Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I make her wait.
She's alone.
Naked, bound, blindfolded, standing on my doorstep.
I make her wait.
I cross the room. Down the hallway. My bare feet silent on hardwood floors.
Reach the front door.
She's three feet away on the other side. I can see her on the monitor mounted beside the doorframe—another angle, closer than the external camera.
Her chest rising and falling too fast. Hyperventilating.
Lips moving. Whispering something to herself.
I unmute the audio.
"—okay it's okay you're okay this is what you wanted this is—"
Lying to herself.
Trying to believe this is just an intense scene. Just a fantasy come true. Just a rich man who paid a lot of money for a willing participant.
She has no idea what I've done.
What I'm going to do.
I turn the handle.
Open the door.
Cold air rushes in. She gasps, flinches backward, nearly loses her balance without her hands to catch herself.
I catch her instead.
Grip her upper arms. Steady her.
She freezes.
"Please," she whispers.
I don't answer.
Pull her forward. Over the threshold. Into my cabin.
Kick the door shut behind her.
The lock engages with a heavy click that makes her jerk in my grip.
"Please I—I don't—"
I spin her around. Press her back against the closed door.
She's shorter than I expected. Top of her head barely reaches my collarbone.
Fragile.
Breakable.
Mine.
I lean close. Put my mouth beside her ear.
"Welcome home, Scarletta."
Her breathing is ragged. Fast, shallow gasps that make her chest heave against the door. She's trying to control it and failing.
I love that she's failing.
I stand behind her, close enough that my chest brushes her bare back with each breath she takes. She flinches at the contact but has nowhere to go—door behind her, me in front, hands cuffed and useless.
Trapped.
She knows it.
I reach up slowly, deliberately, and touch her cheek with two fingers. Gentle. Almost tender.
She freezes.
The contradiction destroys her. I can feel it in the way her body locks up, confusion warring with fear. Rough treatment she could categorize. Fight or flight. Simple equations.
But this softness wrapped around absolute control… she has no framework for it.
I trace the line of her jaw with my fingertips, feeling the tension thrumming beneath her skin. Her pulse hammers visibly in her throat—fast, frantic, beautiful.
"Please," she whispers again.
I don't answer.
Instead, I lean in closer, bringing my mouth to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder. I press my lips there. Not a bite. Not rough. Just a kiss.
She shudders.
Her body betrays her immediately—nipples hardening, goosebumps spreading across her arms, thighs pressing together reflexively.
Arousal coded as terror.
Or terror coded as arousal.
With her, there's no difference.
I move my mouth to her ear, close enough that my breath ghosts across her skin when I speak.
"'I am kneeling,'" I whisper, quoting her own words back to her. "'Thighs spread exactly shoulder-width apart. Spine straight. Shoulders back. Hands palm-up on my thighs where he can see I'm not hiding anything.'"
She goes rigid.
Recognizes the passage instantly.
I Am Your Perfect Slave. Chapter fourteen. Raven reciting her Dom's rules after months of training. The chapter where she finally stops fighting and surrenders completely.
Her favorite scene in her favorite story.
I hacked her laptop, read her notes folder. Found the document titled "favorite scenes to reread when I need—" and she'd never finished the sentence.
But I knew what she meant.
When I need to touch myself.
I continue, my voice low and steady against her ear. "'Chin level. Eyes down unless he commands otherwise. I don't speak unless spoken to. I don't move unless given permission. I don't come unless he allows it.'"
Scarletta's breathing stutters. Stops entirely for three seconds.
Then resumes, faster than before.
"'I am his to use. His to display. His to discipline. His to reward. I exist for his pleasure and mine only matters when he decides it matters.'"
Her legs tremble. I can feel it through the contact between us.
"'I was weak before. I fought him. Questioned him. Made him prove himself over and over because I was too afraid to believe he could handle all of me.'"
A tiny sound escapes her throat. Almost a whimper.
Almost.
"'But I'm not afraid anymore. I don't need to test him. I don't need to push. I know what I am now. What I've always been.'"
I pause. Let the silence stretch. Let her remember the final line.
Then I deliver it.
"'I am his perfect slave.'"
She breaks.
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.