"May I?" he asked quietly.
The fact that he was asking permission—even now, even after I'd begged him, even after he'd already laid claim to me in every other way—made my throat tight.
"Yes," I whispered. "Please."
His fingers found the hem of my sweater. The soft pink cashmere that had made me feel young and safe this morning. He lifted it slowly. Gave me time to change my mind. To say stop. To set a boundary.
I lifted my arms. Let him pull it over my head. The air in the study felt cool against my skin. Goosebumps rose immediately.
I was wearing the white cotton bra he'd provided. Simple. Almost plain. Nothing like the lacy confections I used to wear when I danced. But his eyes went dark when he looked at me in it.
His finger traced the edge where cotton met skin. Just one finger. Following the curve from my sternum around the swell of my breast. The touch was feather-light. Barely there. But it made my nipples harden against the fabric.
"You're so beautiful, devotchka," he said. His voice had gone rough. "I've wanted to see you like this since the auction."
The confession made heat pool low in my belly. Since the auction. Since that first moment when our eyes had locked across the stage and something had clicked into place.
"The leggings next," he said.
His hands moved to my waist. Hooked in the fabric. But he paused.
"Your bottom is still sore," he said. Statement, not question. "Tell me if this hurts."
He pulled the leggings down carefully. Slowly. Mindful of the burn. The fabric dragging over my punished skin made me wince. Not from real pain. Just sensitivity. The reminder of what had happened twenty minutes ago in this very room.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Yes." My voice came out breathy. "Keep going."
He pulled the leggings off completely. First one leg, then the other. Set them aside with the same care he'd shown my sweater. Nothing thrown. Nothing discarded carelessly.
I was left in just my white cotton underwear. Bra and flowered panties. The set was innocent. Almost childlike. But the way he was looking at me was anything but innocent.
"These too," he said. His fingers hooked in the waistband of my panties.
I lifted my hips. Let him slide them down my legs. The cotton whispered against my skin. When they came off, I was bare from the waist down.
Exposed.
Vulnerable.
But his grey eyes held nothing except reverence. Like I was something precious. Something worth protecting.
"Perfect," he murmured. "You're perfect."
His hands skated over my ribs. Learning the landscape of my body. His palms were warm and slightly rough. Working hands. Not the soft hands of someone who'd never done physical labor.
"I need to learn you," he said quietly. One hand traced my waist. The other curved over my hip. "Need to know what makes you sigh. What makes you gasp. What makes you forget your own name."
The promise in those words made my core clench. Made me want to beg him to hurry. To touch me where I needed him most. To stop being so methodical and just take me already.
But he wasn't rushing. Was taking his time mapping my body with those careful hands. Like he had all the time in the world. Like learning me was more important than his own need.
His fingers found the clasp of my bra. Undid it with practiced ease. The straps loosened. The fabric fell away.
I was completely bare now. Lying on his leather sofa in his study with afternoon light streaming through the windows. Anyone could walk past. Could look in. Could see the Pakhan's newest acquisition spread out for his pleasure.
The thought should have been mortifying. Instead it made me wetter.
