“You want to be owned,” I whisper. “Say it.”
The smallest sound escapes him. “I want to be owned.”
I prowl around him, my hand tracing over his chest, his back.
He trembles—from fear or desire doesn’t matter. What matters is feeding my hunger to punish, to devour.
“Take it out,” I say, voice silken steel.
Color climbs his cheeks. He obeys, desperate, one hand still clasped behind him, the other fumbling, then finding. I lean against the table and watch, unhurried, the way a queen watches a fire she started.
“Eyes up,” I say. “On me.”
They lift immediately. Good boy.
“Tell me the rest,” I instruct, letting the word rest curl. “Who’s on tomorrow’s agenda after Townes?”
“David at ten-thirty,” he manages. “Then legal. Then—” A hitch. “Lunch with a—with a real estate broker.”
My smile sharpens. A house. A perfect little dream for a small, ordinary life. A cage dressed up as love. Pathetic. The man I molded wasn’t born for fences. Fury burns through me, disgust crawling like rot beneath my skin.
I shove him back until he hits the small sofa against the wall.
“Down,” I order, pressing my hand into his shoulder. “Sit.”
He drops instantly, like a string has been cut. I seize his face in both hands and tilt it up to mine.
“Do you know why I keep you?” I ask.
“Because I’m loyal,” he blurts. “Because I—I worship.”
“Because you understand your place,” I whisper. “And because you deliver.”
I drag my finger under his chin, forcing his gaze up as I press him back into the sofa. “Undo your belt. But don’t move until I say.”
He obeys, trembling.
I climb astride him slowly, deliberately, the fabric of my skirt whispering against his thighs. His hands stay flat at his sides, white-knuckled against the sofa.
“Hands,” I warn. “Or you lose them.”
“Yes, Ms. Kingsley,” he breathes.
I rock once, just to feel the power rush like champagne.
Anger flashes hot and clean—Dorian at the lake house with her; Dorian making plans for a life he once promised me just so I could refuse it.
I move harder, unrelenting, riding him only for myself.
Not tenderness or intimacy. Just fury sharpened into rhythm, every thrust a reminder that he is nothing but a body to absorb my anger.
He bites back a sound, and I smile through clenched teeth, because control is the sweetest high.
When the heat breaks and my body shudders, I don’t soften. I press down one last time, using him until I am done, then slide off with a sharp inhale, neat and composed while he trembles beneath me.
“Don’t move,” I command, adjusting my skirt. “You don’t get to finish. Not yet.”
His breath stutters. His cock throbs red, desperate, but he doesn’t reach for me. Good boy.
