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)
"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."
Her cuffed hands are still pressed against my cock. I can feel her pulse through her wrists—racing, frantic.
"You wanted someone who'd take control so you didn't have to make choices. Who'd force you to admit what you need so you didn't have to volunteer it."
I pinch her nipple hard.
She cries out.
"You wanted someone who'd make you his perfect slave."
I release her completely and step back.
She sways without my support, catching herself against the door with her shoulder, pressing her forehead against the wood.
I move close again, my front to her back. My cock fits perfectly against the curve of her ass. I let her feel it. Let her understand exactly how hard I am.
How much I want this.
How much I want her.
"You wrote a scene in Chapter Nine of Chained to the Master's Bed," I say conversationally, as if we're discussing the weather. "Where Gabriel makes Isla recite all the ways she wants to be used while he edges her for an hour."
Scarletta whimpers.
"Do you remember that scene?"
Silence.
I reach around and grip her throat. Not choking. Just holding. Fingers pressed against her pulse points.
"I asked you a question."
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, I remember."
"Good."
I release her throat and trail my hand down between her breasts, over her stomach, stopping just above her pussy.
"In that scene, Isla had to tell Gabriel every filthy thing she fantasized about. Every degrading act she craved. And if she lied—if she held anything back—he'd start over from the beginning. Setting the timer for another hour. Setting her up to succeed."
My fingers dip lower. Brush against her clit.
She jerks like I've electrocuted her.
"By the end," I continue, circling her clit with light, teasing pressure, "she was begging him to let her confess. Begging to tell him her darkest secrets because keeping them inside was worse than the shame of saying them out loud."
Scarletta's hips tilt forward, seeking more pressure.
I pull my hand away.
"That's what I'm going to do to you," I tell her. "I'm going to make you confess every fantasy you've ever had. Every story you've written. Every scene that made you wet when you typed it."
I press my cock harder against her ass.
"And you're going to tell me the truth. Because you already know the rules. You wrote them."
She's shaking so hard I can feel it through the contact between us.
Perfect.
Scared.
Aroused.
Confused.
Exactly where I need her.
I step back again, putting space between us.
"Stay there," I order. "Don't move."
I cross the room to the leather chair positioned ten feet from the door. Sit. Spread my legs. Rest my hands on the armrests.
Watch her.
Blindfolded, cuffed, naked, pressed against my front door like she's afraid her legs will give out if she steps away.
She doesn't know I'm watching.
Can't see me.
But she can feel my eyes on her.
I let the silence stretch. Twenty seconds. Thirty.
Her breathing slows slightly. Not calm—just exhausted from the adrenaline crash.