My cock throbbed against my jeans.
Higher. The gentle swell of her stomach, no flat planes or sharp angles, just soft feminine curves that made my palms ache to touch. Her waist. Her ribs, visible when she breathed deep. Her breasts, small enough to fit perfectly in my hands, nipples tight and begging for attention.
Her throat, bare and waiting.
Her face, flushed and uncertain and so beautiful it made my chest hurt.
"Beautiful," I breathed. The word came out like a prayer. "My beautiful little bird."
Something cracked in her expression. Relief and want and that particular vulnerability she gave me when she stopped trying to be strong.
I crossed to the dresser. Lifted the velvet bag. Drew out the collar and let the black leather catch the light.
When I turned back to her, she was on her knees.
I hadn't asked her to kneel. Hadn't commanded it. But she was there—knees against the hardwood, spine straight, hands resting on her thighs. Looking up at me with those grey-green eyes that had been seeing through me for five months.
Instinct. Or desire. Or both.
It didn't matter.
I moved to stand in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to hold my gaze. The collar dangled from my fingers, the silver ring catching the city light like a tiny star.
"This means you're mine," I said quietly. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Daddy."
The words were barely a whisper. But certain. Absolute.
I stepped closer. Reached down. Wrapped the collar around her throat with hands that didn't quite shake, though it was a close thing.
The leather was soft against her pale skin. Black on white. Claim made visible.
I fastened the buckle at the back of her neck. Not too tight—enough that she'd feel it with every breath, every swallow, every heartbeat. A constant reminder of who she belonged to.
When I stepped back, the collar sat perfectly against her throat. The silver ring rested in the hollow above her collarbone, catching light, drawing the eye.
Mine.
The word roared through me like something primal. Something that had been waiting, coiled and patient, for exactly this moment.
I hooked a finger through the ring.
Tugged. Gently.
The sound she made—a small, broken whimper, something between surrender and relief—went straight to my cock. I felt myself throb, straining against my jeans, my body demanding what my mind insisted on denying just a little longer.
"There she is," I murmured. "My collared little bird."
Her eyes were shining. Not tears—not yet. Something brighter. Something that looked like joy.
And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would spend the rest of my life earning the right to see that look on her face.
I helped her to her feet.
Her legs were unsteady—kneeling on hardwood will do that, especially when your whole body is trembling from something that has nothing to do with cold—and she leaned into me as I guided her toward the bed. The collar shifted against her throat with each step, a dark band of leather that made my chest tight every time I looked at it.
Mine. The word kept repeating, a drumbeat beneath every thought.
