Page 108 of Suite 7

“Make me.”

He sets down what he’s holding and crosses to me in three strides, stopping close enough that I have to tip my head back to hold his gaze.

“I gave you an order. Remove the dress. You have three seconds.” A beat of silence that has real weight in it. “One.”

I don’t move.

“Two.”

My hands stay at my sides.

“Three.”

His hand moves fast. Grabs the neckline of my dress — my beautiful, wine-colored, carefully chosen dress — and pulls. The fabric gives with a sound that goes straight through me.

“Kane — that dress was expensive⁠⁠—”

“Then you should have taken it off when I asked you to.” He unzips what’s left with controlled precision, and the fabric pools at my feet. He steps back. “Now the rest. Or I rip those too.”

Not a threat. A statement of fact. We both know the difference.

I reach back, unhook my bra. Let it fall. Then step out of my heels.

I’m naked.

He circles me slowly, taking his time. His gaze moves across my shoulders, down my spine, back up — assessment and want in the same look. My skin prickles everywhere it lands.

“On your knees.”

I sink to the hardwood floor. The wood is cool and unyielding beneath me, and the position makes me aware of where I am: eye level with his belt, with the strain of his arousal against his slacks, with the fact that I did this.

“Hands behind your back.”

I obey, lacing my fingers at the small of my back. He secures my wrists with efficient movements, sheepskin soft against my skin, the restraint real and present. I can’t move my arms. Can’t catch myself if I fall forward. The helplessness of it moves through me like a current. Not fear. Something adjacent to fear that feels much better.

“You were behaving yourself,” he says. “And then somewhere before dessert you made a decision to test your Dom.” He tips my chin up with two fingers, tilting my face toward his. “I’m curious what made you make that choice.”

“A woman has needs,” I say.

His thumb traces my lower lip, slow and deliberate.

“You couldn’t wait,” he says. “Something feels out of your control and you reach for the nearest way to take it back.” His eyes hold mine. “Even here. Even with me. You still need to be the one who decides when it starts.”

The truth of it sits in my chest, too accurate to argue with and too exposed to confirm.

So I do the only thing left available to me.

I take his thumb into my mouth and swirl my tongue around it.

He draws his thumb free.

“That,” he says quietly, “was not yours to take.”

His hand slides to my jaw, firm, tilting my face exactly where he wants it.

“This mouth of yours has been asking for something all evening.” His thumb brushes my lips one last time. “So I’m going to give it exactly what it asked for.”

He works his belt open. The sound of leather sliding through fabric makes me clench, heat rising low and immediate. Then he’s in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to see his face.