My feet carry me toward the wall of implements: whips, paddles, things I don’t have names for. My body heats as I take in the collection, each piece more terrifyingly beautiful than the last. I reach out toward a black leather paddle, curiosity winning.
But before my fingers make contact, he clears his throat.
I glance back. The look on his face is new, stern, commanding. Delicious.
“When it’s just us like this,” he says, voice low but sharp, “especially in this room, you are to refer to me as ‘Sir’. Understood?”
A shiver dances down my spine. And I like it. Too much.
So, obviously, I cross my arms over my chest, pop a hip, and give him a sweet little smile. “And if I don’t?” I ask, head tilted. I’m completely naked, but somehow, I feel like the one holding the power.
He smirks that slow, knowing smirk I’m starting to recognize meansYou can try, but I will win.“Trust me, you don’t want to find out.”
“Oh, but now I’m curious,” I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.
His eyes lock on mine. And for one long, breathless moment, the room crackles with tension.
“On your hands and knees,” he orders.
Every molecule in my body wants to obey. To drop right there on the floor for him, just because he said so… and maybe also because I’ve always been a little curious about what it would feel like to give in like that.
But of course, I can’t just make it easy for him.
Where’s the fun in that?
I cock my head, let a slow smile curl on my lips, and say sweetly, “Say please,Sir.” He doesn’t flinch. Not at my smirk or my challenge. Not even at the way I emphasizeSirlike I’m daring him to correct me again.
Instead, Calvin straightens slowly, like he has all the time in the world to deal with my nonsense. His gaze sharpens with intent, quiet and lethal, like he’s already decided exactly how this will go.
“I see,” he says, voice calm, almost amused. “We’re testing limits already.”
I cock my head in mock innocence. “I’d never.”
“Let’s get a few things straight.” He turns and walks toward the black leather bench. Every movement is controlled as he runs his fingers over one of the cuffs, inspecting it like a craftsman checking his tools. Like he’s imagining me in them. Which he probably is.
“First,” he says without looking at me, “you follow directions the first time I give them. Not when you feel like it. Not after a cute little backtalk session. Immediately.”
I cross my arms over my chest but don’t interrupt.
“Second,” he continues, “your mouth may be smart, but mine decides when and how it’s allowed to run wild. If you want to act like a brat, that’s fine. I’m not scared of a little fire, but don’t expect to leave this room without feeling every bit of it.”
My thighs press together instinctively, but I keep my expression neutral. Mostly.
He turns back to me, eyes locked onto mine with quiet force.
“And third…” His voice softens, darkens. “When I give you an order, you don’t just do it. You do it like you mean it.”
Then he nods toward the floor.
“On your hands and knees.”
The room goes still.
This time, I don’t hesitate; I couldn’t even if I wanted to. One second I’m standing facing him, the next I’m on my hands and knees. The marble is cool beneath my palms and knees, but my skin feels feverish. His eyes track every movement I make, and somehow, despite being completely bare and kneeling on the floor, I don’t feel small, but seen.
He waits. Watches.
“Now,” he says softly, “crawl to me.”
