1

Leave it to me to arrive late to a Shibari Instructional Presentation–I bought these tickets months ago, for fuck's sake. The young lady taking tickets warned me about sneaking in while a set was in motion, but I didn't want to wait. I'd be forced to stand outside in the January frostbite of New York. So what if I can't see where I'm going and cell phones aren't allowed? Which means I wouldn't be able to use my flashlight to guide me down the steps. Instead, I feel my way around, touching the backs of chairs, peoples' hair, and coats while occasionally tripping over my own damn feet. My cane saves me multiple times in what I'm sure is a graceless entrance.

Someone shushes me and my cheeks burn. It's bad enough I'm late, but now my ingress of shame is highlighted by who knows who. Fuck me.

Mortified, I can't look up to the stage. Instead, I make my way to an empty seat in the very first row somewhere in the middle. I find myself crouching, and my embarrassment spikes to yet another level. In hushed mumbles, I apologize for getting in the way and stepping on a few toes, but I notice all eyes are glued to the front where a deep and seductive voice carries on his rope-tying methods for all of us to watch and perhaps learn.

I plant my ass down on the soft plush and take my yellow notepad and mechanical pencil out of my backpack. My trusty walking stick looks like sapphire quartz, sparkly with inset bubbles, and I lay it gently near my thigh. The inside of my mouth instantly waters when I finally look up to the instructor of the hour. I couldn't grab a pamphlet, therefore have no idea what the presenters" names are–the one tying and the one being tied. A blonde woman wearing a nude-colored, skin-tight romper sits on her haunches and a man is slowly, yet efficiently, binding her arms behind her back, creating art with rope.

I can't peel my eyes off the man. He's exquisite. Everything about him, from the sound of his voice–deep and seductive, dripping over my skin like velvet, caressing me–to the elegance of his body. He's barefoot and has gray joggers and a black tank. His rippled biceps move effortlessly as he hoists up his model, pulling on the rope and touching her skin where the material sits on her forearms. His presence alone is soothing and commanding. He could be standing or sitting on a fucking chair, literally doing nothing, but he's a god, nonetheless. Perfection. It's like a dance, an opera special, or a one-of-a-kind, classical concerto.

A masterpiece.

I find myself scribbling a free hand of his body instead of his work. It's beautiful, but I can't seem to take my eyes off of him–Shibari forgotten. My glasses begin to droop down my thin nose and the bright blue of my hair now drapes dangerously close to my peripheral. In a frustrating move, I push my glasses up and scrunch my nose, as if the wrinkles will keep them up. And I shake my locks away like a madwoman, eager to return to my drawing. I can't let him disappear without committing every detail to paper.

Truth be told, I should be back at my dorm studying for my last final tomorrow morning, but I couldn't miss this show. Originally, I bought two tickets, hoping Rose would tag along with me. But she prioritizes her studies, whereas I obviously don't. I couldn't get a refund, and it's not like a line of people were outside dying to get in and looking to buy tickets from a complete stranger. At least now, I only lost one entrance fee, not two.

I keep my eyes busy, watching the nawashi, his expertise beyond masterful. The rope overlaps perfectly on the model's upper thighs and arms, which are now secured behind her back. His movements are slow and deliberate–a caress. Two pieces of overlapping rope slice between her legs like a thong and it pushes against her most sensitive parts. She hangs with her breasts facing the ceiling, her hair cascading back, and when the rope artist wraps a fist around her locks and tugs, I'm instantly wet between my legs. I squeeze my thighs closely together and attempt to swallow back the dry lump in my throat. My heart drums in my chest, and sweat begins to accumulate in tiny drops between my breasts and lower back.

He's no more than five years older than me, I think. His skin is slightly tanned, and I wonder if he just landed from a warm place. You can't possibly maintain such a beautiful tone during New York's bitter winter. He keeps his brown hair short but long enough on top that it drapes over his eyes if he bends down. His bright grayish eyes remind me of the gloomiest day, right before the storm hits and lighting flashes across a cloudy sky. And his lips… oh fuck, his lips.

Sitting in the front row doesn't seem so bad now.

