My first instinct is to shrink away from his roughness, but something stubborn in me refuses to give him the satisfaction. So I force myself to stand still, though my knees threaten to buckle as his hands travel lower, tracing the seam of my ribs and the soft give of my stomach before sliding around to seize my butt. He lifts and molds it, making a show of evaluating its shape and heft, his fingers digging deep enough that I feel their phantom presence after he moves on.
I try to keep my face blank, but a flush climbs my cheeks, the heat blooming under his unrelenting stare and the ferocity of his grip. Every nerve ending is on high alert, the entire expanse of my skin hyper-aware of where he might go next. There’s a rawness to the way he handles me, a total lack of gentleness, and it grates against something inside me that still wants to be cherished, even as I know I sold that right the minute I entered this property.
He walks around behind me, keeping one broad palm firmly pressed between my shoulder blades as if to remind me who’s in control, then slides the other down the back of my thigh, massaging and kneading as if sculpting me out of clay. I bite back a whimper, refusing to let him see just how much he’s getting to me. I’m here for the money, I tell myself, over and over. I can handle this. I can handle anything he can dish out.
He pinches and slaps, alternating between sharp, stinging torment and the gentle brush of fingertips that almost feels affectionate by comparison. It’s a rhythm, a push and pull that keeps me off balance, never sure if the next sensation will make me want to scream or moan. I try to parse his intentions, undecided whether this is some elaborate test or just another way to remind me who’s in charge, but the truth is, I don’t think he cares. He’s playing with me because he can, because he likes seeing me react. And that realization sends a weird shiver through me, part dread and part something else.
Eventually, he circles back in front of me, his footsteps slow and deliberate. The air sours with tension. His breathing is a fraction heavier now, betraying a hunger he can't quite reel in, his gaze even colder and more predatory as he stares at me the way I imagine a shark must eye a wounded fish. The chill I’m feeling only amplifies when he bends down, his warm breath grazing my ear, though he doesn't waste time with words. Instead, one hand finds my hip, steadying me, while with the other he trails his knuckles down the line of my stomach, slow enough to make me shiver from suspense and dread in equal measure.
I brace myself as his fingers skate over my mound, parting me with clinical precision, like he's opening a letter addressed to someone else. Every nerve down there lights up, hypersensitive from fear and the faintest echo of an excitement I don't want to claim. He toys with the lips of my pussy, tracing the seams, sometimes dragging a single fingertip along the slickness he finds, other times pressing in just enough to hint at what he might do but never quite committing. The tease is excruciating. I want to close my legs, to crush his hand between my thighs and remind him that I’m more than just an object for inspection, but I hold myself rigid, refusing to flinch. If there’s one thing I can control, it’s my reaction. Mostly.
He keeps his eyes locked on my face, feeding on every expression. When my breath hitches, he quirks an eyebrow. When I squeeze my fists at my sides, he lets the silence stretch, poised, letting me wonder whether he’ll praise or punish. His thumb circles my clit once, slow and deliberate, and the involuntary gasp that escapes me is enough to make the corners of his mouth twitch in satisfaction. Okay, maybe I can’t control my reactions as much as I’d like.
Humiliation floods me—because I want him to stop, and I want him to keep going, and most of all I want to know how far he’ll push me before I fracture.
His fingers withdraw with maddening slowness, gathering the wetness as proof of my body's betrayal, then he lifts his hand to my lips, smearing his trophy across my mouth. "Whatever else is going on in that pretty little head of yours," he mutters, as if he’s already won this game we’re playing. "Your cunt is an honest little slut." The words hit me with both waves of shame and unwanted arousal, and when his tongue darts out to taste the residue on his finger, I nearly lose myself.
He pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up so I can't avoid his eyes. There’s a flicker of amusement there, and I know he’s pleased with what he’s found. Pleased with my unwilling reaction, despite everything.
” You’ll do," he says, his voice rough. "For now."
I'm not sure whether to feel relieved or insulted. Before I can decide, he grabs my wrist, his grasp firm but not painful.
"Come," he commands, pulling me over to a door I hadn't noticed. "We're not done yet."
My heart rate kicks up a notch as I follow him. What else does he have planned? And why am I feeling... anticipation?
Nope, it's just my imagination playing tricks on me.
As we cross the threshold, I can't help staring at what lies before me. The bedroom is even more opulent than the previousroom, if that's possible. A massive four-poster bed dominates the space, draped in rich fabrics that shimmer in the low light. But it's not the luxury that makes my breath catch - it's the array of implements laid out on a nearby table.
Whips, floggers, cuffs, and things I can't even name glint menacingly and my stomach lurches with a punch of expected anxiety. But there's also something darker, more primal, that I don't want to examine too closely.
He releases my wrist and moves to the table, running his fingers over the various tools like he's selecting a weapon, while I stand rooted to the spot, unsure if I should run or stay put. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain he must hear it.
I need to remember this is what I signed up for. Now I just need to get through it.
Three weeks has never seemed so long.
Chapter
Six
Thorne
Idon’t miss the trepidation in Juno’s expression as she surveys all the implements I deliberately set out. It’s an aphrodisiac.
Her wide eyes dart from the flogger to the cuffs to the blindfold, a delicious shiver shuddering through her body. I can almost taste her anticipation mingling with apprehension in the air. Such a heady thrill.
"Come here, little one." I crook my finger.
Juno approaches hesitantly, her steps faltering, so I pull her close, running my hands down her quivering form.
"I have a gift for you," I whisper against her ear before I retrieve the box containing the maid outfit I had custom-made as soon as I was provided with her measurements and paid a small fortune for next-day delivery. Her breath stutters in her throat as I open it, revealing the very cliche black dress and white apron with its scandalously short skirt and plunging neckline.
"Put it on," I command softly.
She obeys with shaking hands, slipping into the silky fabric. The outfit hugs her curves perfectly, leaving little to the imagination. My cock twitches in approval.
