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Lace Your Fingers

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Homme used to get upset with him for messing with his clothes.

Hani had an answer for that. He'd wait until Homme was flat on the bed, face down and moaning into the sheets as Hani kissed and licked and sucked his way down his back - and then he'd step away, let the air bring shivers down Homme's spine. Step away, and over to the chair piled with neatly folded clothes, and tip them onto the floor, dig into them in search of that long, thing strip of silk – black, of course – that he'd bring back to the bed with him, leaving the clothes strewn on the floor.

Homme wouldn't open his eyes until Hani pulled his hands up behind him, pressing them flat against the small of his back, threading them together.

And then, then Homme would open his eyes, but then it would be too late, because Hani would already be wrapping the tie around Homme's wrists, over his palms and through his fingers, an intricate, deceptively plain knot that Homme could tug and tug at, and feel the strain in every inch of skin.