Page 72 of Suite 7

“Drink.” I gesture to the water on the side table, and she takes it with shaking hands, bringing the bottle to her lips.

“That was your consequence,” I say. “For breaking the rule. It’s done. The slate is clean.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Now—” I step closer, cup her face, my thumb brushing her cheek. “Now we’re somewhere else entirely.”

13 Kane

Hope flashes in her eyes.

“The Cross,” I say.

I guide her across the room and position her with her back against the Cross, not facing it. The cool wood presses against the heat of her punished skin and she gasps.

“Arms up.”

She raises them. I buckle the cuffs around her wrists, test the fit, then move to her ankles, spread wide, secured.

I step back and look at her.

The pink of the spanking blooms across her skin, vivid against the cool dark wood behind her, her chest rising and falling quickly, thighs quivering.

I close the distance and start trailing my palms over her shoulders, stroking down her arms, following the curve of her ribs.

Her stomach tightens under my fingertips, goosebumps rising in the wake of my touch.

My hands move to her breasts, slow circles that spiral inward but never quite arrive — thumbs tracing the outer curve, palms barely grazing the center, close enough that her body chases the contact before she realizes she’s doing it.

I lower my mouth to her throat, her collarbone, working down while my hands continue their path. Building without landing. I feel her chest rise and fall faster beneath my palms, her skin warming under my mouth.

“Please,” she breathes.

I lift my head. “Please what?”

“Touch me.” Her voice has gone unsteady. “Lower. Please, Sir.”

“So polite.” I smile against the curve of her breast. “Ask me again.”

“Please, Sir.” Her hips shift, a small involuntary movement she can’t quite suppress. “Please⁠⁠—”

My hand slides down the flat of her stomach, slow enough that she feels every inch of it, over the jut of her hip, down her inner thigh. I feel the tension in her leg, the way she holds herself still through what is clearly considerable effort. Close. Everywhere except where she needs it most, my fingers tracing the inside of her thigh in the same unhurried circles, watching her face come apart one degree at a time.

She makes a frustrated sound, low in her throat, her hips shifting against nothing.

“Patience.”

I slide my fingers through her folds, slow and deliberate, feeling how thoroughly her body has answered every minute of what I’ve built. She’s soaking, heat and want, and I let myself feel the full evidence of it before I move.

I circle her clit with light pressure. Testing. Her hips buck forward immediately, chasing more, trying to take what I haven’t given yet. I pull my hand away completely.

“No — please⁠⁠—”

“The reward is my touch.” I wait until her eyes find mine. “But you don’t come until I say. Understood?”

The war plays out across her face — the want and the pride and the need fighting each other in real time.

“Color,” I prompt.