“Relax, Dumpling,” Antonio murmurs, his body angled towards me, shielding me from the casual perusal of the room while simultaneously offering me up for appraisal. “Nothing will happen here that you won’t enjoy.”
I highly doubt that. I am positive that whatever he has planned will leave me not only ashamed of myself but having to face my own conscience come morning.
From the corner of my eye, I see something drop into my glass. It’s subtle. So subtle.
I turn my head and Antonio is there, lifting the crystal up, placing it against my lips. “Drink.” He urges. “You’ll feel better with a little alcohol in your veins.”
I know there’s something in this. I know it’s not just whiskey now, but I can’t refuse him. I can already see the look in his eyes, the way his hand is moving to his pocket. Will he shock me here? Will he hurt me so publicly? Of course he will. Antonio is the master of the universe. He can do what he likes, wherever he likes, without consequences.
He presses the glass harder against my lips, and I know I don’t have a choice. I never fucking did. I gulp the contents down, cursing his name, cursing them all.
A slow, devastating smile spreads across his mutilated face. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated possession. A smile I’ve seen too many times already, it’s the smile that tells me he’s going to do awful things to me.
His hands go to the thin straps of my dress.
“You have a body made for worship, Pet. A body that should be seen, not hidden behind a wisp of fabric. You saw how Jareth wanted to devour you just then. Every curve, every line of you is a masterpiece. And everyone here,” he says, his gaze sweeping the room, “is a connoisseur. They want to see it; they want to see you. Let them.”
My heart hammers as he hooks his fingers under the straps and tears the delicate chiffon off my body. It whispers over my skin as it gives way like a final sigh of modesty.
I stand there in the middle of the club, wearing only my impossibly high heels and the tiny nude coloured lace panties. The air feels shockingly cool on my naked skin. I try to cover my breasts but Antonio catches my wrists, his grip firm.
“No,” he says softly, his eyes holding mine.
He gently prises my arms away, forcing me to stand open and exposed.
“Look.” He orders. “See how everyone here wants you.”
I force myself to look up, to meet the gazes of the people around us, and I see it. Raw hunger in so many of their eyes. A man across the bar raises his glass to me in a silent toast. A woman nearby gives me a slow, approving smile.
A fierce, hot blush spreads across my chest and up my neck but it’s mixed with a dizzying, potent thrill.
He was right. They want to see, and I love being seen.
No. No, that’s not right. I don’t know where that thought comes from.
I don’t…he steps closer, his body heat enveloping me. With deliberate, ritualistic slowness, he fingers the collar around my throat. The leather is cool and smooth against my skin.
I hear the click of something, the sound of the clasp engaging echoing in my hyper-aware state.
The world narrows to his gaze.
The hum of the club fades.
There is only him. The weight of my collar, the cool air on my bare skin and the undeniable, unimaginable fire in my blood.
He gives the lead a hard, unmistakable tug downwards.
“Now,” he says, his voice dropping into a register of pure command that terrifies one part of me, and yet liquefies my bones. “Get on all fours. Like the good little dog you are for me.”
This is the game.
Our game.
Mine and Antonio’s. I’m his perfect pet, his perfect little dog.
No. No. No – I’m not a dog. I’m not a thing, I’m a human being, Grace Ratcliffe … but I am not her.
I am Antonio’s. I am his pet, his dog.
