She doesn’t.
She flinches, but she doesn’t move.
My fingers touch the thin strap of the baby doll on her shoulder. The fabric is flimsy.
Her breath hitches.
My knuckles brush against her collarbone. Her skin is warm. Soft.
I slide my finger under the strap, feeling the delicate give of it against her skin. I could snap it with one pull.
“You’re shaking,” I say. My voice is low. Quiet.
She swallows hard. Her throat bobs.
“No, I’m not,” she whispers, but she is. I can feel it against my knuckles.
The lie is as flimsy as the fabric; it’s pathetic. I almost smile.
“Have you had anything to drink?” I ask. “Alcohol?”
She shakes her head. “None.”
I slide my finger from under the strap to the curve of her shoulder. She’s not muscular. She’s soft. Yielding.
“You’re scared,” I say. It’s not a question.
She presses her lips together, a stubborn line. She looks like she’s trying to build a wall with her jaw.
“The man I was bidding against at the end,” I continue. “He has a reputation..."
"What kind?" she whispers shakily.
I slide my thumb along the line of her collarbone. "The kind that likes a little fight in his women."
Her eyes go wider. She looks sick. She looks like she’s finally, truly understanding what she almost stepped into.
She's staring at me in fear. Real fear.
"I'm not into that sort of thing," I say and watch the fear tamp down.
"What—" She licks her lips. "What are you into, sir?"
Her voice comes out small and low.
My lips curl slightly, but it's not a smile. It's something darker. I like that word on her lips. Sir.
I've heard it before. From her at work. From other employees. From other women in my bed.
But hearing it in her small, trembling voice makes a bolt of lust flash through me.
"I like obedience."
My thumb pauses on her skin.
She holds her breath.
"But I like it even more," I continue, my voice dropping, "when it doesn't come easy."
