“You should talk to Eleanor. Get her in at the museum full-time,” I suggested, my voice dipping lower than usual, the words slipping out with a teasing edge. “She’d be a perfect fit.”

I turned toward him, a sly smile teasing the corner of my lips. “You saw how many people were hovering around her tonight. She’d definitely bring in more foot traffic.”

He mulled it over, but after a second, his eyes flicked back to the road. “I can take those off at the next light,” he said quietly, voice steady but tired.

“That’d be nice ... I’d be able to reach you better,” I murmured, soft but bold, fingers inching forward, brushing him just barely, the seatbelt a barrier between us. “But ... you seem to like them.”

His body shifted—just a little—but enough. His grip on the wheel tightened, a subtle jerk betraying the control he fought to hold.

“Or was it that dark-haired beauty?” I dropped my voice lower, teasing now, daring. “The one with her hands cuffed to her sides, struggling to walk in those heels and leg cuffs?”

“Pretty sure she wasn’t leg-cuffed—those heels were just insanely high.”

“Of course she was, silly,” I said, my tone low and teasing, a spark of that restless energy flickering beneath my words. “Yeah, those heels were impossibly high, but she seemed the type that knew exactly how to walk in them.”

I gave a slow, deliberate nod, fingers reaching for his hand despite the seatbelt, brushing him lightly. I leaned in closer, breath warm against his ear. “And that dress? It fit her perfectly ... tight enough to tease, but loose enough not to trap her.”

I let the words linger in the air for a moment, letting the silence stretch just long enough to tingle. My voice softened into a playful near-giggle. “So, yeah ... there was something between her legs.”

I looked at him again, catching the faint tension in his jaw. “Anyway, wouldn’t it be fun to have a cute little thing like that at the museum? All chained up like a prisoner?”

There was a pause.

“What do you mean?” he asked, and this time his voice didn’t match mine. It sounded tighter. Uncertain. Maybe even a little uncomfortable.

I shrugged casually, a smirk curling on my lips. “There are rumors going around about her,” I said, lowering my voice just a touch—like I was sharing a secret meant only for him. A secret that maybe I shouldn’t enjoy as much as I did.

“That she wears prison restraints. You know ... like the ones they put on inmates. Those real chains—handcuffs, waist chain, the one that runs all the way down to the ankles.”

I felt a lightheaded rush as I said it, like the idea had slipped from fantasy into something more tangible. I smiled—mostly to myself.

“And that she’s been a really bad girl, so she has to wear them. At least, that’s what Carol said she heard. She said the girl’s been spotted all chained up.”

“They’re just rumors,” he said, voice dismissive, eyes still on the road. “You know how this town is.”

“Or maybe someone saw her in the past few days or something,” he added, more thoughtful now. There was a calmness in his voice, but also a flicker of intrigue—like he was trying to make sense of something without feeding into it too much.

“Sophie told me she’s been wearing those kinds of restraints you described—for tonight’s exhibition. You know ... to symbolize what those women we saw tonight have had to go through.”

He glanced over at me, cautious. “But I doubt she has to wear them. That doesn’t make any sense. Or that she’ll keep wearing them after tonight.”

“Really?” I said slowly, hearing the slight slur in my own voice. Yeah. I’m definitely drunk, I thought, distantly amused. Or maybe not amused at all.

“You really think she wears those fucking things as an act of solidarity for women’s rights?”

The words came sharper now, though I was still leaning into the slink of it, still trying to sound playful—trying.

“You chain yourself up like a prison bitch to point out that—”

I trailed off, frowning, the thought slipping through my fingers. Or maybe it was too tangled to say out loud. I wasn’t sure.

“Well, those looked pretty real. And the fact she has different kinds?” I added, tone edged with a dark kind of curiosity. “Who keeps around those kinds of things? They’re not exactly a fashion accessory a girl keeps in her closet.”

I opened my mouth to say more, but the thought fizzled out halfway through. My brows knit for a second—brief, fleeting—then I gave a little shrug, letting the silence hang between us, stretched just long enough to feel deliberate.

“Maybe,” I said finally, circling back to his earlier point, my voice softer now, laced with a mock innocence that didn’t quite hide the edge. “But wouldn’t it be fun to have her at the museum?”

“I’m not into that,” he replied immediately, too quickly, his tone flat but firm. “And you’re drunk,” he added, trying to soften it with a smile. “You know you shouldn’t be drinking.”

