Page 124 of Villainous Intent

“I want to play,” I whispered.

Cipher brought his mouth to mine. His tongue swept in, demanding a submission I was already desperate to give. I made a sound, half-whimper, half-gasp, and clawed at his shoulders.

He walked me backward until the back of my legs hit the edge of the bed and he took us both down to the mattress.

Hands were everywhere. I was tearing at his t-shirt, needing skin, needing the heat of him. He growled and pulled back just long enough to pull my shirt off. He sat back on his heels, straddling my hips, and yanked his shirt over his head. The sight of him made it hard to breathe. He reached for his belt, the buckle jingling with a sound that was pure promise.

Then he stopped.

His hands froze on the leather as he looked down at me. He looked from my flushed face to the wall of impact toys.

“Have you done impact play before?” he asked.

I blinked, trying to clear the haze of lust. “What?”

“Impact,” he snapped, impatient. “Paddles. Canes. Being hit. Have you done it?”

“No.”

Cipher cursed. He let go of his belt and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at the crop again, then back at me, his expression caught between hunger and calculation. “I want to use that on you. I want to string you up from the ceiling and stripe your ass until you can’t sit down for a week.”

My stomach dropped, terror and arousal tangled together so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart.

“But you’re fresh,” he said. “You have no tolerance. If I do what I want to do right now, I’ll break you. And I don’t want to break you once, Annie. I want to break you over and over again.”

The words should have been a relief. He was being careful. He was being sensible.

But all I heard was the comparison.

The image of the faceless women returned, the ones who knew the routine, the ones who could take the crop and the cane and whatever else his mind conjured without shattering. They wouldn’t need him to stop and calculate the damage because they were built for this world.

I wasn’t. I was the charity case he had to handle with kid gloves because I might crumble if he played too rough.

I hated it. I hated the consideration. It felt like pity.

“I’m not made of glass,” I said, my voice shaking with a sudden, defensive anger. “I can take it.”

Cipher looked down at me, his eyes narrowing. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I don’t care,” I lied. My heart was pounding in my ears, but the jealousy was louder. I wouldn’t be the fragile one. I wouldn’t be the disappointment he had to coddle. “I want you to do it. Use the crop. I’ll be fine.”

“You think this is a negotiation?” He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of my head, trapping me.

“I want it,” I insisted, my voice cracking. “Don’t treat me like I’m breakable.”

“You are breakable, Annie,” he said. “That’s the whole point. That’s why I want to do it.” He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “But we build up to the crop. Right now, you get my hand. And if you’re good maybe I’ll let you touch the leather.”

“You held a knife to my throat last night,” I argued. “You cut my clothes off. You shoved the handle inside me until I was screaming. Don’t tell me I’m too fragile for a piece of braided leather.”

Cipher just looked down at me with that infuriating, heavy-lidded calm.

“The knife was theater,” he said flatly. “It was fear play. The blade was sharp, the cuts were shallow, and the handle was just metal stretching you out. It was a mind game, Annie. The crop isn’t just a mind game. It’s trauma.” His voice dropped, rough and dark. “It’s repetitive, blunt force. It stings, then it burns, then it aches deep in the muscle. It requires endorphins to process, and you don’t know how to access that headspace yet. If I start wailing on you now, even if I warm you up, you won’t float. You’ll panic. You’ll tense up and then you’ll bruise even worse.”

“I can take it,” I insisted, though my confidence was starting to crack under the weight of his logic.

“No, you can’t and I’m not going to ruin my day because you have an ego,” Cipher continued, his tone devoid of sympathy. “I want to fuck you, not nurse you through a panic attack because I pushed too hard too fast. You’re useless to me if you’re sobbing in a corner.”

“I wouldn’t⁠—”