Took another bite of tiramisu.
But her eyes stayed on mine the whole time, and the anticipation building between us was thick enough to taste.
The check came.
I paid without looking at the number.
And when we stood to leave, her hand in mine, the night stretched before us full of promise and heat and everything we'd just offered each other.
Chapter 15
Auralia
Theelevatorridefeltendless. His hand on the small of my back, steady and warm through the cashmere he'd dressed me in this morning. The city fell away floor by floor, and all I could think about was what I'd promised. What I'd agreed to give him.
Words. Just words. People used them every day without thinking.
But I'd never been like other people.
The doors opened. Ghost greeted us with his usual enthusiasm, tail wagging, long grey body pressing against our legs. Maks murmured something to him—good boy, go lie down—and the dog obeyed with the easy compliance of an animal that recognized authority.
The apartment was dim. Just the city glow through the windows and a single lamp in the living room, casting everything in amber and shadow. Maks guided me past the couch wherewe'd negotiated, past the kitchen where he'd fed me that first morning, toward the bedroom.
Toward the bed where he'd taken me apart.
He stopped me in the center of the room. Turned me to face him.
"I'm going to undress you now." His voice was quiet. Deliberate. The voice of someone announcing intentions before acting on them. "Slowly. And then we're going to practice."
Practice. Like this was a skill to be learned. Which, I supposed, it was.
His hands found the hem of the cashmere sweater he'd chosen for me this morning, the dusty rose that brought out the warmth in my skin. He drew it upward, and I raised my arms automatically, letting him pull it over my head.
The air was cool against my bare shoulders.
He folded the sweater. Laid it on the dresser with care. Everything he did was like that—precise, deliberate, leaving nothing to chance. Then he came back to me.
The skirt was next. His fingers found the hidden zipper at my hip, drew it down with aching slowness. The fabric pooled at my feet, and I stepped out of it. Another fold. Another careful placement.
I was shaking.
Not from cold. Not from fear. From the anticipation coiling in my belly, tighter with every layer he removed. From the knowledge of what was coming.
The bra was cream lace, delicate and lovely, the one he'd slid over my body that morning with such care. His fingers brushed my spine as he unhooked it. The straps slid down my arms. I felt the moment the fabric fell away, felt his eyes on me, felt the particular vulnerability of being seen.
"Beautiful," he murmured. Just that. Just the one word.
The collar sat warm against my throat. Black leather, silver ring. The one thing he didn't remove.
The underwear came last. His thumbs hooked into the waistband, dragged the lace down my thighs, over my knees, past my ankles. I stepped free. And then I was naked.
Except for the collar.
Everything else stripped away, but the claiming remained. The mark of his ownership, dark against my pale throat, the only adornment I was allowed to keep.
"On the bed, little bird."
I moved on unsteady legs. The sheets were cool against my overheated skin as I climbed up, arranged myself against the pillows. He followed, not on top of me but beside me, propped on one elbow, close enough that I could feel his warmth without any part of us touching.
