Shame squirms hot in my belly, tainting what felt sacred just moments ago. Professionally speaking, one or two of Grayson’s recorded torture sessions would’ve been enough for research purposes. Yet the desire to explore this forbidden connection between us was too tempting to resist.
“Yes,” I answer simply, honestly. “As a professional, I have an obligation to conduct thorough research into my patient.”
He licks his lips, a dark flame igniting behind the vivid blue of his eyes. A challenge burns there, a desperation to expose my lie and scratch those forbidden desires to my surface.
“Which one is your favorite?” he asks.
There’s one primary rule in psychoanalysis: honesty. In this safe space, I could confess my excitement, the arousal I felt while watching a woman being bound and racked until her limbs snapped—but I refuse to surrender that power to him.
“That’s our session for today,” I state firmly. “I’ll tell Officer Michaels you’re ready.” I smooth the front of my skirt,determined to maintain control as I step toward the hallway, forgetting my proximity to the inmate in my office.
But Grayson hasn’t forgotten.
My escape is abruptly halted as he grabs hold of my skirt. My breath snags beneath my ribs, muscles locking in alarm. As his fingers curl into the fabric, holding me captive, a slow realization crawls over me, that Grayson riled me on purpose.
The clatter of chains heightens my panic before I’m yanked backward. Forced to stand before him, pulse racing, I stare down at where his fist clutches the hem of my skirt, the fabric twisted in his grip.
“Release me,” I demand, somehow steadying the tremor in my voice.
His gaze wanders up my body, slow, deliberate, to meet my eyes. “You want to touch my scars.”
His words slam through me, provoking a hard shiver. The heat of his hand brands my bare thigh, his rough knuckles an abrasive, enticing friction against my skin.
“That would be inappropriate,” I say.
“But you still want to.” He tugs my skirt, towing me closer, positioning my heels on either side of his right boot.
With a satisfied grin curving his mouth, Grayson releases my skirt one finger at a time until he sets me free—yet the challenge in his captivating eyes still holds me bound. “I want you to, London.”
As though afraid he might startle me, he gently settles his hands on my hips, and the cautious restraint of his touch clenches my heart. “But if you touch me,” he says, “I get to touch you.”
This is more than prohibited. It’s dangerous.
My breath quickens as I inhale his heady scent, tormenting myself for what I’m about to do. Ignoring the frantic, warning beat of my heart, I slowly lift my right hand and place it over his on my hip.
Soon as our skin makes contact, Grayson drops his left hand to my thigh, accelerating my pulse. Our gazes locked, I swallow before I cautiously slide my palm over the cool metal cuff banding his wrist.
Matching my movement, he inches his hand higher up the front of my thigh, the hem of my skirt gathering around his wrist. I ease my right hand farther along his forearm, feeling his muscles flex beneath my palm. His skin is warm, rough, an echo of the warmth and roughness of his hand drifting up my leg.
When my fingers collide with the first raised scar wrapping his flesh, his fingers reach the band of my panties along the flare of my hip, sending a shock of arousal through my body.
“Keep going,” he commands, tone scraped raw, eyes blazing as his throat dips with a strained swallow.
Trembling, I force my hand forward, my fingertips gliding over the beveled texture of his skin. The scar tissue is cruel, like twisted wires beneath his flesh. Some smooth and faded with time, others more recent—but each one carved in pain and dark pleasure.
And I imagine him inflicting these wounds, lost in the throes of erotic deviancy?—
My breath catches as his fingers trace the silky fabric of my panties, grazing the delicate skin at the apex of my thigh, so agonizingly close to the most intimate part of me.
“Spread your legs,” he demands.
When I resist, his knee pushes between my locked thighs, forcing me open to him. My eyes seal shut at the illicit feel of his rough palm slipping between my legs to grasp my inner thigh.
“Look at me.”
His demand surges through my blood, a fire kindled in my veins. I open my eyes on impulse, and the heated blue of Grayson’s gaze holds me imprisoned as his thumb brushes over my clit, stirring a deep, empty ache within my core.
A broken sound escapes, and I have to bite my lip to stifleanother. My fingers dig into his arm, seeking an anchor as my legs tremble. The coarse pads of his fingers rub me greedily, feeling the soaked fabric along my sensitive seam until my legs clench hard against his knee.