I ran my hand over him again—this time with more pressure, more intent. The kind of touch that didn’t ask.

“Could’ve fooled me,” I said, my voice thick with mischief, with something deeper hiding underneath.

“I wouldn’t ever do anything—”

I cut him off gently, my voice soft but steady. “I know...” I said, a small smile curling on my lips. “I know you wouldn’t.”

“You’re around Sophie all the time,” I added, watching him. “And she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

I giggled, letting the sound bubble up light and airy—even if it felt just a little too loud in the car. I looked over at him with a teasing grin.

“Well, I guess that’s a bad example,” I said, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know.”

“What’s this about?” he asked, side-eyeing me—half curious, half wary.

“It’s about me wanting to be fucked,” I said, my voice dipping quieter, more direct now. No teasing this time. Just truth. “And you haven’t been ... you know...”

I paused, then looked out the windshield before turning back to him.

“You come home, sit and watch TV, or disappear into your office,” I continued, frustration threading into my voice. “Like I’m not even here.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there in silence, eyes fixed ahead.

Then, finally, he asked, “Is that why you wanted to be in those tonight? It wasn’t because of Rebecca and the exhibition?”

I shook my head, a quiet breath escaping—half sigh, half laugh. There was a hint of exasperation in my voice now, sharp around the edges.

“Really, Jack?” I said, raising an eyebrow at him. “You really think I wore handcuffs to the museum ... for some cause?”

“I wore these fucking things all night to get you hard,” I said, my voice low and teasing, but carrying a thread of something more. I reached out again, my fingers brushing against him.

He was definitely swollen. Throbbing.

“And ... apparently, it worked. Why do you think I’m dressed like this?”

“I’ve heard she’s always in dresses, pantyhose, and heels,” I said, glancing over at him, my fingers still tracing along his skin. “And seeing what a pretty girl all dressed up and tied down does to you ... I just figured—seeing her like that, all dolled up and chained like some little prison bitch...”

I paused, my voice dropping lower, rougher.

“You’d come home hard ... like you are now. And maybe you’d want me.”

I shrugged, shifting my hands to reach him better, sliding a little closer.

“And I could be all dressed and cuffed up for you when you came home. Helpless.”

“So, you want her there because you think I’d get turned on by it?” he asked, his tone firm. “I told you, I’m not into that.”

“I’m not saying you’d be into her,” I said, shaking my head slowly, deliberately. “What I’m saying is that seeing her like that ... all day...”

My fingers moved toward him again—this time with more pressure. His body responded immediately, pressing into my touch before his mind could catch up.

The car jolted slightly—he jerked the wheel.

“Careful,” I whispered, voice low and smooth, like I hadn’t just caused it.

“Can you please stop?” he said, caught somewhere between serious and amused. “We’re going to get into a wreck.”

He kept his eyes on the road, but I caught the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers clenched just a little harder around the wheel.

“I know how painful it is...” I said softly, glancing at him, my voice slowing.

I reached out again—this time not just to tease. The tension—how tight it must feel for him.

“It must really hurt right now,” I murmured, my fingers tracing him. “To be throbbing like that. All swollen ... nowhere to go.”

“If you pull over ... I could help. You could move the cuffs behind me, lean your seat back ... and let me take control. I’m wearing stockings ... Not pantyhose.”

He didn’t say anything. Of course not. Not now. Not anymore.

“We could get some of those restraints...” I murmured, my words slow, slurred just enough to feel loose, unguarded. “You know ... the kind they put on naughty prison girls...”

I laughed softly, tipping my head back for a second before meeting his eyes again, hazy and wicked.

“Like what that bitch wears...” I dragged the words out, letting them hang heavy between us. “All locked up ... wrists cuffed, that cold metal chain around my waist, the chain pulling down between my legs...”

I shifted in my seat, breath catching, voice growing breathier.

“Clink, clink, clink ... every step I take. The noise reminding me that I belong to you. No running. No hiding. Just ... clinking.”

A giggle escaped me as I traced a lazy finger along his side.

“Imagine that echoing through the house ... slow and steady. No way out. Completely helpless.”

I let the thought hang in the air, savoring the moment.

