I sign the contract. The moment stretches, thick with the weight of understanding, of knowing exactly what comes next.
Hayden moves first. He always does. A sharp pull, his fingers curling around my wrist, dragging me into his orbit. My back meets the table, the cool dark wood a stark contrast to the heat licking up my spine. His hands are everywhere, possessive, claiming, as if the act of signing was just a formality, like he already owned me long before this moment.
“You know what this means,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over my skin.
I do. And I don’t care.
His hands find the remains of my dress and my panties and tugs them down, his mouth covering mine in a quick attack of teeth, lips, and tongue.
I moan into his mouth as his fingers find my wet pussy and he drags his fingers around with a slowness that could kill me.
He wastes no time exploring my pussy, swirling his fingers in and around my wetness, bringing embarrassment to my cheeks. I wobble a bit at his exploration, nearly missing the large bowl of apples placed behind me as I fall back on my forearms.
My legs quake slightly from the feeling of him, and he brings that ever-present other hand to my throat, squeezing just right. Just tightly enough to remind me that worse things could happen, yet a promise of more to come.
He’s been so rough this evening, and I would be denying myself if I didn’t admit it has been an incredibly freeing experience.
He brings his fingers, which he was just running through my pussy, up to my mouth and shoves his middle and ring finger between my lips forcefully. His fingers on my tongue force me to taste myself. I gag at the assault, unprepared for the depth to which he shoves his fingers in my mouth, all the way until his knuckles knock against my teeth. The sharp salty taste of my wetness coats my tongue, and I start to drool around the fingers he has stuffed deep in my mouth.
His grip loosens on my neck, and his fingers leave my tongue, and before I can make sense of the shift, he reaches past me, and within seconds, a crisp green apple is in front of my face.
There’s been a bowl of them on the dining table, always full, placed fresh every morning by the house staff. They show up everywhere on the nightstands, on silver trays in the sitting rooms, even in the library. Always the same kind. Always green. A quiet, constant reminder of his obsession with me. A representation of me in the room at all times. Like he wants me seen, owned, consumed, or maybe, the way I fantasize about it, he doesn't like to be in a room without me.
“Open.”
I hesitate, but only for a second. His eyes dare me to disobey. I part my lips, and he presses the apple between my teeth, cool, smooth, tart against my tongue.
“Hold it.” His voice is smooth, unwavering. “Don’t bite through. Don’t drop it.”
The weight of it strains my jaw almost instantly, but I nod, digging my teeth in only slightly. The sharp tartness of it fills my mouth, and I feel the smooth, waxy skin with my tongue.
Hayden smirks. Pleased.
“Good girl.”
He moves closer, his hands tracing down my sides, my hips caged beneath his grip. My breathing quickens, but I keep my hold on the apple, fighting the instinct to clamp down, to let it slip. His fingers press into my thigh, trailing higher, teasing, testing his own private experiment in control.
The apple wobbles slightly as I exhale too sharply. His hand is at my throat in an instant, steadying me, steadying it.
“Careful,” he warns, low and dark. “I told you not to drop it.”
I swallow hard, the pressure in my jaw nothing compared to the tension crackling between us. His thumb brushes over my pulse, his gaze burning through me. I can’t move. I don’t want to.
Hayden leans in, lips grazing the curve of my cheek. A breath away from my ear, he murmurs.
“Let’s see how long you last.”
He leans down and pulls my legs to spread around his hips. The threat of his words and the tone of his voice fill me with a dark chill, far colder than my nakedness against the room.
“Now, it’s time to eat,” he says in that dark tone that makes me quiver in fear and anticipation.
He sits at the head of the table as he grabs my ankle, dragging me roughly toward him with effortless strength, as if I weigh nothing. With deliberate precision, he lifts my heeled feet, resting them lightly on the arms of his dining chair.
Leaning forward, he takes a deep breath of my arousal, making me want to clamp my legs shut at the vulgarity of it. I’m so wet I could cry.
I never expected it to turn me on the way it did. The sharp sting of the blade, the warmth of his blood mixing with mine. It should have unsettled me, but instead, it sent a slow, aching heat through me. I can still feel the way he looked at me, the quiet intensity in his eyes as he traced the lines across my skin, deliberate, possessive. I should have been afraid. Instead, I wanted more.
He slaps my pussy painfully quick, with a loud crack that erupts throughout the room, making me whimper around the apple.
