I can’t stop picturing Margot Robbie exactly like this—wrists crossed and roped tightly behind her back, the coarse fibers digging faintly into her skin, her shoulders pulled back so her chest rises and falls a little faster than usual. More rope winds above and below her breasts, framing them, forcing that perfect posture even when she tries to twist or test the knots. A wide strip of silver duct tape seals her lips completely, smoothed down so tightly that it molds to the shape of her mouth; every muffled sound she manages is soft, desperate, and swallowed instantly by the gag. Her famous cheekbones still catch the light, her eyes—wide, bright, furious and frightened all at once—lock onto mine whenever I step closer. Strands of blonde hair have fallen across her face; she can’t brush them away. Her legs are bound at the ankles and just above the knees, forcing her to stay on her knees or lie on her side if I push her down. Every small shift of her body makes the ropes creak faintly. I want to touch her so badly it feels like pressure behind my ribs. I want to trace one fingertip along the edge of the tape, feel the warmth of her cheek underneath, follow the line of her jaw, then slide down the column of her throat where her pulse is hammering. I want to rest my palm between her collarbones and feel her heart slamming against my hand while she breathes hard through her nose. I want to run my fingers over the rope that frames her chest, feel how taut the bindings are, how little give there is, then let my hand drift lower, slow, deliberate, watching her eyes flare and her body jerk uselessly against the restraints. I want to feel the heat coming off her skin, the faint trembling she can’t hide, the way every muscle tightens when my fingers finally make contact. I want to take my time—because she can’t stop me, can’t speak, can’t do anything except stare back at me with those huge, pleading, defiant eyes while I explore every inch I’ve spent years imagining.