“Private,” I said.
Something shifted in his expression. Briefly, completely controlled. I might have imagined it.
I didn’t think I’d imagined it.
“This way,” he said.
I followed him and told myself, with great firmness, that this was the last time. One more scene. One more night of feeling like a person who made her own choices. Then I would go back to the house and find a legitimate path out of my father’s orbit that didn’t involve an almost stranger in a private room at Valhalla and whatever this reckless warmth was that kept arriving in my chest without invitation.
Completely manageable. Which was usually the first sign that something wasn’t.
The door closed behind us. He turned to look at me. The room was quiet and warm and entirely private, and every sensible thought I’d brought with me became, quite suddenly, someone else’s problem.
I stood, rooted, my armor firmly in place. I may be a complete train wreck beneath, and quite possibly the quick staccato of my pulse gave me away, but on the inside I was a puddle of hormones and feelings. Our first very public session… how different could this one be in private?
My eyes traveled about the room, taking in the fine finishings and equipment. But what stole my breath was the ring that hung from the center of the ceiling with chains that dangled a pair of manacles, archaic when compared with the rest.
Already this was different, intense in a way I’d avoided. Until now.
Two more rings set in silver plates embedded in the floor, a chain and a manacle attached to each.
There was something so primitive about the metal that sparks of forbidden excitement spiked down my spine, swelling the lips of my pussy and hardening my clit in no time flat.
“How very barbarian of you, Master Loki.”
He didn’t have to look at where I indicated with a nod of my head. He knew. Of course he did, just as he knew how deeply I’d wished to fly free in bondage last time. This, however, would be an entirely different set of sensations.
Loki gave me the short tour ending with the collection of bullwhips that hung from the wall. “Yours?” I asked, boredom lacing my tone.
His wicked grin set off more sensations of desire that pooled in the tiny triangle of my G-string. This was dangerous. Not theplay, but the wild beat of my heart. My body recognized what I was unwilling to admit to myself.
Loki wrapped one large hand around my throat. Barely squeezing, almost delicate. The message those twin pools of darkness held was heated in a way that belied his grip on me. He was turned on and looked to me to already be in Dom space.
His other hand trailed along my side as gently as a feather. Goosebumps rose, another giveaway, though whether he noticed, I couldn’t tell. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Are you ready, Hecate?”
The question was delivered with easy confidence, as if he were asking about weekend plans.
“I’m always ready, Master Loki.”
Was I, though? What did I really know about this man? His skill wasn’t in question; he’d proven that last time. But this wasn’t about skill. This was about seduction.
The warmth of his breath against my skin triggered another wave of goosebumps. This time, he noticed. Releasing my neck, his hands traveled lower, kneading my breasts and taunting my nipples until they were rigid peaks.
A moan escaped my lips, shattering the dark silence of the room. My composure was at risk, but beneath the desire was something sharper, angrier. Not at him, or even at myself for wanting, but at the world I was forced to live in. My father’s tightly controlled world. Where I existed solely as an extension. Here, I could fly and maybe that could be enough. Had to be.
Loki took my hand as if leading me to a dance floor, placing me centered under the ceiling ring. A trickle of nerves. A light dusting of sweat appeared on my skin. He lifted my arm, kissing down the length of the inside from my elbow to my wrist before clasping it.
I was surprised at the warmth and lack of heavy metal that was expected with something that looked so heavy and archaic. My eyes narrowed as I examined them more closely. “How is the metal so soft and warm?”
“These are custom. Twenty-four carat gold.”
“Expensive.”
“Fit for a queen. Or in this case a goddess.” His comment wasn’t snide, but an acknowledgement of honoring the alter ego I used in this shared world.
He parted my legs and wrapped my ankles in the same soft, warm shackles. The dress had already come off and now all there was between us was a skimpy G-string with a sodden gusset.
