Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Her jaw tightens. "I know what I chose."
"Do you?"
I tug the O-ring just slightly, watching her throat work as she swallows.
"Have you had hot wax dripped on your nipples before? Not the massage candles that melt at body temperature—real wax that burns when it hits skin?"
"No."
"Have you worn clamps for longer than a few minutes? Long enough for the initial pain to fade, then return twice as intense when they come off?"
"No."
My eyes narrow, my chest filled with something I can’t quite describe. "Have you been cropped hard enough to leave marks that last for days?"
Her breath catches. "No."
"Then you don't know what you chose. You made an educated guess based on fantasy, and fiction, and whatever limited experience you had with your ex."
I release the O-ring, stepping back again to give her room to breathe.
"And that's fine. That's expected. You're learning." I move to the throne and sit, spreading my legs wide, settling into the posture of absolute authority. "But here's what I need you to understand, Little Miss Take."
She flinches at the nickname.
"If you use your safe word tonight, I'll respect it completely. We'll stop immediately. I'll remove the collar and the restraints and I'll hold you while you come down."
My cock throbs at the thought of her in my arms, vulnerable and shaking and trusting me to put her back together.
"But tomorrow morning when Jino comes down those stairs, I'll tell him you weren't ready. That we need to scale back the intensity. Start slower."
I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
"And he'll adjust your training accordingly. More time in basic positions. More repetition of simple tasks. Less challenge. Less reward."
Understanding blooms across her face. "You're manipulating me."
"I'm giving you information so you can make an informed choice."
"That's the same thing."
"No." I shake my head. "Manipulation would be punishing you for using your safe word despite promising I wouldn't. Or making you feel guilty about it. Or withdrawing affection."
I hold her gaze.
"I'm being completely transparent. Use the safe word if you need it—I mean that. But know that your choice tonight tells me how fast we can move. How much you can handle. How deep I can push."
Emmaleen's hands are trembling now.
Not from fear, I realize.
From rage.
"You're betting I won't use it just to prove something to you."
"I'm betting you'll make the choice that's right for you in the moment." I gesture toward the implements she selected. "Whether that's pushing through discomfort to discover what's on the other side, or recognizing your limits and protecting yourself."
"And you don't care which one I choose."
"I care that you choose honestly."
She barks out a laugh—short, sharp, edged with hysteria.
"Honest. That's rich coming from you."
"I've never lied to you, Emmaleen."
"You've never told me the whole truth either."
Fair point.
I rise from the throne and press up against her. "Then let me be completely honest right now." I cup her face in both hands, forcing her to hold my gaze. "I want to mark you. I want to hear you count every drop of wax, every adjustment of the clamps, every strike of the crop. I want to watch you process pain and transform it into pleasure."
My thumbs stroke along her cheekbones.
"But more than that, I want to know what you're truly capable of. And the only way to find that out is if you have complete control over when to stop."
"That's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair, little one."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it.
Emmaleen's breath hitches. Her pupils dilate further.
She likes it.
Fuck.
I drop my hands and step back, reclaiming the distance I need to think clearly.
Christ. This game is going to destroy us both.
"The clamps," I say quietly. "Hand them to me."
She bends to retrieve them from the floor, and I watch the way her body moves—fluid despite the tremor in her hands, graceful despite the fear radiating off her in waves.
When she straightens and holds them out, our eyes meet.
Hers are glassy. On the edge of tears. I’m surprised she has any left after yesterday’s river.
I take the clamps. "These are adjustable," I tell her, examining the mechanism. "I'm going to put them on carefully. I need to find the right tension—enough that you feel it, but not so much that we cause actual injury."
Professional. Clinical. As if I'm not rock-hard in my pants. As if my hands aren't shaking slightly with the need to touch her, claim her, mark her as mine in every way that matters.
I cup her left breast, thumb brushing over the nipple until it hardens into a tight peak.
Then I attach the clamp.
Emmaleen gasps—a sharp intake of breath that she tries to swallow back.
I watch her face as I slowly tighten the screw. Watching for the exact moment when discomfort becomes pain.
There.
A tiny squeak escapes her throat. Her eyes squeeze shut.
I stop immediately, noting the tension setting required.