Now let's see what we have!
Redd discovers that the night he finally dares to undo Greyson's drawstring, he is so overdue that Greyson had been about to steal his pants.
And that their dexterity does not initially transfer, but finds its rhythm soon enough.
And that Greyson swears when he gets close, more so when beyond that before he anticipates.
And that his beard is a raspy thrill on Redd's stomach, a cloud against his arm when they curl together in the afterglow.
And that Redd becomes a puddle himself when Greyson melts into his embrace, whispering his love for him for the first time.
Greyson discovers that all his swagger leaves him along with his clothing, but Redd doesn't expect him to put on a show.
And that instead, Redd cracks terrible jokes - with the help of improvised puppetry - so they will both be silly together.
And that a nibble on the earlobe causes him to shudder with delight.
And that gentler bites elsewhere are even more effective.
And that Redd is polite to a fault long after consent gives way to gasping urgency.
And that his ability to find words trails off into sounds that tell Greyson exactly what he needs to know.
I forget what a total brute you are
Play a bit rougher, why don't you? Greyson had insisted. You're not going to rip me in half.
Greyson almost regrets it when Redd goes to throw him over his shoulder and bumps him into the ceiling.
And when a favorite shirt loses all its buttons to one opening yank, and his pants knock over a lamp during their flight into the corner.
And when Greyson repeatedly slams into the headboard with the force of a car crash.
Then Redd gets hold of his strength as his eyes gleam with new abandon, and Greyson rockets from ignition clear into orbit.
NO I CAN'T GET TO MY F-... I can't get to my picks!
The cuffs are metal, the picks in plain view on the nightstand, which torments Greyson about as much as Redd's plans to follow. Watching, rather than aiding, the unbuttoning of dress shirt and leisurely shedding of trousers, the slow reveal of broad muscled chest and a second skin of undershorts. That wicked grin - beneath the horned mask, as Redd jokingly plays the demon behind closed doors - an inch too far to kiss, and widening a notch at each patient and delicate touch, each elicited strain against the bonds, each grunt and twitch and failure to suppress a curse of frustration.
What is this?
"Redd, I've been thinking."
"That sounds dangerous."
"No, no. Not like that. It's about my name. A little redundant, don't you agree?"
"If you say so. If you ask me, it's twice as nice."
"More like twice the pain in my ass when some bureaucrat forgets which one goes first."
Redd swallowed back a sudden lump in his throat.
"If you did want to change your name, you're more than welcome to mine."
"Well, I could change it to anyth-"
Redd dropped to one knee, presenting the rings he had been carrying for weeks in anticipation of the perfect occasion.