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That’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting he feels anything at all for me. I mull over his curious words and an involuntary laugh escapes me. “Don’t worry about me, CC. I've faced criticism all my life. I can handle your mom.”
A blend of relief and desire flickers across his face. Jaden's fingers brush my forearm gently, signaling his easing tension, though our bond hints at more to come. I wait patiently, resisting the urge to either stare too deeply or make a move that might disrupt the fragile peace between us.
Suddenly, Jaden shatters the silence with an unexpected revelation. “I didn’t fuck her, you know.” His words jolt me from my thoughts, leaving me speechless. As the reality of his words settles, my reaction must resemble a fish gasping for air. Although I could pretend ignorance about who he's referring to, a triumphant inner voice—my power, perhaps—silently cheers, "I knew it." Yet, I can’t get the image of Tempest’s tongue down his throat out of my mind. . .
I'm not ready to let it slide. “But you were close, you almost did.”
He gives a single, grave nod, leaving a thread of tension—or is it worry?—trickling through our bond. What is he leading up to? Time stretches, dragging moments into an eternity as I try to mask my growing impatience with a few too many glasses of wine. My thoughts meander through society's expectations, questioning whether Jaden can fulfill my deepest longing: to be loved and cherished. Despite his protests, I remain hopeful, albeit slightly inebriated. That warrants another glass.
All the while, Jaden seems lost in his own world, fixated on tracing patterns along my forearm until he finally meets my gaze. “And what about you with Nick? Did you fuck him?”
The wine emboldens me. “I thought it didn’t matter to you?”
“It doesn’t. I’m just curious.” He’s just a little too casual.
The urge to make him squirm is strong, but my resolve falters under his gaze, and honesty pours out. Perhaps I'm fated to follow in my mother's footsteps, drawn to a man destined to break my heart, despite his undeniable allure. I'm puzzled by his unease; he insists he's never been the jealous type. “Listen to his actions,” echoes in my mind.
So, mirroring his earlier gesture, I nod. Jaden's raised eyebrow demands more. After another sip of wine for courage, I say, “No, but we almost did.”
He remains silent, leaving me braced for another interrogation. But instead, he surprises me, cutting to the core of my fears.
“I want you. Tonight.” His words hang in the air, heavy with anticipation.
I nod, afraid that speaking might break the spell between us.
“You know you can say no, right?” His eyes search mine for an answer, a silent question about desire and consent. Our mate bond is probably screaming my answer back at him—I'm terrible at hiding my feelings, especially now, with alcohol loosening my inhibitions. A part of me wants to tease him—maybe 'no' should be my safe word? But I know Jaden doesn't joke about sex, so I bite my tongue and nod dutifully, attributing my newfound self-control to either my emerging powers or the extensive self-reflection I've been doing.
His desire hits me like a wave as he looks at me, the intensity in his gaze shifting from my skin to my eyes. The moment our server removes the dishes, Jaden's attention is entirely on me.
“So, what’s this I hear about you asking Nick to flog you?” His question catches me off guard, wine nearly going down the wrong pipe. How did he find out?
“If anyone’s going to flog you, it will be me. Seems like a good time to start.” Without waiting for my response, he pulls me to my feet, his determination clear. We head for the door, his intent unmistakable.
Yes, please, sir.
35
JADEN
The dim light of the playroom washes over the lavish furnishings, casting an aura of gothic elegance that shrouds everything in a veil of mystery. The deep purple hues of the Victorian-style sofa beckon with the promise of opulent comfort, while the haunting relief of the barren tree in the oversized frame watches over the room with a solitary bird as its silent sentinel. My heart pounds in rhythm with the subtle flicker of the lantern-style wall sconces, as I arrange the floggers on the small round table beside the sofa. Each tool is a silent promise of the sensations I intend to draw from Rayne's skin, a cascade of experiences heightened by the luxurious and dramatic setting that envelops us.
I’m finally going to give Rayne what she wants, what she’s been begging for. As I lay out each instrument, a wave of anxiety washes over me. The theories and techniques are etched in my mind, the product of intense study, but self-doubt whispers, questioning whether I'm in over my head. Rayne's perception of me is one of expertise, a master in the realm of control, yet I've barely dipped my toes into these waters. I've been an observer, a shadow at the periphery of countless flogging sessions, and I've absorbed the lessons of the Masquerade's Master training program. Yet my hands-on experience is scant. At the anticipation of this uncharted journey, my power stirs with a surge of eager anticipation, ready to make the leap from theory to thrilling reality.
When I hear her soft footsteps, my panic flares. I pause, my hand hovering over a leather flogger, and glance up to find Rayne in the doorway, a vision of feminine grace. She’s wearing an asymmetrical black dress with a zipper running diagonally down the front from neckline to hem. Her eyes glow with eagerness, her lips curling into a shy smile, and a spike of fear lances through me. I want to give her a performance worthy of her, show the dance between pleasure and pain executed with flawless skill. If I falter, the illusion shatters, my inadequacy laid bare. I can't fail her. I won't.
Summoning my control, I tamp down the nerves and greet her with a steady gaze. "Are you ready?" My voice betrays none of the turmoil within. She nods, approaching with slow, deliberate steps until she stands before me. I reach out, tracing the line of her jaw with a knuckle. "Safe words?"
"Green for go, yellow to slow down the action, red to stop." Her breath hesitates as I slide my hand into her hair and tighten my grip.
"Good." The praise is as much for myself as it is for her. I can do this. I will.
Tonight, I prove I'm the master she believes me to be.
My heart thunders in my chest, a raging storm contained behind a veil of calm. With a slow exhale, I steady my nerves and draw upon the power coiled inside, letting it seep into my limbs. No room for doubt, no space for fear. I am in control.
I meet her gaze, my own simmering with purpose. "On your knees."
The game begins.
