"You know I did."
She tilts her head, considering me. Then slowly, deliberately, she lifts her hand to the collar of her shirt, pulling it aside just enough to reveal the edge of the bruise I left on her skin. "This what you're looking for, Dr. Walker?"
I shake my head. "Not good enough."
Her hands slide down to the hem, but she doesn’t lift it. There's uncertainty in her eyes now, warring with the desire that's been there since she opened the door. This is the moment of truth, the point where she either embraces whatever this or shuts it down completely.
Closing the distance between us, I move around the couch until only inches separate our bodies. She doesn't back away, simply watches me with those impossibly big eyes that seem to see straight through every defense I've built.
"This is part of the game," I tell her, reaching up to tip her chin with my fingers, forcing her to meet my gaze directly. "But if you're done playing, you can tell me."
Her throat works as she swallows, but she doesn’t look away. "And if I say I'm done?" she asks, voice barely audible. "Will you leave?"
The vulnerability in her question catches me off guard. Did she think I'd just walk away? That this was some casual conquest, easily abandoned if she didn't play by my rules?
"No," I admit, thumb tracing the silky curve of her jaw. "Now that I've had a taste, I can never leave." The confession costs me a piece of control I've jealously guarded but she deserves honesty. "But I understand that playing this game, allowing someone to control your release and even at times your breathing isn't for everyone."
Confusion flickers across her face. "My… breathing?"
In answer, I let my hand drop from her chin to her throat, fingers barely grazing the delicate skin there. "The right amount of pressure," I explain, feeling her pulse jump beneath my fingertips. "Applied at precisely the right moment, will take your pleasure to heights you've never experienced."
I watch as understanding dawns in her eyes—the truth of what I am, what I need, laid bare between us. I'm not just talking about dominance in the general sense. I'm talking about something specific, something that requires absolute trust.
"You want to choke me," she says, but there’s no accusation in her voice.
"I want to control your pleasure," I correct, my fingers still resting lightly against her throat. "I want to take you to the edge and hold you there until you're begging." I pause, making sure she understands exactly what I'm offering. "But only if that's what you want too."
Her pupils dilate further, nearly swallowing the green of her irises. Her breathing quickens under my touch, her pulse a rapid flutter against my fingers. For a moment, I think she'll tell me no. That this is too much, too fast, too intense for whatever this is between us.
She steps back, breaking contact with my hand, and I prepare myself for rejection. Instead, she grabs the hem of her t-shirt and pulls it over her head in one fluid motion before dropping it to the floor at her feet.
“Then what are you waiting for?” she whispers. “Take control.”
Chapter 19
Sebastian
She stands before me in nothing but a simple black bra and leggings, and I forget how to breathe. Taking in the gentle curve of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts against black lace, and the defiant tilt of her chin that tells me Mia Phillips isn't submitting, she's challenging.
"Beautiful," I murmur, the word inadequate for what I'm seeing.
I move toward her with deliberate steps, watching her chest rise and fall with each breath. My hand lifts to her collarbone, fingertips hovering just above the purplish mark. The visual evidence of my claiming. When I finally make contact, tracing the outline of the bruise, she shivers beneath my touch.
"Does it hurt?" I ask, my voice low.
"No," she whispers. It’s her first word since she threw down the gauntlet with her shirt.
Brushing my thumb over the mark, I apply just enough pressure to make her breath catch. "Good."
Then I’m on the move again, fingers traveling up the delicate column of her throat, feeling her pulse jump against my touch.I trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear and the sensitive skin behind it. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, then snap open again, like she's afraid to miss anything.
"I've dreamt about touching you," I admit, my hand continuing its exploration down her bare arm, over the curve of her shoulder, along her collarbone. "Fantasized about mapping every inch of your skin until I know it better than my own."
My touch trails lower, between her breasts, following the center line of her body. When my fingers reach the waistband of her leggings, I pause.
"Did you touch yourself?" I ask.
Her eyebrow arches in a silent challenge. Not a yes, but not exactly a no either.