“I’d be all chained up,” I murmured, leaning in close—my lips barely grazing his ear. “Just waiting for you to come home ... all worked up from being around that tiny little thing all day. Then you find me—dressed up, chained up, just like she was.”

The words poured out slow and heavy, like honey thick with heat.

“Watching her walk around ... all dressed up ... locked up because she’s been so naughty ... that now she has to wear them.”

“And if you wanted ... maybe we could get one of those sexy prison jumpsuits,” I added, my voice low and teasing.

A soft smile curved my lips as I leaned in closer.

He smiled, eyes flicking to me. “You’re really drunk.”

I nodded, slow and a little lazy. “Yeah,” I admitted. “But ... it wasn’t my fault. They kept bringing me drinks.”

“They were bringing everyone drinks. That doesn’t mean you had to take them,” he said, tone gentle but firm. “We talked about this. You shouldn’t be drinking. The doctor said—”

I cut him off, a mischievous grin spreading. “The doctor. Blah, blah, blah.”

I shot back, playful but pointed, “Then you should’ve cuffed my hands behind me.”

“So, Joan didn’t try to stop you?” he asked, voice steady.

“Of course she did,” I said, dragging out the words. “Miss Proper was all, Oh, Julie, sweetie. Jack won’t approve. You shouldn’t be drinking. Blah, blah, blah...”

He glanced at me, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “What did she say when she saw you in them?”

I slurred, voice slow and thick, barely holding myself together, “She said I was showing solidarity ... that it was ‘wond-er-ful.’” I mimicked Joan’s tone with exaggerated boredom.

“And if they hurt ... how they felt ... if I had the keys...”

I sighed. “And she went on about that girl. How strong she was ... for wearing them. How she learned she doesn’t have the keys. How she doesn’t let herself out.”

I shook my head, voice thick with disbelief. “So dedicated ... to feel so deeply about a cause that you’d let yourself be bound ... knowing you can’t get out without help.”

I looked at him, smirking through the haze. “Like wearing restraints takes courage.”

He cut in, voice sharp but gentle, “So what did you tell her?”

I giggled, shaky but real. “That they’re like bracelets ... that I couldn’t take them off ... and that you had the keys ... and you liked me in them.”

He rolled his eyes. “Really?” he asked, disbelief clear. “You really told her that?”

“Sure,” I said with a grin—playful, but with an edge. “What else was I supposed to say? That I used to wear these all the time? Back when we were young. That you tried rope, leather restraints ... everything. And the only thing that I couldn’t get out of was handcuffs? That you had to cuff me to the bed just to get some sleep? Otherwise, I’d keep you up all night.”

I let the words hang in the air, a slow, wicked smile curling at my lips.

I didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t need to.

We drove in silence for a few minutes, the low hum of the engine filling the heavy space between us.

Then finally, I spoke—my voice smaller than I meant it to be.

“Do you ... not love me anymore?”

He glanced over. Eyes heavy, but steady. “I love you,” he said, without hesitation. “It’s just...” He paused. “The mood swings. The impulsiveness. It wears on you.”

I drew in a shaky breath. “The meds are working,” I said quickly, like if I said it fast enough, it might be true. “I’m better than I was.”

He nodded. “You are.”

Then, quietly, “But I came home last week ... and you were in that teddy. The stockings. The heels.”

His voice wasn’t cruel. Just tired.

I looked away, staring out the window.

“I missed you,” I said. “I wanted you. You didn’t like it?”

“I did. But you knew we had that donor event. You knew how important it was. Those donations keep the museum open. It’s once a year, Julie. Once.”

“I put on a dress,” I muttered, voice flat.

He sighed. “After we fought. After you screamed at me. After you threw—” he stopped himself. “After the mood turned so fast ... I—I thought I was looking at her again.”

My jaw tightened.

“And you didn’t change,” he added. “Just threw the dress over the lingerie. No touch-up. Same heels. Same ... stockings.”

“I thought you’d like knowing what I had on underneath,” I said, managing a faint smile. “The stockings were really sexy ... and you like those heels—the way they force the arch of my foot so high. And I knew it’d make you hard.”

He exhaled through his nose. “You were touching me all night. In front of people.”

“You didn’t like it?” I said quickly, too quickly. My hand moved to his thigh again, fingers bold.

He flinched. Just a little. But it was there.

“You like it,” I whispered, eyes on him. “See?” My hand traced higher. “You still want me.”