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He unzips my dress slowly, peeling it down my body until it pools at my feet. I'm left standing in my bra and panties, my wrists bound behind me, completely at his mercy.

"Fucking beautiful," he murmurs, his hands skimming over my curves. "Every inch of you."

He guides me onto the bed, positioning me on my knees, my bound wrists resting against the small of my back. The position makes me feel exposed and vulnerable and unbearably aroused.

Vanguard kneels behind me, his hands sliding up my thighs, over my hips, up my back. "What do you do when you're not here?" he asks, his voice rough. "When you go home at the end of the day?"

My face burns. "I—what?"

"I want to know," he says, his hand sliding around to cup me through my panties, and I gasp. "Tell me what your life looks like."

"I go home to an empty apartment," I admit, my voice shaking. "I grade papers. I watch TV. I go to bed alone."

"And what do you think about when you're alone?" His fingers stroke me through the damp fabric.

"I think about—" I break off, panting. "I think about being wanted. About someone looking at me like they can't get enough. About being touched like I'm—like I'm⁠—"

"Like you're perfect," he finishes. "Like you're exactly what I've been craving."

"Yes," I whimper.

"You are," he says, his voice fierce. "You're everything I want, Ivy. Every soft curve, every sound you make, every time you trust me. You're fucking perfect."

He pulls my panties down my thighs, and then his mouth is on me.

I cry out, my body jerking forward, but his hands grip my hips and hold me in place. He licks and sucks and teases, his tongue circling my clit, his fingers sliding inside me, and I'm helpless to do anything but take it.

"Vanguard," I gasp, my thighs shaking. "Please⁠—"

"Please what?" he asks against me, his voice vibrating through my core.

"Please make me come."

He pulls back, and I whimper at the loss. "Not yet. I want you aching for it first."

He moves up my body, his hands sliding over my skin, unhooking my bra and pulling it off. His mouth closes over my nipple, sucking hard, and I arch into him with a broken moan.

"You spend all day taking care of everyone else," he says against my breast, his teeth grazing my nipple. "Who takes care of you?"

The question catches me off guard, and my throat tightens. "No one."

"That's what I thought." His hand slides between my thighs again, his fingers teasing my entrance but not pushing inside. "You hide behind competence. Behind being the person everyone can rely on. But you never let anyone see that you need something too."

I freeze.

How does he know that?

How does this stranger know exactly what I do, exactly how I feel?

"I—" I start, but his fingers push inside me, slow and deep, and I cry out.

"I see you," he says roughly. "I see all of it. And I want to take care of you tonight."

"I don't know how to let someone do that," I admit, my voice breaking.

"Then let me show you." He withdraws his fingers and brings them to my lips. "Open."

I obey, and he slides his fingers into my mouth. "Taste yourself. Taste how much you want this."