Tie Me Up: Chapter Two

Storms have a way of blurring the lines—between work and want, between what’s safe and what happens when you finally stop pretending it is.

Brynn came here to photograph a quiet man with an axe and an attitude. What she didn’t expect was to capture the moment his guard dropped… or how it would feel when he turned that focus on her.

Inside Wade’s cabin, the rain closes them in, the rope returns as a “prop,” and the camera isn’t the only thing out of focus. Sparks turn into something heavier, steadier, and far too real to frame. 

Chapter Two 

Brynn

Out of Focus

The light starts to fade by the time we call it quits. Clouds roll over the treetops, gray and swollen, the kind of storm that doesn’t ask permission before it hits.

Wade wipes his palms on his jeans, then glances toward the cabin. “We should move this inside before the sky decides to open up.”

I follow him up the narrow porch steps, camera still swinging against my chest. The porch smells like cedar and rain-soaked earth. His axe leans against the wall beside a stack of firewood, each piece split clean, deliberate. Everything about him is like that, precise, methodical. The kind of man who makes even silence feel intentional.

He opens the door, steps back to let me in. The inside is small but warm, the kind of cozy that comes from use, not design. A worn couch. A few framed photographs that look decades old. Boots by the door, neatly lined up. A man’s space.

“Hope you don’t mind,” I say, setting my camera bag on the counter. “Storm light makes for the best edits.”

He grunts something that might mean “go ahead.” His voice is quieter now, less guarded.

I scroll through the photos on my screen, reviewing the shots. the swing of the axe, the focused crease between his brows, that half-smirk he didn’t mean to give me. They’re better than I expected. Real, raw, unposed. Exactly what my editor wanted.

He steps closer, his shadow brushing over my shoulder. “Can I see?”

I turn the camera toward him. For a long moment, he doesn’t say a word. His eyes move across the screen, tracing the images like he’s not sure what to make of himself.

“That’s me?” he mutters finally.

“That’s you,” I say softly. “The gruff, photogenic logger in the wild.”

He exhales through his nose, a hint of a smile ghosting his mouth. “Huh. Don’t look half as miserable as I felt.”

“You weren’t miserable,” I tease. “Just stubborn.”

“Same thing.”

I tilt the screen so the last photo fills it, him standing still, axe resting on his shoulder, eyes on me instead of the blade. There’s something unguarded there, something he probably doesn’t know I caught.

He studies it for a long second, jaw tight, then glances down at me. “You make it look different.”

“Maybe you’re just seeing it different.”

His gaze lingers, heavier than before. “Depends who’s looking, I guess.”

That line shouldn’t land the way it does. But it does.

The air thickens again, that same push and pull as earlier, except quieter now, less about heat, more about awareness. My pulse keeps time with the rain starting to hit the porch roof, soft and steady.

“You ever let someone take your picture?” he asks.

“Only by accident,” I say. “Self-timers don’t count.”

He nods once, thoughtful, eyes still on the image frozen on the screen. “Figures. You like hiding behind the lens.”

“It’s where I see people best,” I answer before I think.

His eyes lift to meet mine. “And when someone’s looking back?”

That one hits deep.

I shrug, trying for casual. “Guess we’ll find out.”

A low rumble rolls through the trees, thunder chasing the light from the room. Wade moves toward the window, watching the first streaks of rain hit the glass. The muscles in his back shift beneath the flannel, and for a moment I wonder what it would take for him to look at himself the way I see him.

When he turns back, there’s something new in his expression—not quite a smile, not quite a question. Something… softer.

“Storm’s gonna trap you here awhile,” he says finally.

I lift the camera again, half-smiling. “Guess I’ll have to make good use of the light, then.”

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, amusement flickering in his eyes. “You ever put that thing down, Brynn?”

“Only when I find something better to focus on.”

His grin curves, slow and deliberate. “Careful. Might take that personal.”

“Good,” I say, raising the lens again. “You should.”

The storm outside doesn’t just settle in, it claims the evening. Rain comes down steady and hard, a constant drumming that muffles the rest of the world. Wade’s cabin smells like cedar and woodsmoke, something warm beneath the sharpness of the rain-soaked air.

He moves through it like the space knows him. Every shelf is neat, every boot lined up by the door. The man doesn’t waste movement or words. He’s the human equivalent of a level line—steady, exact, maddeningly controlled.

“Does this place double as your second home?” I ask, leaning against the counter. “Or are you secretly auditioning for a survivalist calendar?”

That earns a glance over his shoulder, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “Both, maybe.”

“Guess that makes me your talent scout.”

“Pretty sure you already gave me that job title.”

“Fair. But your modeling fee’s terrible.”

“Didn’t agree to one.”

I grin. “Exactly my point.”

His answering grunt is low, almost amused, and something about that quiet, reluctant humor warms the space more than the fire crackling in the stove ever could.

I run my fingers absently over the edge of the table, tracing the grain of the wood. That’s when I spot a coil of rope draped over a peg near the door, probably for hauling wood or gear, but cleaner than the one I used outside.

I lift it with one hand. “You really have this stuff everywhere, huh?”

“Comes with the territory.”

“Of chopping wood?”

“Of fixing things that break.” His voice carries a weight that doesn’t belong entirely to the room, but I let it slide.

