This isn’t nerves. It’s need.
Not caution. Hunger.
At the edge of her doorway, I stop. Shadows cloak her bedroom, touched only by the spill of a full moon through the curtains.
She’s there.
Kneeling. Still. Waiting.
I don’t step inside yet. The sight I’ve craved is already laid bare—the curve of her spine, the elegant slope of her shoulders, the black satin blindfold in place. She kneels on the bed, legs folded beneath her, arms relaxed at her sides, palms resting on top of her thighs. She’s still and silent, listening for me.
She hasn’t worked out that I’m already here.
This is what consent looks like, stripped bare. A woman, blindfolded and exposed, choosing to trust a monster with no name. Only an initial.
The sheer black slip clings to her. Thin. Translucent. It betrays the curve of her breasts, the line of her waist, the tension coiled tight in her thighs. She’s wearing exactly what I told her to and nothing else. This is the kind of obedience that drives men insane.
My cock throbs behind my zipper.
The door shuts behind me with a soft click, sealing us in shadow and breath. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t flinch, but I see it—the ripple that dances across her skin the moment she hears my footsteps.
She knows I’m here. And she’s ready.
I move closer, each step slow and deliberate, letting the weight of my presence coil around her, a noose of breath and nerves.
“Good girl.”
She jumps, just a twitch, but it’s enough.
I stop at the edge of the bed and watch her breathe. Her shoulders rise and fall, waves on the verge of breaking, held back only by sheer will… or submission.
“You followed my instructions beautifully.”
The words curl around her, and God, the way her body responds is fucking art. Her thighs tense. Her lips part. Her head tilts slightly, not in fear, but in hunger.
She likes my praise.
“Look at you, Laurette. So still. So ready. Your body already knows who it belongs to.”
A soft sound slips from her lips. Nothing coherent, but it’s there—the sound of submission wrapped in arousal.
I don’t touch her. Not yet. I want her to ache for it and crave the weight of my hands before they land.
“You like hearing that, don’t you?” My voice is a whisper. “Being called good. Being told you did well.”
She nods.
God, she’s exquisite. And this is only the beginning.
I move closer, a predator slowly closing in on its prey, until I’m standing behind her.
She tenses. Not from fear, but from anticipation. I know the difference. My line of work has trained me to read every kind of terror. This isn’t that. It’s desire, coiled tight and begging to be unwound.
My hand lifts, hovers, and I trace a single fingertip along the delicate curve of her neck.
She exhales and leans into my touch.
I trail lower, gliding down the slope of her shoulder, along the length of her arm, then across the edge of her back where her spine dips.
