"Please kiss me."
His mouth comes down on mine, and every nerve ending ignites. Hot and demanding, tongue sliding past my lips to taste me deeply. I moan into his mouth, hands pulling against the restraints because I want to touch him, want to bury my fingers in his hair and pull him closer.
He doesn't let me. Just keeps kissing me until I'm gasping, until all I can think about is more; more of his mouth and his hands and the weight of him pressing me into the mattress.
When he pulls back, I whimper at the loss.
"Color?"
"Green. Very green."
A dark and satisfied smile crosses his face. "Good. Because we're just getting started."
His hands map my body over my clothes—waist, ribs, the curve of my breasts through thin fabric. Each touch deliberate, controlled, designed to build heat without giving me what I actually want. By the time he finally slides his hand under my tank top to touch bare skin, I'm trembling.
"You like this. Like surrendering control. Like having someone else make the decisions so you don't have to carry everything alone."
"Yes, Sir."
"Then let go, Mira. Stop thinking, stop analyzing, stop trying to control the outcome. Just feel."
His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping against sensitive skin hard enough to make me gasp. I arch into him, seeking more pressure, more contact, more everything. One hand slides up to cup my breast, thumb brushing across my nipple through the fabric until I'm gasping.
"That's it. Let me hear you. Let me know what you're feeling."
His other hand slides lower, across my stomach. Fingers trace patterns there without dipping lower, teasing rather than satisfying.
"Tell me what you want."
"Touch me. Please, Sir, touch me."
"Where?"
Heat floods my face, but I force the words out. "Between my legs. I want your hand between my legs."
"Ask properly. Use your words like a good girl."
My breath catches. The phrase should trigger me, but the way Shaw says it—firm, commanding, expecting obedience—sends heat spiraling through me instead. "Please, Sir. Please touch me between my legs."
"Better." His hand slides lower, cupping me with firm pressure that makes me gasp. "Is this what you want?"
"Yes, Sir. More. Please."
He increases the pressure, and I rock against his hand, chasing friction. Pleasure builds in tight spirals, winding tighter with each deliberate movement. I'm close, so close?—
"Look at me."
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. Dark and intense, watching every micro-expression that crosses my face. He's cataloging my responses, learning my body, figuring out exactly what I need before I know it myself.
"You're doing well. Taking what I give you. Exactly what I need from you."
Cold water through my veins.
Taking what I give you. Exactly what I need.
Todd said that. Same cadence, same phrasing. Different man, same words. My body obeyed before my brain processed the threat, training overriding conscious thought. Pleasure spiked sharp and immediate, and I was arching into his hand before understanding what was happening.
Muscle memory from months of conditioning, responding automatically because that's what good girls do.
