Bound in Trust (Andrea’s POV)

 It started with a whisper, a quiet moment between the chaos of toddler toys and prenatal appointments.

“I want to try something,” I said as we lay tangled in bed, my head on Doc’s chest, his hand gently stroking over the curve of my belly.

He didn’t answer right away, just kept his fingers moving, waiting for me to say more.

“I want to surrender,” I said. “Not because I’m broken. Not because I need to be fixed. But because I trust you, and I need to feel it… in my body.”

His chest rose and fell with a deep, slow breath. “You know what that does to me?” he said softly.

“Tell me.”

He turned his head and looked at me—eyes dark, jaw tight. “It wrecks me. Because I want to take you apart, Andrea. Carefully. Completely. But only if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

The next night, he brought out the drawer.

I hadn’t even known he had one. But Doc was meticulous. Deliberate. Respectful. There was nothing casual about the soft leather cuffs, the silk rope, the blindfold folded like a secret.

He laid it all out on the bed like a ritual.

Then looked at me. “Safe word?”

“Juniper,” I whispered.

He smiled gently. “Beautiful.”

And then he transformed.

Not in a performative way—but in that quiet, commanding energy I’d always sensed beneath his scrubs and soft hands. The Doc who saved lives with confidence and steel now turned that same focus on me.

“Clothes off. On the bed. Face up.”

I obeyed—heart pounding, skin flushed.

He strapped my wrists to the headboard with soft leather, kissed each one before buckling them.

Then the blindfold.

The moment the world disappeared behind silk, my body came alive. Every breath felt sharper. Every touch burned hotter. My pregnancy only amplified it—all the hormones, the sensitivity, the curve of my breasts, the deep pulse low in my belly.

I was his. Bound. Bare. Waiting.

And then—nothing.

I could feel him watching me. The air thick with his presence. My nipples tightened in the silence, my hips shifting in anticipation.

When he finally touched me, it was feather-light. A single fingertip down the center of my body. A soft slap to my inner thigh. Then a kiss between my legs that made me cry out.

“You’re so open,” he murmured, his voice like smoke. “So ready.”

He used rope next—cradling the curve of my belly, wrapping it around my thighs to keep me open. The restraint only deepened my pleasure. My breath quickened. My body throbbed.

“Doc,” I whimpered. “Please…”

He didn’t enter me yet.

First, he knelt between my thighs and worshipped me with his mouth until I was begging, trembling, undone.

Only then did he push inside—slow, deep, intentional.

I couldn’t see him, but I felt everything. The stretch. The heat. The way his hands gripped my hips with reverence and possession.

“Mine,” he whispered.

And I gasped, “Yes, Doc. Yours.”

Every thrust was controlled. Measured. Powerful.

He spoke to me the whole time, filthy and loving—reminding me that I was safe, that I was wanted, that I was being claimed with every breath and every moan.

When we came, it was messy and loud and shattering.

But what broke wasn’t me.

It was the last bit of distance we’d kept between us—the unspoken fear that maybe we were too damaged, too complicated, too much.

After, he unbound me slowly, kissing every mark. Cradling me like I was something sacred.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

I nodded, curling against him. “More than okay.”

We didn’t say much after that. We didn’t have to.

Because in that room, on that night, in the middle of love and darkness and silk and sweat—

We rewrote what trust looked like.

What love could feel like.

What it meant to truly belong to each other.