He slid a finger into her, her tight heat gripping him instantly, and swore under his breath. She was impossibly snug, her body resisting even one finger, and the thought of his cock buried there made his pulse thunder.
“Will you behave yourself from now on?” he asked softly, almost gently, though his tone left no room for rebellion.
Her chin lifted stubbornly. “Never.”
“You lie,” he murmured, sliding his finger deeper, twisting just enough to make her bite down on her lip. “You always lie.”
Her nails dug into the polished wood of his desk, her body taut with tension. He pressed harder, stroking until her hips betrayed her, shifting back against his hand. Her breath tore out in shuddering bursts, and still she clung to her defiance.
“Mr. Straton, I—”
“Say it properly,” he whispered. “Say it, and I will let you come.”
“No,” she gasped, her voice raw, her defiance cracking at the edges.
Benedict chuckled darkly, adding another finger, stretching her, savoring the way she clenched around him.
“Then you will break on my hand instead. But you will break, Anastasia, and I want to hear my name on your lips when you do.”
Her muffled cry nearly undid him, her body arching helplessly, surrender written not in her words but in the wild, desperate way she moved against him. And finally—finally—the word slipped out of her mouth, ragged and unwilling.
“Yes. Yes, I will behave. Your Grace.”
Benedict thrust harder, savoring the way she trembled and tightened around him, her muffled screams breaking her vow of silence when he finally let her release. Victory coursed through him like fire, but it was laced with something darker, more dangerous—a taste too sweet, too intoxicating.
At last, he withdrew, releasing her wrists slowly, savoring the sight of her flushed cheeks, her wild eyes, her legs trembling beneath her. He straightened, his voice low, roughened by everything he had just restrained himself from doing.
“Good,” he said. “Now go, Miss Dawson. Do not provoke me again. I cannot promise I will be so… restrained next time.”
“Yes, Y-your Grace.”
She turned to leave, her steps unsteady. He had meant to teach her a lesson. Instead, as he watched her go, fire still raging in his veins, he felt undone.
No… not undone. Conquered.
Chapter 14
Anastasia had not slept properly for three nights.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the cool press of Benedict’s desk beneath her cheek, the sharp tug of ribbon at her wrists, the merciless command in his voice. She burned with shame at the memory, and worse, she burned with something far more damning.
Her body had betrayed her. She had felt it, undeniable and humiliating, when his hand touched her where no man ever had. She had lied to him, yes, lied with every shred of breath she possessed, but her body had shouted the truth. And he had known it.He had gloated about it.
She paced her room until the rug threatened to wear thin.
He treats me like a problem to be solved, a scandal to be hidden away—yet I…She pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. She could still hear his voice in her ear. ‘You will not escape me.’
She wanted to hate him. In fact, she told herself she did. Every smirk, every lecture, every arrogant command of his had made her want to throw a candlestick at his head. And yet, perversely,her heart lurched every time she caught the sound of his footsteps in the corridor. She had done her best to avoid him, but she was done hiding away in her room.
“I will not be managed like this,” she whispered to her reflection, her jaw tight. “He will not get the better of me.”
But her resolve cracked when the memory intruded once more—his hand steady and merciless at her hip, his voice rough against her ear, the way he had bent her to his will until her body trembled with shameful eagerness.
Her throat tightened. She could not decide what unsettled her more: that he had taken such power over her, or that she had let him.
Or worse still… that I wanted more?
Anastasia squeezed her eyes shut, furious with herself. There was no dignity in wanting a man who treated her like a problem to be disciplined. No sense in craving the very hands that had bound her wrists. Yet the craving gnawed at her, low and insistent, every time she let her guard down.