The rope uncoils between my fingers, smoother than I expect. I tilt my head. “You said I tied it wrong earlier. Care to demonstrate the right way, or was that just mansplaining from a safe distance?”

He looks up from where he’s stirring the fire, and the corner of his mouth kicks higher. “You really don’t like being told you’re wrong, do you?”

“I like proof.”

He crosses the room in a few slow steps, hand extended. “Here.”

I should probably hand it over. I don’t. Instead, I hold it halfway between us. “You’re awfully confident for someone who’s never modeled before.”

He takes the rope anyway, his fingers brushing the inside of my wrist. It’s nothing, a passing touch, but my pulse jumps like it’s been caught.

He doesn’t pull away. “You want it tight,” he says quietly, twisting the rope into a small loop. His hands are sure, unhurried. “See how it folds over itself? It holds better that way.”

I try to follow the motion, but it’s hard to think with him this close. He smells like pine and smoke and something clean, soap or rain or possibly just him.

He loops the rope again, this time around my wrist, the fibers dragging lightly against my skin. “Too tight?”

“No,” I breathe. “It’s fine.”

His voice drops lower. “Fine’s not the word I’d use.”

I swallow hard. “You always this confident when you’re teaching?”

“Only when the student looks like she might bite.”

The laugh that escapes me is small and a little breathless. “Guess you’d better keep your distance then.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he steps behind me, hands finding the rope again where it rests against my wrist. His fingers skim over mine, guiding the motion, adjusting the twist. I can feel his breath at the curve of my neck, warm and deliberate.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges. “Not too tight, not too loose. Just enough to remind you it’s there.”

My throat goes dry. “You sure this is still a tutorial?”

“Sure,” he says, though it sounds anything but.

The rope moves again, slower this time, each pass a drag of texture against skin. His thumb traces along the back of my hand, and when he ties off the end, the knot rests right over my pulse.

“Better?” he asks.

I glance down. The rope looks simple, but I can feel the weight of it, the heat of where his fingers just were. “Depends on the goal.”

He tugs the end gently, testing the slack. “And what’s yours?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

He studies me for a long moment, eyes darker now, searching. Then, with that same quiet certainty, he gives the rope another small pull, barely enough to move me, but enough that I feel it in my chest, my breath, everywhere.

“You trust me?” he asks softly.

The question lands somewhere deep, cutting through the joke and the teasing, straight into something real.

“With the rope or with something else?”

His mouth curves… just barely. “Either works.”

The rope rests between us, the storm filling the silence he leaves behind. I can still feel every place his hands touched, every breath that brushed my skin.

And when I finally meet his gaze again, it hits me that maybe the real question isn’t about the rope at all.

The air between us hums, steady and low, the kind of pull that doesn’t fade when you look away.

He hasn’t stepped back yet but neither have I.

The rope still rests against my wrist, loose but present, the fibers catching on the quick rhythm of my pulse.

“Looks like you’re learning,” Wade says, voice rough around the edges.

I lift my chin, pretending my heart isn’t beating out of sync. “Think I earned an A yet?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. “Not grading on a curve.”

The corner of my lips tilts. “That a compliment or a warning?”

“Both.”

He gives the rope a light tug, not enough to tighten, but just enough to pull me closer. The distance between us disappears, replaced by heat and breath and the faint smell of woodsmoke clinging to his shirt.

I brace my free hand on his chest to keep from stumbling, but he doesn’t move. He just watches me, like he’s giving me every chance to stop this.

I don’t.

The moment stretches, taut as the rope between us, until something finally snaps. His mouth meets mine—firm, deliberate, not rushed. The kind of kiss that feels like it’s been waiting all day for permission.

It’s not soft, exactly. It’s patient, full of held-back things neither of us is saying. My hand fists in his flannel, dragging him closer. His free hand comes up to my jaw, thumb sweeping along my cheek, steadying me even as everything inside me tilts.

He deepens the kiss until I forget where I’m standing. The edge of the table catches behind my hips, grounding me as his body presses closer, warm and solid and unyielding.

The rope shifts when I move, a faint scrape against my wrist that makes me gasp. He feels it—the sound, the reaction—and his breath catches.

“Too much?” he murmurs, lips brushing mine.

“No.” I swallow. “Not even close.”

His answering hum vibrates against my mouth. The hand at my jaw slides lower, fingers tracing down my throat, skimming the open collar of my shirt until they stop just above my heart. He doesn’t push further. Just feels it—my heartbeat, fast and uneven beneath his touch.

Every move is measured, deliberate. A question, not a demand.

I lift my tied hand between us, letting the rope brush against his chest. “Guess I’m the one caught now,” I whisper.

His mouth curves against mine. “You sure about that?”

He tugs the rope again, drawing me back into another kiss—harder this time, hungrier. My back hits the table, his body caging mine in. The tension between control and want balances on a knife’s edge.

It’s not frantic, but it’s close. Every sound, every breath, feels louder in the quiet storm outside.

When he finally breaks the kiss, his forehead rests against mine. We’re both breathing hard, the rope hanging slack now between our hands.

“You’re supposed to be the one in front of the camera, Wade,” I manage, voice catching somewhere between a laugh and a breath.

He looks down at me, eyes dark and steady. “Not when I’ve got something better to focus on.”

o be Continued. Come back tomorrow for part three

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

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: November 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix