Technicalities aside, it's not exactly their first time. He doesn't like to dwell too often--or for too long--on the other, but considering the circumstances, considering that his hands are sliding over the too-perfect skin of her thighs and his mouth is covering hers, keeping them quiet, it's hard not to do so. Hard not to think about being bound and helpless, trapped and terrified, those thighs pressing into his hips as she straddled him, grinding her clothed body against his, licking his wounds and then making more, riding him until he'd spilled more than just blood. He wonders if she realizes how much of what he is now is tied up in what she did to him that night.
Oh. Oh my. Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness gracious. Oh my goodness gracious me. Sometimes I worry about me. Sometimes I worry when I find things like this hotter than the surface of the fucking sun. Because I really, really shouldn't. But it is. Hotter.