The air between us hums, charged like a power cell on the brink of detonation. My skin tingles before I even touch him.
I kneel beside the tub again, but I don’t reach for a cloth this time. My hand lifts of its own accord, trembling only a little, and I brush my fingertips along his jawline.
He doesn’t move.
His skin is warm, impossibly smooth for someone so deadly. The stubble at his chin scratches lightly against my palm. I slide my fingers down, exploring the curve of his throat, the hard line of his collarbone. I don’t stop. My hand brushes his cock, and it twitches hard in response, heavy and hot against my knuckles.
A flexible spur along the crown of his cock extends slowly, deliberately, like a cat’s claw testing the air.
It feels so awfully, terribly good to touch him.
And he lets me.
His eyes never leave mine. Red. Glowing. Devouring.
“I see,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in honey, “you need assistance in obeying my commands.”
His smile is dangerous. But it’s not cruel.
It’s possessive. Pleased.
And that… scares me more.
He rises from the bath with unhurried grace. Water sluices off him in rivulets, tracing the sharp planes of his chest, his abdomen, the thick length of his cock hanging heavy between his thighs. I don’t turn away. I can’t. My body feels like it’s already leaning toward him, already saying yes before my mind can catch up.
He dries himself quickly, powerfully, and then crosses the room to the black chest set into the wall.
The latch releases with a hiss.
When he turns back toward me, what he holds steals the breath from my lungs.
Reaper lingerie.
It isn’t just clothing. It’sraiment. An artwork of leather, bone, and living synthesis. The material shifts in his hands likeit’s alive, gleaming obsidian threaded with silver veins. Curved spines and carved filigree accent every edge.
It looks like it was made for me.
Because it was.
“You’re the only one I’ve ever chosen,” he says, low. Almost reverent.
That shouldn’t mean anything.
But it does.
He steps closer, and I lift my chin. If I’m going to be dressed like a toy, I’ll do it with dignity.
The first strap touches my skin and something in mebreaks.
It’s cold for half a second, then warms instantly, molding to my body like memory leather. My arms are drawn back, wrists secured together behind me in a firm but careful bind. My breasts swell against the crisscrossing bands, nipples tightening, aching, visible beneath the mesh detail. The spine of the corset digs in just enough to remind me who dressed me.
The look in his eyes as he fastens the last buckle makes my thighs tremble.
Worship. Hunger. Victory.
“You are exquisite,” he breathes.
I should tell him off.
