Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just a sharp inhale followed by a shaky exhale that sounds suspiciously wet.
She's crying again.
I lift my hand from her jaw and cup her face, my palm catching the tears sliding down her cheek beneath the blindfold. My thumb strokes across her skin—once, twice—wiping away the evidence of her reaction.
"You already know how to be perfect for me," I murmur, shifting my other hand down to palm her breast. Heavy. Soft. Nipple hard against my touch. "Don't you, Scarletta?"
She doesn't answer.
Can't answer.
I squeeze gently, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Not rough. Just enough pressure to make her gasp.
"You practiced for months. Writing out every rule. Every position. Every response."
I release her breast and trail my hand down her stomach. She sucks in air, muscles contracting beneath my touch. I slowly turn her around, push her ever so slightly into the door until her cheek is pressed flat.
"You taught yourself how to kneel. How to wait. How to surrender."
My hand moves lower. Over her hip. Down to where her hands are cuffed behind her back.
I find her wrists. Grip them. Pull them forward—not hard, just insistent—until her bound hands are pressed against the front of my boxer briefs.
Against my cock.
Thick. Hard. Straining against the fabric.
She makes a choked sound and tries to pull away.
I hold her hands in place.
"Feel that?" I ask, my voice dropping lower. "That's what you do to me. Your words. Your stories. Your perfect, filthy mind."
Her fingers twitch against me. Uncertain. Trembling.
I rock my hips forward slightly, grinding my erection into her restrained palms.
"You wrote all the rules, Scarletta," I tell her, my mouth still against her ear. "You already know exactly how to be my perfect slave."
Her breathing fractures. Ragged. Desperate.
"I didn't—" she starts, voice breaking. "I didn't mean?—"
"Yes, you did."
I press harder, forcing her hands flat against my cock. She can feel every inch of it now. The length. The heat. The evidence of how badly I want her.
"You meant every word. Every scene. Every fantasy you wrote at three in the morning when you couldn't sleep because you were too wet to think straight."
A sob catches in her throat.
"You wrote it because you needed to see it. Needed to know what it would feel like to be completely owned by someone who understands you."
I release one of her wrists and bring my hand back up to her breast, kneading roughly this time. She arches involuntarily into the touch.
"Someone who's read everything you've ever written. Every confession. Every shameful desire you thought you could hide behind a screen name."
