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Seven o’clock.
Jaxon
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
The time arrives.
Shutting the playroom door behind me, I raise the dim lights, and make my way to the middle of the room. My nightgown pools at my bare feet. Dropping to my knees, I press my palms into the carpet. It feels so soft.
There’s an aroma of leather, and polish. The room feels dense, unoccupied. Even though I know I’m here, breathing, and living, I don’t feel like I am. I’m an object, amongst the intimidating equipment hung lifelessly from the walls.
I don’t know what’s real, anymore.
There’s such a strong silence as the minutes pass. I can hear my heartbeat, loudly thumping, reminding me to breathe.
When suddenly, the doorknob begins to turn.
Jaxon quietly enters the room.
His presence is brooding. Something thickens in his eyes, while he peers at me, taking in the sight of me completely exposed, kneeling before him. His scrutiny forces me to lower my gaze from his eyes to his solid chest, then to the bulging muscles in his arms. Black, leather pants are hung low on his hips.
Jaxon Edwards is in his element. That is a fact.
He stands before me for a moment, and then kneels. “I fucked up in a meeting today. I still managed to get what I wanted in the end, but the fact of the matter is, I fucked up, Sasha.”
I’m drawn to the endless depth of his eyes, unable to speak.
“I couldn’t concentrate.” He trails the tip of his thumb against my parted lips. “Do you know why?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Because, I was too busy thinking about you,” he says, grimacing. “You and your flawless body, pinned beneath me. Your soft lips, and your beautiful, caramel eyes.”
I shudder.
He stands. “On the bed,” he commands, emotionless. “Now.”
“Yes, Sir.”
My back sinks into the mattress, and I embrace the feeling of the satin material against my skin.
Jaxon strides over to the bureau, and shuffles through a drawer. Making his way to my side, he places several objects onto a metal stand. My eyes widen with suspense.
He studies my face for a moment, and then reverts his attention back to the tray. There are long, thin candlesticks, a box of matches, and a black zipper pouch.
“Temperature play,” he says, lighting a match.
“Wax play?”
“That’s right.”
Lighting the wick, he tips it sideways, and tests the temperature on the inside of his wrist.
His eyes meet mine. “Do you have any questions?” he asks.
“No.”
“Hold out your arm.”
