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The morning of the second day that they were snowbound in the cabin, Sylvia tied Crawford's wrists to the bedposts with his own necktie. She had a light touch with it and he slept deeply - whether from natural inclination or from how she'd worn him out the night before - so she managed it without waking him easily enough.
Flipping the sheet off of him, she sat back to look: the sight was enough to make her wish for a camera, and not just for blackmail: he was handsome enough most of the time, but naked and bound he was definitely something to remember. She knew better than to think of him as vulnerable, really, even asleep: he was Crawford, after all, and that meant he had plans on top of plans - on top of his precognition. It was luck and good thinking that she'd caught him asleep like this, really.
Luck, or intent on his part. She crawled on top of him, straddling him, looking down into his face, sitting up just enough to keep her hair from brushing him. Maybe, she thought, maybe he was the sort who said he was all about power, but deep down, just wanted it to be taken away from him.
She doubted it, but oh, it made for a compelling fantasy, the thought of having Eszet's darling at her beck and call, the idea of being able to have him bound and submitting whenever she wanted it - of having his visions, his knowledge as her own.
Reaching up, she caught her hair in one hand, then leaned down to taste his shoulder, salt and skin: a long lick up his arm, tracing the strong muscle as he moved slightly below her, tugging lightly, unconsciously at the silk wrapped around his wrists.
Pulling away, Sylvia glanced down into his face: still asleep, though his brow was wrinkled slightly, as if dreaming or Seeing, his lips slightly parted. His eyes were still closed, though, long eyelashes lying against his cheeks, his glasses somewhere on the other side of the room, with her hairpins and most of both their clothes. It was tempting to wake him with a kiss, like some sort of twisted Sleeping Beauty, but she wanted more of this, first: no one ever caught Crawford the same way twice - unless he wanted them to.
She ran her fingers down his chest, sitting up and moving backwards until she knelt over his thighs, her hands on his hips: lightly, but firm enough not to tickle and wake him. And here was another choice - but this one she couldn't quite bring herself to turn down. Gently, she stroked his soft cock with the back of one fingernail, smooth, teasing. She loved this, the power in it, getting him hard without his knowledge, his consent, forcing his body to react to her; it was, in a way, a sort of submission, though admittedly a cheap one.
Even better, though, was straddling him and lowering herself onto his cock, feeling the stretch as it sank into her, the deep ache of last night's soreness, the unbelievable, perfect fullness. Leaning backwards just a little more, she rocked down against him, one hand teasing at her clit, her breath coming hard and sharp already.
He woke, finally, at the sound of her moan. His eyes snapped open, focusing myopically on her - and she could see it in his face when he realized he was tied, the way the muscles in his arms flexed, the instant he realized what the binding was and that he had a choice between trying to rip his own tie or staying bound. His eyes were just a touch too narrow, jaw a little too tight, and damn, but he was even more attractive when he was angry, even if it meant her fantasy was so much smoke.
But then he rolled his hips up to meet hers just so, surprising her with the sudden force and depth of it and driving her thumb hard against the side of her clit, sending her shuddering into an unexpected orgasm and leaving her gasping for breath as he kept fucking up into her.
It was almost, almost too much to bear, but she clenched around him, rode him for all he was worth, fighting back: doing her best to drive him just as crazy. She owed it to him, anyway, for the reminder that the fight to tame a man who didn't want to be tamed was half the fun.