Before Oliver could say another word, Kiernan stalked toward us and gripped his neck. “What part of now did you not understand,sub?” He sounded cold and hard—conveying none of the warmth he’d shown at breakfast before his mood changed. This was the domwe’d witnessed at Thorned Thistle. The man who commanded us without shouting.
Oliver swallowed hard. “Sir, we weren’t?—”
“Weren’t what?” Kiernan gripped harder. “Weren’t about to break my rules the moment I left the room?”
Oliver’s cheeks flushed crimson.
“I gave you one directive. Your pleasure belongs to me. Not to yourselves or one another. To me.” He turned to look at me. “Have you forgotten?”
“No, sir.” I sounded small but not frightened. If anything, I’d happily take another punishment, knowing that when it was over, the orgasm would be mind-blowing.
“Yet you chose to disobey.”
It wasn’t a question. There was no point in denying it. Oliver’s hand had been on my breast. My nipple still tingled from his touch. We’d been seconds away from more.
Kiernan released Oliver and stepped away. His posture was rigid, but hunger burned in his gaze, barely masked as anger.
“What part of my order wasn’t clear?”
My mind raced. Order? Which one? I had my answer when he turned and walked away, expecting us to follow.
Oliver and I exchanged a glance—his panicked, mine uncertain—before we trailed after him like chastened children.
The curtains in the library were drawn to block the morning light, making the room cool and dark. Kiernan crossed to his desk—a massive oak piece that dominated one corner of the space—and began arranging papers as though we weren’t standing there. My heart pounded, wondering what came next.
“Lock the door,” he said without looking up.
Its click echoed in the quiet room when I turned it.
He didn’t acknowledge us. He sat in his leather chair, reached for another stack of documents, and uncapped a pen. The scratch of writing filled the silence.
Nervous energy radiated off Oliver when he fidgeted beside me.
Minutes passed. Kiernan continued working. We continued standing.
When the tension had wound tight enough to snap, he spoke a single word. “Strip.”
Oliver made a choked sound. “Sir?—”
“Did I stutter?” Kiernan continued to work, not even raising his head. “You wanted to touch each other so badly. Fine. I’ll give you what you wanted.Naked. Now.”
Beside me, Oliver pulled his shirt over his head, and I reached for the hem of my jumper. The rustle of fabric was loud in the quiet room.
I removed my bra and let it fall. My jeans followed, then my knickers. The cool air raised goosebumps across my skin as I stood naked before Kiernan’s desk while he continued reviewing documents as though we weren’t there.
Oliver had stripped down as well. His cock stood hard and flushed, straining toward his stomach.
Kiernan’s attention lifted at last. It traveled over me slowly, clinically, then drifted to Oliver, his expression revealing nothing.
“Ophelia. Come here.”
I approached the desk on unsteady legs.
“Kneel.” He pointed to the floor beside his chair. “Here. Face the room.”
While the thick Persian rug cushioned my knees when I sank down, it didn’t change the fact that the position left me exposed and vulnerable. Anyone who enteredwould see me at once—naked and kneeling at his feet like a pet.
Kiernan’s hand settled on my head. He threaded my hair with absent affection, the way one might stroke a cat while reading.
