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I cock an eyebrow, taunting, "Ah, you're already craving my handprint branded on you, aren't you? Tell me, Blakely, did you think about it when you stepped on that stage tonight?"
She stays quiet.
I grind my molars, studying my new plaything, reminding myself that everything comes with time. "Off. Now," I command.
Taking a deep breath, she slowly reaches for her bra. She moves one strap at a time off her shoulders, not tearing her gaze off me, then reaches behind her and unclasps the hooks. She drops it on the table and lifts her chin higher.
I hold in my groan and don't push her to remove her panties. I count to sixty, staring at her pink nipples, watching them get harder with every passing second as her breasts move up and down faster.
Real breasts.
So un-L.A.
But it’s her vulnerability that almost makes me come in my pants. I finally point to her lower body, commanding, "Keep going."
A small tremble in her finger is the only indication she's nervous. Other than that, she appears as cool as a cucumber as she slides them under the thin material and drops the thong to the floor. She steps out of it and continues to give me her exposed stare.
Minutes pass while I fixate on her bare body. Then I motion to the bar. "Go get me a scotch."
She glares at me.
There's the Blakely I know.
"Did I stutter?" I ask.
She clenches her jaw and huffs at the ceiling, then spins and goes to the liquor counter. She fills a crystal tumbler to the top with scotch and returns.
I go to the kitchen, pour it into the sink, then hand the glass to her. "Two fingers. Never more. Now, try again."
She tilts her head. "Why are you doing this?"
"The sooner you learn not to question me, the better your time here will be," I inform her.
She puts her hand on her hip and throws daggers at me with her glare. It's nothing I didn't expect. In fact, she's playing right into my hand the way I figured she would. "I'm not going to be bossed around by you, Riggs."
"Is that so?" I challenge.
"Yes. I don't know who you think—"
I grab her wrist and tug her down the hall.
"Riggs! Let me go!" she shouts.
I push open my bedroom door, go to the dresser, and take out a pair of handcuffs.
"Riggs! I said to let me go!" She tries to escape my grip but can't.
I take her to the bathroom and position her in front of the mirror. I sling the handcuffs over the towel rack and secure one of them to her wrist.
"What are you doing?" she cries out, trying to free her arm from the restraint.
I spin her so she's facing the mirror, pin her other wrist behind her, then secure the second cuff. Her eyes dart between me and her reflection. Her voice turns fearful, and she meekly asks, "Riggs?"
I graze my fingers over her thigh, slowly sliding up over her torso, then breasts, until my hand is around her neck. I don't squeeze, but her breath hitches. I kiss the curve of her neck, then murmur in her ear, "I'm in charge, pet. You don't question me. You never defy me. If I say to do something, you do it the right way. And you never touch me without permission. Understand?" I flick my tongue on her lobe and inch back to study her.
There's no calm in her expression. It's pure chaos on a tidal wave, which only fuels my fire. The defiance I saw earlier still brews underneath the fear, and it's so perfect, endorphins are zinging all through me.
"Let me go," she quietly begs.
