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God, I want him.

I want him so desperately my core actually throbs, aching for him, making me feel empty both physically and emotionally, as if I might be the thing that poofs into inexistence if he doesn’t slide some part of him into some part of me. I don’t care what. I just want him to fill me up with himself so I can feel what it’s like to connect with someone I crave like oxygen.

No, not like oxygen.

More like a lack of oxygen.

Because it’s a darker, more sinister and filthy need I feel for him, like a hand wrapped around my throat, cutting off my air to give me something way more explosive and erotic than simply the ability to breathe.

And feeling his strong hand around the top of my arm, it makes it oh-so easy to imagine what it would feel like just inches higher up my body, that hot palm branding my neck as it tightens… tightens until I can’t even whimper through the intoxicating pleasure it causes.

I’m vaguely aware of reality for a moment when I hear my car door close, and suddenly my breath really is stolen as I feel him take hold of my hips from behind, my knees damn near buckling as it sends an immediate image of what it would be like for him to take me this way—God, yes, please… take me this way… right now—until I gather he’s just helping me up into the backseat of his SUV.

And that’s when the fear kicks back in, battling my arousal for which feeling will reign supreme.

Oh, and in pops confusion’s little head… because there is no actual seat. Either they’ve been removed or they fold down flat, making a perfectly level surface.

That’s the moment I realize I should’ve paid more attention to all my serial killer documentaries as cautionary tales rather than story inspirations for my anti-heroes.

Chapter Six

SIENNA

“That’s a good girl. Just slide to the back a bit, sit on your knees, ass on your ankles, and rest your hands in your lap. That’s right, sweet girl. Just like that. You’re doing so good.”

His gentle coaxing somehow keeps my fight-or-flight reaction from making any rash decisions. As much as my mind and all its residents are telling me I’m an idiot for the current situation I’ve put myself in, that’s the only part of me with any sort of negative feelings at the moment. Everything else—my instincts, my heart, right down to my soul—is telling me to give in to this opportunity. It feels like it could be everything I’ve ever dreamed of and then lived out vicariously through my characters in my books.

Because even though I’d been in a D/s relationship with my ex-husband, it just wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel like this. It always felt like we were role-playing, putting on an act for each other, since BDSM was something we discovered and tried to incorporate after our relationship was already set as something else, something vanilla, something that made it nearly impossible to view the other person as anything else other than what we knew each other as for years.

It would be really hard to see a man as this powerful, all-knowing, worship-worthy being… when for the previous three years you’d been washing the shit stains out of his tighty-whities.

But I don’t want to think about anyone else or any other moment in my life than this one right here. This man right here. The one who has consumed my every thought made by each and every one of my voices for nearly a month now.

As long as I do exactly what he says, I’ll be okay. There’s no guesswork; there’s no making hard decisions. I just have to do what he tells me to do, and I’ll be safe, I remind myself.

I’ll make him happy.

The dim light inside his SUV shuts off at the same time I hear him pull his door closed. My eyes don’t lift to meet his, but they do go so far as to see the way he sits directly in front of me. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t make myself look at his face. But just the way he sits reminds me of a sex god lounging across a bed of satin sheets and pillows, even though in reality, his broad back just rests against the back of his driver seat, one leg stretched out, the other knee up, where his forearm rests atop it.

Arousal Level: 43%

Fear Level: 37%

Confusion Level: 20%

His fingertips rub against his thumb in circles, and I can feel his eyes on me, making my breath catch in my lungs and my gaze lower to my lap once again.

I have the overwhelming urge to fill the silence with questions or a joke, but I cannot for the life of me pull my tongue from where it’s glued itself to the roof of my mouth. Which is probably for the best.

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