“Beg for it,” he demands, pulling back when I’m close, teaching me to breathe through the need. My body shakes, pussy slick and aching.
“Please,” I gasp, raw and desperate, voice breaking. He stills for a heartbeat, then leans close, breath hot against my ear.
“Now, come for me, my good girl,” his voice is a low growl, hips driving his cock deeper into my pussy, each thrust relentless, scarred, tattooed muscles flexing above me.
My orgasm crashes through me like a storm ripping me apart, my walls spasming around his thickness as I cry out, knees buckling under the intensity. His hand at my lower back grounds me, steady and unyielding, as he lets go, his cock pulsing inside.
His release is a searing rush, exploding in hot, shuddering bursts, filling me with a primal claim that makes his breath hitch and his grip tighten on my hips.
We stay connected, our breath syncing in ragged harmony, his cock softening slowly inside my slick warmth. He slides out, and right away I wish he was back inside.
He leans over and picks up a bottle of water, lifting it to my lips, and I drink greedily. He unties my restraint and checks my wrists, rubbing warmth where the ribbon was, and reties it.
My body hums with aftershocks. He stays close, one hand on my thigh as my breath steadies, the lace still clinging to my skin.
“You lied,” he says. “You paid. Now we proceed with truth.”
“Yes.” I’m finding it’s easier than I expected.
He moves to the edge of the bed, his hand brushing damp hair from my cheek, reminding me that he can be gentle when he chooses.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs. “You were gorgeous for me.” His thumb strokes my jaw. “Stronger than you realize and exactly what I wanted.”
I absorb his words as if they were something I didn’t know I’d been craving. Praise. Care. For some reason, it carries more weight coming from him. It’s the contrast that undoes me—the man who tied me down and took me apart is now speaking to me like I’m something precious. Not what I expected. I didn’t think I’d like it this much, but I do. God help me, I do.
He leans down and kisses me. It’s deep, slow, and tongue-rich, the kind of kiss that stretches time until it feels like the only thing left in the room is heat and breath. I clutch at the sheets, dizzy, aching for more, even as I know he’s about to pull away.
When he does, it’s with unhurried certainty. He gathers his clothes, shrugging into his shirt and stepping into his slacks with the same precision he brings to everything. At the door, he pauses and looks back, his gaze heavy and unreadable.
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the suite. The quiet hums. My wrist still wears the red ribbon, a constant reminder. I sink deeper into the bed, skin still flushed, lips tingling from his kiss. And before I can stop myself, a big, stupid smile blooms across my face, the kind I haven’t felt in years.
I fall asleep with it, my body sore and my mind strangely light.
CHAPTER 12
CASSANDRA
Morning finds me alone, a note on the pillow next to me.
Two lines in clean handwriting, the card stock smelling faintly of his cologne.
Breakfast at nine.
Wear the ribbon.
There’s a tiny check mark beside the last sentence, as if he’s grading my obedience.
I touch the silk at my wrist, feeling ridiculous for how cherished it makes me feel.
At the foot of the bed sits a box wrapped in heavy matte paper and a satin ribbon. The tissue whispers when I lift it, revealing a beautiful card with my name.
I slide the tissue aside and catch a flash of Christmas, loud and unapologetic. I smile before I can stop myself, thinking,Is this what the month will be like? Notes on pillows, boxes at my feet, amazing sex?
Then I lift the dress out, smile, and say, “You have got to be kidding me.”
Holiday red and deep evergreen, sequins like sugared berries, lace that looks imported from a fantasy with an age restriction. The cut is ambitious. The neckline is a plunge that would make a priest cross himself.
I hold it up to my body and laugh.