I take in every rippling detail, down to his perfect man-piece, barely hidden behind the soft material of his sweats. The outline of his dick forces my heart to palpitate and spike beyond normal range, and I focus on it a little too much while I dedicate a whole page in my notebook to drawing that specific part of him.

As if my fixation alone alerts him, he suddenly turns and our eyes meet. I don't shrink back into my seat like I want–nope. Instead, it's as if his eyes are a magnet and I'm a piece of fucking metal. I lean forward slightly and push my glasses up again. I don't want my poor eyesight to miss one single beat.

The rope expert looks at my notebook and the sides of his lips quirk up, and then he winks at me.

He winks.

I'm a fucking puddle. But I keep my composure somehow. Or at the very least, I try. A girl's gotta have some pride, damn it. It's not every day a handsome man catches you both gawking and drawing his dick.

He goes back to his model like our moment never happened. I'm feeling somewhere between sad and relieved, but I have no other choice than to be a spectator. It's the reason I came–to learn about something I'm drawn to. I just never thought I'd be more interested in the artist than in the art itself.

"How do you think we did?"

I push my glasses up almost absentmindedly. "I don't know about you, but I did alright."

Rose twirls her fingers around the long, beaded chain attached to her cell phone. She studied more than me and she's a genius. How is it that she's nervous? I didn't even study.

One more semester and I'm done. I can hardly wait.

So far, I've existed as one fuck up after another, striving for I don't even know what–something that will make me feel alive. I know what many see–a daughter to a wealthy, successful family with zero need to work. Spoiled, indecisive, and rebellious.

They aren't entirely wrong. But what isn't understood is my desperation to live life to the fullest. I know firsthand what it's like to have your life goals ripped from under you. In a blink of an eye, everything can change, twisting up your reality and morphing it into a real-life nightmare. And I, for one, am not going to waste a single second of my life.

I keep chasing the inevitable, every possible thing that others run from, and I plummet towards it. Desperate for what courses through my veins when the rush grips me in its visceral hold. I want to live.

My parents don't get it. I know they just want what's best for me, and, in their minds, that means completing my education. It's easy to accomplish their expectations of me and finalize that aspect of my life. I can't bear to disappoint them. Whether they accept all of my other choices, well, that's a definite hell to the no.

"So you'll come with me to this lecture, right?"

Rose's voice brings me back to the now and I roll my eyes. "You don't need extra credit. What we need is to go out and celebrate with a few drinks!"

She shakes her head. "We need all the points we can get. What if this lecture is the difference between a strong A or a low A?"

I gawk at her. What? I want to tell her that she failed to tag along with me last night and that I had to sit all alone while watching people get all roped up. The money that went towards her ticket is gone, but her big brown eyes bore into mine in a puppy-like plead and it melts me on the spot. I don't want to be petty.

"Fine," I breathe. "Whatever."

She squeaks in my ear, and I clasp both my hands down to muffle the deafening sound. Who the fuck gets this excited over extra credit? Rose and I have three classes together, but our Algorithms course kicked both our asses. I don't know if I'll ever recover. To rectify the stream of panic from the majority of the student population that took the class, our professor offered a one-time extra credit opportunity. Assignment: to attend a two-hour lecture on discreet math and algorithms given by some hot shot genius-level spyware geek who invented software used by special ops military.

I'd rather be at the bar down the street, but I guess I'm a sucker for brown eyes. Rose leads us through the auditorium and selects two seats in the middle front row. I'm scrolling through motorbike reels and the occasional baking clips while the space around us fills with students and professors alike.

The soft chatter surrounding us stills when a second-year computer science student clears his throat. Rose prepares herself and takes out her iPad. Something about the tech makes me cringe, and I wiggle my yellow notepad in my hand, making her scrunch her face at me.

My cell phone disappears into my bag as the speaker is introduced, and everyone claps when a tall figure emerges from the thick curtains to the right of the stage.

My hands freeze mid-clap.

The six-foot, tanned skin, brown hair, and silvery-eyed lecturer is the master nawashi from the Shibari Instructional Presentation. My skin prickles. He's wearing a gray suit with a button-down, crisp white shirt underneath. His hair is combed back, and it waves to one side perfectly. He looks like the Henry Cavill version of Clark Kent, minus the glasses. I suck in a breath and steady my trembling fingers, but when he finds me in the crowd and winks, my limbs turn to jelly.

