Page 21 of Suite 7

Then his mouth is on my breast without warning and I cry out.

“There,” he says with approval. “That reaction was honest.”

His hand smooths down my side. Down further. Finding the edge of my panties.

“I’m going to touch you,” he says. “And you’re going to receive it. Not direct it. Feel it.”

“I know how to —”

“Vera.” The patience in his voice has a ceiling and I found it. “The next time you tell me what you know how to do, I stop. And we sit here in silence until you’re ready to stop managing and start trusting.” A pause. “Are we clear?”

My jaw tightens.

“Are we clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

His fingers slide the lace aside.

Cool air skims my skin. Then his touch, slow, one single fingertip, barely there.

Then the lace slides back.

“No —” The protest escapes.

His hands still.

I shift my hips toward him, encouraging, offering a better angle.

“That,” he says, “is you steering.”

His palm presses flat against my hip.

“I wasn’t —“

“You were,” he says, patient but certain. “You’re trying to guide me to get what you want.” A pause. “I want you to notice that you’re doing it. Not because I’m angry. Because you need to see it.”

I say nothing. Because I did see it. I saw it and I kept doing it anyway.

His fingers return through the lace, stroking slowly, building without giving me anything to hold onto.

Then a vibrator, low setting, pressed directly against me. I jerk against the silk above me.

“Color?”

“Green.” And then, before I’ve decided to: “If you moved it slightly left⁠—”

The device disappears.

Silence.

The silk at my wrists is the only thing keeping time.

After what feels like forever, the vibrator returns — higher setting, his position, not mine. Not where I angled for. He works me higher, patient and relentless, and when I arch toward the sensation, chasing more, he’s already moved.

He isn’t there.

I wait for the frustration to rise the way it always does. The need to redirect, recalibrate, find another angle.