I’m fumbling with the clasp of my sundress when the curtain is ripped aside. Cast fills the doorway, his eyes dark with intent. My protests die in my throat. He steps inside, making the already tiny space feel minuscule, charged with his presence.
My hands tremble as I finally shuck my dress, letting it pool at my feet. I feel intensely vulnerable under his unwavering scrutiny, every inch of my skin hyper-aware. I reach for the bra, my movements clumsy. He doesn’t offer to help; he just watches, a connoisseur observing an artist at work. I fasten the clasps, the cool satin a stark contrast to my heated skin. The cups hold my breasts perfectly, lifting them, presenting them. The thong is next, a scant triangle of leather and lace that does little to hide me. Finally, I attach the garter straps to the tops of my stockings, the delicate click of the fasteners sounding absurdly loud.
I turn to face him, feeling a flush spread from my chest to my cheeks. I hold my arms out slightly. “What do you think?”
He doesn’t hum or give a casual compliment. His eyes rake over me, devouring the sight, and a slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. It’s the most potent approval I’ve ever received.
“Stunning,” he says, his voice gravelly. “But you’re not quite in position yet, are you?”
My breath hitches. I know what he wants. WhatIneed.
He points to the floor directly in front of his boots. “On your knees. Crawl to me.”
The command liquefies my bones. I sink down, the cool wooden floor a shock against my bare knees. I keep my head slightly lowered, my eyes trained on the polished leather of his shoes as I move forward. Each movement is a conscious surrender, a giving over of my control, my pride, everything tohim. I stop when my knees touch the tips of his boots. I can feel the heat of his body, smell his crisp, clean scent.
“Look at me, Willow.”
I lift my gaze, meeting his dark, hungry eyes.
“Who do you belong to?”
The words are a practiced ritual, a key turning in a lock deep inside me. “You, Sir.”
“And what happens to brats who roll their eyes?”
“They get punished, Sir.”
“Exactly.” The word is a caress and a threat. He reaches out, not touching me, but tracing the air just above the swell of my breast, above the lace of the thong. “This is mine. All of this. I decide what you wear. I decide when you come. I decide how thoroughly you are worshiped and how soundly you are punished. Do you understand?”
A needy whimper escapes me. “Yes, Sir. I understand.”
His fingers finally make contact, hooking under my chin and tilting my head back further. “Such a pretty mouth when it’s being obedient. Now open it.” His other hand is at his belt, the rasp of the buckle unmistakable. “You’re going to show me just how sorry you are. And you’re not to come until I give you explicit permission. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir,” I whisper, my lips already parting in anticipation.
His fingers tighten under my chin, a delicious pressure that makes my lips part further. The rasp of his belt buckle is the only sound in the small, rented space. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the delicate black leather of the bra.
“Such an eager little thing when you’re put in your place,” he murmurs, his dark eyes holding mine captive. He frees himself, and my breath catches. He’s already hard, thick and imposing.Mine to worship.The thought is a lightning strike of pure want.
I lean forward, my knees aching pleasingly against the hard floor. I don’t break eye contact as I extend my tongue, licking a long tentative stripe from base to tip. He tastes of clean skin and pure, masculine power. A low groan rumbles in his chest, and the sound goes straight to my core, a throbbing ache that the thin leather of the thong does nothing to soothe.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice a rough caress. “Use that pretty mouth properly.”
I open wider, taking him in. The stretch of my lips is immediate, a fulfilling strain. I sink down, focusing on the sensation, on the weight of him on my tongue, the faint, salty taste. I hollow my cheeks, beginning a deep and slow rhythmic bob of my head. My hands are clenched at my sides, as per the unspoken rule. I am to be used. I am to be still and take what he gives me.
He lets me set the pace for a moment, his hips still. His hand moves from my chin to weave into my hair, not pulling, just holding. A claim. “Good girl. So good for me.” The praise is a bolt of heat straight through me, and a needy moan vibrates around his length.
His fingers tighten in my hair. “None of that. You don’t get to get yourself off on my cock. Your pleasure ismineto give. Understood?”
I whimper an affirmative around him, the sound muffled.
“Use your words, Angel.”
I pull back just enough to gasp, “Yes, Sir.” A string of saliva connects my lips to him for a moment before I dive back down, desperate to please, to prove my devotion.
That’s when he takes over.
His grip in my hair becomes an anchor, holding me perfectly in place as he pushes forward, setting a new, deeper pace. I relax my throat, letting him fuck my mouth with long thrusts. My eyes water, the blurry image of his intense, focused face theonly thing I can see. The sounds are obscene, wet and greedy, and each one sends another pulse of desperate need between my legs. I am gaping around him, my body screaming for friction, for any kind of relief against the unbearable, throbbing ache.
