The silk was cool beneath my back, slick under my palms where they pressed flat against the sheets. I lay exactly where he told me to—body bare, legs parted, arms stretched above my head, hands open and still. Every inch of me was exposed, but not just physically. This wasn’t about nudity. It was about compliance. Willing submission. And the terrifying power of restraint when it came from me, not him.
I could feel him moving before I saw him. His steps were slow, unhurried, deliberate. He circled the bed like a man considering the most efficient way to dismantle something valuable without breaking it. I kept my gaze fixed on the ceiling, the flicker of candlelight catching the corners of my vision, throwing everything into gold-edged shadow. I could feel my pulse in my wrists, in my throat, between my legs. Not from fear. From pressure. From the weight of stillness, of being watched and not touched, of being given nothing but silence and the command to stayexactlyas I was.
“You’re already shaking,” he said quietly, voice low and even, like he was reading off a list of facts. I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I could. “It’s not weakness,” he added after a beat. “It’s anticipation. Your body knows what’s coming before your mind will admit it.”
He stepped closer, and the mattress dipped slightly as he climbed up. He didn’t reach for me. He just knelt there, looking down, his presence a gravitational force that made every second heavier. I could feel the heat coming off his skin, the scent of him—clean, spiced, still tinged with smoke and sweat—and it took everything in me not to arch toward it. Tokeep still. He was giving me nothing to fight against. No pressure, no command beyond this: stay still, stay open, stay willing. The discipline had to come from me. And that made it worse. That made itreal.
“You’ve let me take before,” he said, his tone soft but edged. “But tonight isn’t about what I pull from you. It’s about what youoffer. Because offering? That’s the kind of power you don’t give unless you trust I’ll know what to do with it.”
He lifted one hand and brushed the back of his knuckles along the inside of my thigh. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to make every nerve ending scream for more. My muscles flinched, instinctive, and he pulled his hand back like it burned.
“That’s one.”
I blinked, breath catching hard in my throat. “What?”
“You moved,” he said simply, settling back on his heels. “You don’t get to move unless I say so.”
I felt heat rush up my chest, shame and arousal twisted so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. I clenched my fingers against the sheets, palms still flat, the edges of control fraying faster than I wanted to admit.
“You think I need to tie you to keep you here?” he continued, almost contemplative now. “You think cuffs would hold you better than the sound of my voice? You’ve never needed rope, Grace. You’ve only needed someone who knew how to get under your skin deep enough thatyouwould keep yourself still.”
The way he said my name—low, deliberate—struck a nerve. His hand returned, trailing higher this time, slow as smoke. Still not touching where I needed him, but close. Too close. I let out a breath I hadn’t meant to, hips twitching involuntarily toward his hand.
He froze. “That’s two.”
Fuck. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, trying to lock my body back down. It wasn’t even the contact that was undoing me—it was the denial of it. The fact that he was so close, so restrained, someasured. Like this wasn’t about need at all. It was about control. And control, in his hands, was the most brutal seduction I’d ever known.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned in, lips grazing the edge of my hipbone like a warning. “You won’t last long. But that’s the point, isn’t it?”
His mouth hovered over me, breath warm against my skin. He didn’t press closer. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t taste. He waited. Not for my permission—but for mydisciplineto snap.
“You want to move so badly it hurts,” he murmured, the words more intimate than any touch. “But you won’t. Because I told you not to. And because you know that holding yourself still for me is the filthiest thing you’ve ever done.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I was too close to unraveling, and he hadn’t even touched me properly yet.
And still—I stayed still.
Because this was what he asked for.
Not surrender by force.
Surrender by choice.
19
RAFE
She was shaking.
Barely, but I could see it—in the fine tremble of her thighs, the strain in her arms, the way her breath hitched in her chest with every second I didn’t move. I hadn’t touched her in minutes. Not really. Just the backs of my fingers, a kiss of heat, the kind of contact that saysI couldwithout ever following through. And still she held. Her hands stayed where I left them. Her body stayed open. Exposed. Willing. My rules ringing in her head loud enough to drown out everything else.
And fuck, it undid me.
She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t doing this to prove anything. She was doing it because I asked—and that was what made it unbearable. That she’d give me this much without being forced. That she trusted me enough to let me see her like this—vulnerable, desperate, and silent.
My control had never felt more fragile.
I stayed on my knees between her thighs, hands braced against the mattress, not touching her yet. Not even hovering. Just watching. I could smell her—sweet and wrecked, the scent of arousal soaked into her skin, into the lace that clung toher cunt like it belonged there. I hadn’t pulled it aside. Hadn’t slipped beneath it. Hadn’t earned that yet. But I was going to. The second I gave myself permission.
