort to hold himself still written in every shaky exhale.

“I don’t like cameras,” he says suddenly, voice thick.

I blink, half-dazed. “What?”

He leans back just enough to look at me fully. “Used to. Then I saw a picture once… and I didn’t recognize myself. Didn’t like the man I’d turned into.”

The honesty in it cuts through the heat like a new kind of burn.

“What happened?” I ask softly.

“Marriage. Divorce. Too much pretending in between.” His thumb moves along my jaw, gentle now. “You look at me like I’m still that guy. Like I could be.”

My throat tightens. “I don’t see who you were, Wade. I see who you are. Steady. Real. The way you look when you stop trying to hide.”

His breath catches, something unspoken shifting behind his eyes. Then he kisses me again, slower this time, less about want, more about need. It’s soft, grounding, the kind of kiss that lingers long after it ends.

When he finally pulls back, he reaches for the rope between us. The knot loosens under his fingers, each movement careful, unhurried. He traces every place it left a mark, his thumb smoothing over the faint lines on my wrist like an apology.

“Didn’t hurt,” I whisper.

“Didn’t want it to,” he says.

I smile—small, real. “You didn’t.”

He leans in once more, brushing his lips over mine like punctuation. Then he steps back, eyes softer than I’ve seen them.

The camera sits forgotten on the floor. I reach for it, lift it, and frame the man in front of me. His hair is mussed, shirt off, chest rising steady. The armor’s gone, replaced by something quiet and human.

I press the shutter. Click.

“Now that’s the one,” I whisper.

He huffs a small laugh. “Guess you got your picture.”

“Yeah,” I say, lowering the camera. “And a whole lot more.”

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

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First Edition: November 2025

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