"Beautiful." He pauses, eyes traveling down my body with deliberate assessment. "Jeans too. Keep the tank top on."
My hands tremble slightly as I unfasten my jeans and slide them off, leaving me in my tank top and underwear. The vulnerability makes my pulse race, but the way Shaw watches me—focused, appreciative, controlled—sends heat through my veins.
"Now lie back."
I shift onto the bed, and Shaw moves with controlled efficiency. Leather wraps around my right wrist—soft lined with fleece, designed for comfort. He fastens it snugly, then moves to my left wrist, completing the restraint before checking the fit with practiced attention.
"Too tight?"
"No, Sir."
"Good." He guides me into position with firm hands, adjusting my placement until I'm centered on the dark sheets. He attaches the wrist restraints to points at the top corners of the bed, leaving my arms stretched above my head with minimal range of motion.
"Test them. Pull against them. Feel what they do."
I pull. The restraints hold firm. Can't escape, can't hide, can't protect myself if something goes wrong.
My breathing goes shallow.
"Color?" The question comes immediately.
"Green." The word is barely above a whisper.
"Louder. I want to hear you."
"Green, Sir."
"Better." He traces one finger along the inside of my forearm, down to my wrist where the cuff sits against my skin. "You're doing well. Being brave for me."
Warmth spreads through my chest. Todd used to praise me too, but it always felt conditional, a reward for perfect compliance. This feels different. Like Shaw sees the courage it takes to be here and values it.
His hand slides from my wrist down my arm, across my collarbone, down to rest just above my racing heart. "Can you feel how fast your heart is beating?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Fear or arousal?"
"Both."
"Good. That's exactly what you should be feeling." His thumb strokes across my collarbone in slow, deliberate circles. "You're safe here, Mira. I'm going to push you, test your limits, make you feel things you've been afraid to acknowledge. But I'm not going to hurt you. Not going to break you. And if you need me to stop, you say red and everything ends. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
His hand moves lower, skimming across the fabric of my tank top, and I arch slightly into the touch without conscious thought. Heat pools low in my belly, mixing with fear in ways that make my head swim.
"So responsive. So eager to please. You've been fighting this for days, haven't you? Fighting what you feel when I give orders. Fighting the pull when I stand too close or use that tone."
"Yes, Sir."
"No more fighting." His hand settles at my waist, fingers spreading across my ribs with possessive pressure. "Tonight you surrender. Let me show you what happens when you stop resisting what you need."
He leans down, his mouth hovering just above mine. Close enough that I feel his breath, smell coffee and something darker underneath. Close enough to kiss, but he doesn't. He just holds there, letting anticipation build until I'm straining against the restraints, trying to close the distance.
"Ask for it. Ask me to kiss you."
"Please, Sir."
"Please what?"
