“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.
I do, my tongue darting out to wet my suddenly dry lips. The blindfold slides over my lashes, shutting out the world. Darkness swallows everything, and my heart starts to race again—then slows, because there’s something calming about it too. Without sight, I’m left with only his voice, his scent, the sound of his breathing.
“Evi,” he says, and I feel the warmth of his breath near my ear. “You’re trembling.”
“I—” My voice falters. “I don’t know what to do.”
His hand settles on my waist, and the touch grounds me instantly.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “That’s the point. You trust me to lead.”
The words ripple through me, and suddenly I understand what he meant before. That this isn’t about punishment—not in the way I’ve been imagining. It’s about surrender, about giving up the constant vigilance I’ve carried my whole life, always ready to prove my worth, always preparing to defend myself.
For once, I don’t have to be in control.
I can hear him circling me slowly, and every sense sharpens to fill the void left by sight. I catch the faint sound of fabric rustling when he moves, feel the way the bed shifts as he settles onto it behind me. And when his fingers brush the back of my neck, I bite back a gasp.
“Breathe,” he says.
I do, and the air feels different when I let it in—deeper, steadier, as though my body is finally learning a new language.
His hands find my hips, one powerful arm wrapping around my waist, and he pulls me back onto the bed, the covers sliding like satin beneath me. His voice is low, close, when he says, “Now lie back, and put your hands above your head.”
One large, warm hand guides me down, supporting me from the nape of my neck until my head finds my pillow. Then he shifts, his fingers wrapping around the rope that binds my wrists as soon as my knuckles find hard wood. I feel the soft tug as he adjusts something, then the complete lack of freedom as I subtly test my restraints. He’s tied me to the headboard.
My breath quickens, my pulse fluttering, and I fight the instinctual wave of panic that threatens to take over. With deliberation, I force each muscle in my body to relax, despite the adrenaline racing through my veins. And though I can’t see him, I can feel Sandro—every breath, every shift in energy.
When his lips brush the side of my neck, goosebumps erupt across my flesh, making my nipples pucker against the soft silk of my slip.
“You’re doing well,” he murmurs. “Better than you think.”
The praise sends a tremor through me, unexpected and dizzying. My throat tightens. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that—to be told I’m not a disappointment, that I’m enough.
As if he can sense it, Sandro’s fingers flex against my skin, and his tone softens as he whispers, “You’re safe with me, Evi.”
Something inside me unravels.
All the fear, the uncertainty, the years of hearing that I would never be enough for anyone—it starts to dissolve. In its place grows a warmth that spreads outward, until I feel it everywhere, pulsing beneath my skin like light.
“Now, bend your knees, Evi, and spread those beautiful thighs for me.”
I do as he says, and a rush of nervous anticipation floods my stomach. On instinct, I want to press my knees together, to keep my modesty. But I fight the urge, keeping my legs parted even though they quiver with nerves.
I’ve never felt so vulnerable. Or so alive.
And when I feel his hot breath wash across my pulsing clit, I nearly come undone. I suck in a sharp breath, my head tilting back as my muscles tense.
“Mmm, so wet and ready for me, aren’t you,wife?” he rasps, and the raw need in his voice, the way he calls me wife, like I’m his alone to possess and enjoy, sends a fresh rush of excitement flooding to my core.
Then his lips brush a kiss on the inside of my knee. And slowly, tantalizingly, he works his way up my leg. I squirm beneath him, my breath catching before it races out of me, and my clit throbs with a pulse of its own.
But when he reaches that point where I need him most desperately, instead, he shifts to suck the tender skin along the inside of my hipbone between his teeth.
I moan, the desperation growing inside me as he makes me wait. Soft fabric rustles across my ribcage as Sandro’s hand slides upward to cup my breast, and I can feel his warmth through the thin fabric of my slip. Then he lightly pinches my pebbled nipple between his finger and thumb and rolls it. The zing of pain at the unexpected roughness lances through me like a bolt of lightning, and I cry out as the jarring sensation quickly melts into a fresh, intoxicating wave of pleasure that turns my core molten.
“That’s my good girl,” Sandro murmurs, his breath whispering across my sex as his second hand reaches up to palm my other breast. “I can tell you like that. Hell”—he inhales deeply, the sound carnal and wickedly depraved—“I can smell how good you think that feels.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I realize he’s talking about how wet I must be now. But I don’t have time to be embarrassed for long as his tongue strokes out, lapping between my folds in one long, luxurious stroke.
