He inhales—deeply, like that one word was the most addictive thing he’s ever tasted, like he could get drunk on my surrender.
“Good girl,” he growls, satisfaction darkening his voice. “Now be still whilst I make you beg again.”
And that’s when the world narrows to a single point.
To him.
To me.
To the heat in his voice and the restraint in his hands and the monster between us whispering that this was always going to happen, that it was inevitable.
And I let him close the distance between us.
His mouth brushes my ear, not kissing, not soft. Just there—a warning, a promise.
“You’re going to stay exactly where I put you, little fairy,” he murmurs, each syllable dragging heat across my spine like a razor dipped in honey. “You’re not going to cum. Not until I say. Not even if it hurts. Do you understand me?”
My pulse slams against my throat, visible beneath my skin.
I nod, barely, breath catching in my chest.
He clicks his tongue, low and disapproving. “Words, Tahlia.”
“Yes,” I manage.
He exhales like the word pleased him—like he could unravel me just for speaking it, just for that small capitulation.
Then he moves with sudden purpose.
Fast and decisive.
Rough fingers claim my wrists, dragging them up to the headboard where he pins me, not with ropes yet, not with restraints, but with command alone, the weight of his authority.His body cages mine without touching, a promise coiled in every inch of space between us, potential energy waiting to be released. One shift and I’d be consumed.
But he waits.
Watching me squirm under the heat of his restraint, enjoying my discomfort.
“You’ve been mouthing off all day,” he says, voice slick with control. “Breaking things. Testing limits. So now, I get to teach you how you break properly.”
My throat tightens with anticipation and dread.
His hand moves—not to strike, not to comfort—but to command. It wraps around my throat with pressure soft enough to let me breathe, hard enough to remind me I belong to him now, that my oxygen is his to control. My legs tense. My thighs press together involuntarily.
“You’re wet for this, aren’t you?” he croons, filthy and satisfied. “You like it when I make the rules. You like being punished.”
“Don’t—” I whisper, but I’m arching into him already, betraying myself in ways I swore I never would.
“Don’t?” His thumb brushes my bottom lip, teasing. “Say that again with conviction, darling, and maybe I’ll stop.”
I don’t repeat it.
I can’t.
Because his hand is sliding lower now, and every inch of my skin is wired for him—buzzing, trembling, desperate for contact.
Then he pauses.
Right there.
