Page 105 of Dominion’s Collar

My hands settle on my thighs. Palms down. The position isn't textbook. It's mine. It was mine the first time, when he told me to stop performing and be here. It's mine now, when nobody told me anything at all.

From the floor, the study changes. The desk is enormous above me. The light from the garden window cuts across the room at a different angle. He comes around to face me. Looks down. The angle changes the geometry between us, just as it did in that private room weeks ago.

His expression is stripped of everything I've watched him use to control a room. What's underneath is specific and raw, and the raw version of Sebastien is more devastating than the polished one because the control is still there. It just costs him enough that I can finally see the price.

"I'm going to touch you," he says.

"I know."

"If you want me to stop, the word is the same."

"Savannah."

"Savannah." He extends his hand.

I take it. He pulls me to my feet and into him. The contact is full and immediate. His body against mine, his arms closing around me, one hand flat against the small of my back. The pearls press between us.

His mouth is on mine and the kiss isn't gentle. It's the first honest thing his mouth has done since he told me about Claire.

I kiss him back with five years of grief and weeks of fury. With the undeniable need that has lived in my body since he put rope on my skin and found the version of me I'd been avoiding.

His hands move to my hips. He turns me and presses me back against the edge of the desk. The wood is solid behind me. His body is solid in front of me. The arrangement is simple and ancient: him between my thighs, my back against the desk he'll sit behind tomorrow morning while I'm still in his bed.

I pull back from the kiss. Not away from him. Just enough to see his face.

"I want to give you something," I say.

His breath catches. Not with suspicion. With the controlled hunger of a man who just heard something he didn't expect.

I slide down his body. Slowly. My hands trailing from his shoulders to his ribs to his hips until my knees find the heart-pine again. A different kneeling from the one I chose for the collar. That one was ceremony. This one is hunger. My fingers close on his belt.

"Stop."

My fingers freeze on the buckle. His hand closes over both of mine and moves them to my thighs. Palms down. The position he taught me.

"You don't get to rush this." Low. Unhurried. The Dom, not the man who kissed me. "I decide the pace. I decide when you touch me. You offered. I'm accepting. On my terms."

He unbuckles the belt himself. Opens the button. The zipper. He's hard. The sight of him freed from the fabric, thick and heavy, makes my mouth water in a way I don't bother being ashamed of.

His hand cups the back of my head. Fingers threading through to my scalp, the grip firm enough to direct and loose enough to feel like permission. He tilts my face up.

"Open."

I open my mouth. He guides me forward. The first taste of him is salt and heat and the specific intimacy of a man who trusts the woman on her knees in front of him.

The pearls press against my throat as I take him deeper. His cock filling my mouth and his collar tightening with the angle of my jaw. The dual sensation collapses the distance between surrender and desire until I can't separate them.

His grip tightens. He sets the rhythm. Slow at first, measured, controlled. His hips rocking forward while his hand holds me steady. Each stroke precise, testing how deep I'll take him, finding the answer and coaxing me further.

I hollow my cheeks on the withdrawal, suction and pressure. The groan he makes vibrates through the hand he's holding against my scalp.

"Look at me."

I look up. His face from this angle is bare. The control is still there but it's costing him. I can see it in the cords of his neck, the set of his jaw, the way his stomach muscles clench each time my lips drag along his length.

I use my tongue on the upstroke. His exhale is sharp enough to hear.

"Again."