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“Good girl.” Fucking hell. If he’s gonna call me "Good Girl," then he might as well skip past girlfriend and just call me his wife.
John’s grip moves to my right wrist, there’s the sound of metal-against-metal as he hooks the super short chain through my wrought iron headboard. He secures the other end around my right wrist. The clicking sound of it tightening is obscenely loud in the silent room. The sight of my hands stretched above my head, secured to my bedframe with John’s handcuffs, sends a pulse of desire straight to my clit. And just like that, I learn something new about myself.
