The image before me burned itself into my brain. Auralia—my Auralia, my little bird, my Ptichka—bound and collared and spread out on my bed like something sacred. Her arms stretched above her head, muscles taut, the position lifting her breasts and exposing the vulnerable line of her ribs. Her legs slightly parted, the dark hair between her thighs slick with wanting.
Mine.
The word wasn't just thought anymore. It was felt. Bone-deep, blood-deep, the kind of possessive claiming that came from somewhere primal and couldn't be argued with.
She was watching me.
Those grey-green eyes, pupils blown so wide they looked black. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly—not panic, not fear. Anticipation. The particular breathlessness of someone who had surrendered control and was waiting to see what would be done with them.
I wanted to paint her. Desperately.
"Good girl."
She shivered. Full-body, visible, the rope pulling taut as her muscles responded to the praise.
"Now—" I climbed onto the bed, positioning myself between her parted thighs, close enough that she could feel the heat of my body without any contact. "I'm going to take my time with you."
Her breath caught.
I watched her process the words. Watched her understand what they meant—that this wasn't going to be quick, wasn't going to be merciful. That I intended to explore every inch of her body before I finally gave her what she wanted.
What we both wanted.
The anticipation built in the space between us, thick as smoke, heavy as want. She was trembling now—small tremors running through her bound body, her skin prickling with awareness, her nipples tight and aching.
I hadn't even touched her yet.
I planned to change that very, very slowly.
I started at her ankles.
It seemed like the right place to begin—as far from where she wanted me as possible, making her wait, making her feel every inch of anticipation. My lips brushed the delicate bone on the inside of her left ankle, and she jerked against the restraints like I'd touched her somewhere far more intimate.
Good. That was good.
I kissed my way up her calf. Slow. Deliberate. Mapping the muscle, the soft skin, the particular texture of her that I'd been imagining for five months. She tasted like salt and lavender—my soap, on her skin, the intimacy of that almost undoing me.
Behind her knee made her gasp. A soft sound, surprised, like she hadn't known she was sensitive there. I filed the information away and lingered, pressing my tongue to the tender skin, feeling her pulse flutter against my lips.
The trembling intensified.
I worked my way up her thighs. Inner flesh, soft and pale, unmarked except for the faint remnants of pink from earlier. I kissed there too, gentle over the tender spots, and her hips shifted restlessly against the sheets.
"Please." Her voice cracked. "Daddy, please—"
I paused. Lifted my head just enough to speak against her thigh, my breath ghosting over her skin.
"Please what?"
The question was patient. Almost cruel. I knew what she wanted—could see it, could smell it, the particular musk of her arousal thick in the air between us. But I needed her to say it. Needed her to ask for what she needed instead of hoping I'd guess.
"Please touch me." The words tumbled out desperate and broken. "Please—I need—I can't—"
She couldn't finish the sentence.
I gave her what she needed.
My mouth found her center and she cried out—sharp, surprised, the sound tearing from her throat as her back arched off the bed. The rope creaked against the headboard as she pulled, her body trying to chase the sensation I was finally providing.
