[ Greer's gaze wavers, that initial flicker of surprise betraying her efforts at maintaining a cooler composure. It's true that she doesn't really know the full extent of what he and Ash do, at least by comparison to what Ash enjoys from her, and maybe she'd made an assumption that it tends to go similarly, or that Ash's demands, appetites, whatever they are with Embry, run parallel to what he wants when she's in his bed.

Yet the sound of Embry's belt rushing through the loops, that whisper of leather against fabric, draws her attention down to where his hands are moving, where he drops the strip of material between them like he's throwing down a gauntlet — and now it's been left to her to pick it up. ]

The first mistake would be letting you use your hands. Or get too close.

[ Greer's jaw firms determinedly, an idea suddenly occurring to her, knees sliding together again as she rises from the bench, barely breaking stride in bending over to collect the belt from where it lies on the rug. ]

Behind your back, then. One wrist over the other. [ Her intention should be clearer after that, but she's still careful to remain out of arm's reach until she's standing behind him, when she can crouch down to begin securing said wrists together with the belt. This close, the temptation to reach for him in bigger ways is rising, especially when she's practically drawing in his scent on each breath, but she's denying herself too, here, maybe even yanking the belt a little tighter than she means to in the process. ]