I’m trapped.
Bound.
His.
Without another word, he turns to close the door behind him. He crosses the room at an unhurried pace, moving to the corner directly behind me.
I follow him with my gaze, studying his profile, the sharp line of his jaw.
“Duncan?” It’s a plea rather than a call. I’m going crazy without him.
“Right here.” He pulls a pair of scissors out of a drawer in his dresser.
The blades glimmer faintly when he holds them up.
I should be alarmed by this. Should freak out, considering how calculating and dangerous he looks, the scissors glinting in his large hand.
I’m neither this nor that.
My trust in him is so absolute that instead of fearing him, I’m wet and aching between my legs. My breasts are swollen, sensitive enough that the brush of fabric against them feels like friction.
The frame rattles. It takes a second to register that I’m the one shaking it.
“Patience.” Duncan comes close, close, closer until his shadow looms over me.
He can’t be more than five inches taller than I am now, when I’m framed like this, but he feels enormous.
I stare up at him from beneath my lashes, saying nothing. Submitting to him.
Twisted amusement glimmers in his eyes. I think he gets off on this, on me, letting him set the pace.
Which I do, willingly. He was right earlier. I’m exhausted from carrying everything and everyone. I want him as my lover and my savior.
As the man who accepts the power I offer and lifts this weight from my shoulders.
He already proved he could do that when he dealt with my brother and came back unscathed.
Now, he’s going to care for my body.
“You’ve been so good.” He caresses my cheek with the scissors, the sharp tip of the blades cold yet not intimidating. Not when Duncan wields it. “Waiting for me to come home inside the frame.”
Strange warmth curls in my lungs. As if they’re soaking up the praise. “Thank you.”
“Before we begin.” Leaning closer, he brushes his lips over mine, soft and distracting.
So distracting that I don’t see the blade, only feel it when he starts cutting my shirt. The fabric parts, the cool line of the blades tracing my collarbone, then lower, down the center of me.
“Little moon.” He’s not done, and yet he pauses, brows pulled together. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”
The question jars me with how intimate and incredibly thoughtful it is.
Especially in a moment like this, when he’s hard. I saw his erection straining his pants when he stepped inside the studio. But his control and love override the release he must crave.
“No.” I shudder when he cuts through another inch of my shirt.
“Hungry?” His face fills my entire view, his eyes intense and nearly black now.
I shake my head, a slight movement that he catches.