Son of a bitch.

The school auditorium is jam-packed, yet he manages to lock eyes with me.

He looks at my notebook and smiles. "Thank you for that lovely introduction. My name is Jason Hodgins, and I'm confident you'll be an expert on the subject once the lecture is over."

Jason takes out an oblong-looking pen from his coat pocket and clicks it twice. Images appear behind him and the discourse begins. He holds me in place, speaking to everyone, but maintaining eye contact with me.

Rose elbows me. "Do you two know each other or something?"

Or something.I shake my head in response. I mean, it's the truth. I don't know him. But he looks at me as if he knows every dark secret, each alluring thought and perverse desire. His eyes hold me as if he understands each path life has taken me, as though he was present for each of my steps.

It takes every ounce of willpower to stay in my seat, practically squirming at the way Jason's jaw moves while he speaks, the way he holds the fucking laser between his fingers, and each time his eyes caress every part of me–I can't help feeling exposed. Who the fuck is this guy?

Rose squeezes my arms. "Wow, that was fascinating!"

I blink away the sting caused by forcing my eyes to stay open during the entire two-hour lecture. I couldn't look away from him. Not unless it was to sketch his hands in precise detail. Or his jawline, those full lips. And his quizzically charming, burnt charcoal eyes. I snap my notebook shut and shove it in my bag before she notices.

"Ladies, did you enjoy the lecture?"

My heart beats in erratic thumps that threaten to throw me into cardiac arrest. Jason stands in front of the exit, blocking the doorway with his massive height. I'm not a short person, at least I don't think I am. I'm what I would consider average height–five-six. But in Jason's presence, I feel tiny. I get the feeling he makes everyone around him feel proportionately small.

"It was excellent, Professor Hodgins!"

I stare at my best friend, begging her to shut up so that we can get the hell out of here. But she continues. My grip on my cane is softened by the plush cover over the handle, but I know my knuckles are white as bone.

"I can't wait to take your class next semester. How do you like New York so far? It's got to be different from the West Coast."

Rose is the shy yet talkative type, eager to make you feel warm and fuzzy all over by remembering your name. She's a smidge shorter than me, beautiful, with elegant features. I, on the other hand, appear grimy and unkempt. My bright blue hair sits atop my head in a messy bun, with last night's black eyeliner smudged under my lash line that I'm sure my gold-rimmed glasses are highlighting. My nose ring reminds the usual stoic folk in my field that I am most definitely not taking anything seriously. And if it wasn't for the winter season forcing us to layer clothing, my tattoos would be on display.

Wait, his class next semester? Oh no. I take a small step back and lean on the wall for support.

"Very different indeed, but I'm adjusting. How about you? Will you be taking my class as well?"

Me. He's talking to me. "No." It comes out like a weak whimper and I clear my throat.

Jason smiles, and my hand instantly trembles with the desire to run my thumb over his laugh lines. I imagine his teeth scraping the delicate skin of my neck and I hold my breath.

"Good, I'd prefer to see you attend my other, more eclectic course."

I give him an awkward nod and pull Rose, dragging her, and practically sprinting away, ignoring her confused glare and excited farewell. It's a miracle that I don't trip. I'm wearing an older and ungently used prosthetic after placing an order from my favorite company. It'd be one more week before the shipment arrived. I wasn't trying to put my best foot forward, hence the constant use of my cane. After losing my right leg thirteen years ago, I was more than used to the artificial limb. I curse myself for being irresponsible and failing to always wear what I know carries me best.

"Okay," she breathes in a skeptical huff once we're far away from the drop-dead gorgeous speaker… er… professor. "You definitely know him."

I ignore my friend. It was one thing to assume that the Shibari expert is part of the brainiac squad, invited to present a topic he's an expert on, yet he's a professor working at the university I'm attending. If I did happen to enroll in one of his classes, I'd drop it like the hottest beat in a popular song. I am not taking Jason Hodgins' class. Not after he caught me fixated on every inch of his body, committing him to paper and visibly turned on by his every move.

In fact, it'd be best if I didn't see him again. Ever.