The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the sound too gentle for what was happening between us.
“I don’t take betrayal lightly, Peyton.”
A sharp pang of guilt pierced my chest.
“You’ll earn back every ounce of my trust.”
Not someday.
Not easily.
“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
His gaze lingered on me, weighing, measuring, seeing far more than I wanted him to.
Then he nodded once and said, “Good.”
He turned away, the firelight casting long shadows across the room.
He wasn’t finished.
He was setting terms.
Something inside me settled, not into comfort, but into acceptance.
And that, I realized, was the first true act of submission I’d made.
“Remove your clothes.”
The command sent a jolt through me.
For a split second, my body reacted before my mind did—muscle memory reaching for compliance.
I stopped myself.Breathed.
If this were obedience, it would be deliberate.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the buttons of my blouse, my breath coming in shallow bursts.I must have looked pathetic, torn between nervousness and something else entirely.Something darker.Something inevitable.
I stole a glance at him from the corner of my eye.Creed stood there, watching.Not moving.Not blinking.
Not helping.
Not intervening.
The room was warm, and I felt exposed before I had even removed a single piece of clothing.
Slowly, methodically, he began rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt.
The movement wasn’t sensual.It was preparatory.
My pulse skipped.There was something almost hypnotic in the way he did it, in the way his fingers moved with purpose, with patience.
Controlled.
Always controlled.
He exposed strong forearms corded with muscle, veins shifting beneath olive-toned skin.It was such a simple act, but somehow, it held me captive.
