The Ways We Fit Together

In the quiet isolation of Fillory, every touch becomes a revelation. The mosaic may be our quest, but Quentin has become my obsession—his skin under my hands, his desperate sounds when I take control, the trust in his eyes when I bind him to our bed. This isn't just sex. It's discovery. It's surrender. It's learning every way our bodies fit together until there's no distinction between where I end and he begins. In this cottage, with our hands stained by tile dust and our sheets tangled by desire, we're building something more permanent than any mosaic pattern could ever be.

The Ways We Fit Together

In the quiet isolation of Fillory, every touch becomes a revelation. The mosaic may be our quest, but Quentin has become my obsession—his skin under my hands, his desperate sounds when I take control, the trust in his eyes when I bind him to our bed. This isn't just sex. It's discovery. It's surrender. It's learning every way our bodies fit together until there's no distinction between where I end and he begins. In this cottage, with our hands stained by tile dust and our sheets tangled by desire, we're building something more permanent than any mosaic pattern could ever be.

The rope burns slightly against my palms as I test the knots, ensuring they're secure but not too tight. The bed creaks softly under Quentin's weight as he shifts, his arms stretched above his head, wrists bound to the wooden bedframe with the soft rope I purchased from Malis. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his dark eyes fixed on me with a mixture of nervousness and eager anticipation.

"Comfortable?" I ask, running my fingers lightly down his arm, enjoying the way his skin prickles at my touch.

He nods, biting his lower lip. "Yeah. It just feels... intense."

"Good," I murmur, leaning down to brush my lips against his collarbone. "That's how it's supposed to feel."

His breath hitches as I continue my path downward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across his chest, pausing to swirl my tongue around one nipple until it hardens under my attention. His hips buck slightly, his cock already hard and leaking against his stomach. I can feel the tension in his body—the desire to reach out, to touch me, to take control—but the ropes prevent it, forcing him into helplessness.

And I know he loves every second of it.

I pull back, sitting on my heels between his spread legs, drinking in the sight of him—chest flushed, hair messy, bound and vulnerable just for me. His eyes are dark with desire, pupils blown wide as he watches my every move.

"Tell me what you want," I say, my voice lower than usual with my own building need.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing enticingly. "I want you to touch me. Please, Eliot."

The please is what does it—always has. The way this clever, stubborn man surrenders so completely to me, trusting me with both his body and his pleasure.

I smile, trailing one finger lightly down his chest, over his stomach, stopping just short of where he most wants me to touch. "Patience, baby. I'm going to take my time with you tonight."