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Tasha was half-scrolling Instagram, half-flicking the corner of her highlighter with her thumb when her phone buzzed with the sharp, specific tone she’d assigned to only one contact.

Upstairs Dick.

She tapped it, already smirking—and there it was.

“handcuffed 2 bed come qk”
No punctuation. No shame. Just need.

Attached was a photo: his legs spread wide on rumpled gray sheets, fully naked and already flushed, cock hard and curved against his belly. His wrists were cuffed tight to the headboard—black leather, silver buckles, zero slack. A massive blackout blindfold covered half his face, stretching from brow to cheekbone, and a bright red ballgag gleamed between his teeth, lips parted, jaw strained just enough to show he’d been wearing it a while. The lighting made everything in the shot feel warmer, dirtier—like sweat was already running down his ribs. One of the cuffs looked tighter than the other. He couldn’t see a thing. Couldn’t say a word. Just wait.

Tasha’s grin stretched slow and satisfied.

“Dramatic,” she muttered, thumbing the photo open for another glance. “Horny little idiot.”

Not that it was out of character. They’d been fucking off and on for months. Always casual, always rough, always an exchange of control that tilted wildly depending on her mood. He liked begging. She liked making him. He liked being used. She liked breaking the tempo.

Today, apparently, he wanted to be rescued.

Or claimed.

She stood up from the couch in a slow stretch, shirt riding up. No need for pants. No need for modesty. She considered underwear, then glanced at the time, shrugged, and pulled on a faded black zip-up hoodie—unzipped halfway down to her sternum. She didn’t bother zipping it any higher.

No bra. No panties. Just skin and heat.

She pocketed a bottle of lube out of habit, then padded toward the hallway barefoot, heart beating faster with each step. By the time she hit the fourth floor landing and started up toward the fifth, she could feel the slickness starting to gather between her thighs, the draft of the stairwell licking along her inner legs.

Fifth floor. Right side. Apartment 507.

She knocked once, lightly, out of habit, even as her fingers tested the knob.

It turned.

Unlocked.

She arched a brow. Bold. Stupid. Or both.

Pushing the door open, she stepped inside without hesitation.

“Hope you’re still hard,” she called, voice amused, sharp. “You’re lucky I’m bored.”