Page 162 of House Ignis

A shadow slithered over my stomach, curling higher until it reached the underside of my sports bra. I gasped as it flicked upward—and suddenly, the fabric lifted. My bra peeled up over my breasts, exposing me to the cool air of the chamber.

To him.

Still, he didn't touch me with his hands.

I could feel his eyes burning into my skin from behind, a physical weight that made my heart hammer.

Then the sound of his boots echoed across the stone. He stepped into my line of sight; the dried blood on his shirt looked like dark, violent art across the fabric.

His shadows pulsed in rhythm with his breathing, responding to the tension between us.

He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head.

I couldn't breathe.

Each inch of revealed skin was a sin, all hard muscle, broad shoulders, and blood-slicked abs that flexed with every jagged breath he took.

His silver eyes locked onto mine, and I searched for a hint of mercy.

I found none.

"My little sinner," he murmured.

I whimpered, the sound small and broken in the quiet room.

He walked around the side—slowly, deliberately—dragging out the agony like a predator circling prey.

When he reached the front, he still didn't touch me. Instead, he grabbed a heavy chair, dragged it directly in front of me, and sat.

He sat with his legs spread, elbows on his knees, shadows twining lazily around his forearms like smoke.

"Look at you," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl. "Tied up. Needing. And all for me."

He didn't touch me.

He just watched. And gods, that made it so much worse.

It made it better. One tendril of shadow slithered across the inside of my thigh, the phantom heat of it making me jerk against the restraints.

Another curled around my neck, pressing just enough to make my pulse jump under the darkness.

"Asher," his name came out cracked and desperate.

He leaned back slightly, his muscles flexing in the firelight. "Say it again," he commanded.

"Asher."

Another tendril dipped between my legs, grazing my center, and I gasped as a sharp spike of pleasure nearly made me cry out.

"You like being watched, don't you?" His voice was hoarse now, roughened by restraint.

"You like being mine."

"I—I—"

"Shh," he whispered, his eyes never leaving mine. "Don't speak unless I tell you to."

He watched me squirm. Sweat slicked my chest, and my back arched helplessly against the velvet as I fought the invisible hands of his magic. He didn't move from the chair.