Page 107 of Suite 7

I take another bite, and hold his gaze while I do.

He raises his hand and signals for the check without breaking eye contact.

“Finish your dessert.” Pure Dom now, every trace of the dinner companion gone. “Every bite. Take your time.” He leans forward slightly. “Because the moment we leave this restaurant, there are no more warnings. No more chances to back down. You’re going to get exactly what you’ve been asking for. Every last bit of it.”

My stomach tightens. “Good.” I take another bite. Slow. “That’s what I want, Sir.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

By the time the check arrives Kane has gone very still. He signs without glancing at the amount, stands, and offers me his hand. When I take it his grip is firm and immediate — not a gesture. A statement.

“Let’s go.”

Not a request.

I take his hand and let him pull me up, and feel it immediately — the current running right through his palm into mine, barely leashed, every bit of the dinner distilled into the pressure of his grip.

The walk to the car is silent. He opens my door, closes it, walks around. When he gets in he doesn’t start the engine. Just sits, hands on the wheel, breathing.

He’s gone quiet the way he does when a decision’s already made and all that’s left is executing it.

He turns and looks at me. The gentleman is completely gone.

“You like pushing your Dom.” His voice is low, controlled. “Seeing exactly how far you can go.”

I hold his gaze and let him see the answer.

He faces forward and starts the car.

The drive takes fifteen minutes. Rain-slicked streets, the city blurring past the windows. His hand is white-knuckled on the wheel. Mine is clenched in my lap. Neither of us speaks. Every red light is its own small torture. The silence has weight and texture and I sit inside it and feel my pulse in my throat.

When we pull into the garage he parks, kills the engine, and is out of the car and at my door before I’ve reached for the handle.

His hand finds the small of my back the moment I’m standing. Guiding me inside. The elevator. The floors ticking past in silence. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

The doors open.

He guides me through the apartment without turning on a light, straight to the locked door.

He pushes in the code and amber light spills out, warm and low, and I feel it the way I always feel it — like a held breath finally released.

He steps aside.

I walk through.

Behind me, the lock clicks shut.

21 Vera

I stand inside the dungeon, heart hammering.

Kane doesn’t look at me immediately. He shrugs off his jacket, drapes it over the chair. Loosens the tie. Removes it.

I watch him roll his sleeves to the elbow — left first, then right, precise folds — the tendons in his forearms shifting with the movement.

My pulse is loud in my ears as he moves to the cabinet, and opens the glass doors with a soft click. When he turns he’s holding leather cuffs lined with sheepskin and a bottle of oil.

“Strip.”