She didn’t even ask me.
She told me.
“Friday night,” she said, not looking up from her wine. “You’re going to be used. And not by me.”
I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. I just nodded, throat tight, cock already twitching with a mix of dread and something filthier.
“You’ll be bathed. Plugged. Prepped. Silent.”
That last word hit like a collar.
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I used to think I knew what obedience felt like. Kneeling. Kissing her heels. Holding her coat while she flirted with other men. I thought those were the moments that defined submission.
I was wrong.
Obedience doesn’t live in posture. It lives in what you’ll drink without question.
She had teased it for months. The threat lingered in her voice every time I pleased her too well,
“Keep begging like that, and I’ll let you drink something truly personal.”
The suite was drenched in luxury, marble floors, dim lighting, the soft scent of leather and perfume clinging to the air.
And at the center of it all, lounging effortlessly in a velvet armchair, was her. Vivienne.
Leg crossed over knee, a crystal glass of red wine in one hand, she exuded pure dominance. Her dress, black silk, draped over her body like it had been made for sin, barely moved as she tilted her head, studying the man on his knees before her.
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She couldn’t see.
The blindfold had been tight around her eyes for what felt like hours. Or minutes. She wasn’t sure anymore. Time didn’t exist here. Only obedience. Only sensation.
Her wrists were bound behind the chair, leather straps digging into her skin just enough to remind her she wasn’t leaving. Not until he decided.
The air was thick, electric, humming with the weight of what hadn’t happened yet.
She wasn’t alone.
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The room was drenched in gold and velvet, thick with cigar smoke and the low murmur of conversation. Crystal chandeliers flickered above, casting shifting shadows over the crowd, men and women draped in silk, leather, and power, their laughter rich, their indulgence limitless.
And in the center of it all, him.
Liam knelt on the marble floor, naked, the collar at his throat locked tight. His wrists were bound behind him in a silk restraint that felt more like a mockery than a mercy. The heat of humiliation flushed through his body, but nothing burned more than the weight of their gazes, watching, waiting.
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The rain had been relentless, thick, heavy sheets pounding the forest floor, turning the earth into something wet, slick, and treacherous. Mira’s breath came fast, her dress clinging to her body, soaked through from the downpour. Every step was a struggle; her boots stuck in the mud, forcing her to stumble, making her weaker.
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The room was cold, dimly lit by a single hanging bulb that cast long, flickering shadows across the cement floor. The air carried the faint scent of leather, ozone, and anticipation.
He was already trembling, bound to the metal frame in the center of the room, arms stretched above his head, legs spread, body exposed and vulnerable. Wires snaked across his skin, small metal pads affixed to his thighs, his stomach, and lower. The most sensitive areas had been claimed by the electrodes, their presence a silent promise.
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The room smelled of iron and sweat, thick with something primal, something forbidden. The sheets beneath Ethan’s knees were already ruined, deep crimson soaking into the fabric, staining his skin, branding him in ways he couldn’t erase.
Above him, Selene sat back against the headboard, one leg bent, the other draped over his shoulder, her fingers tangled in his hair. The slow drag of her nails over his scalp sent a full-body shudder through him, but it was the scent of her, earthy, metallic, intoxicating, that had him trembling.
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The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and candle smoke. The private bathhouse was old, the walls lined with dark marble, the dim lighting casting golden flickers across the heated water. Steam curled toward the ceiling, the space unbearably warm. Intimate. Suffocating.
Noah knelt naked on the wet tiles, his muscles tense, his head bowed. His hands rested on his thighs, obedient, waiting. He could feel the humidity clinging to his skin, the heat curling inside his chest. But none of it compared to her.
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Emma knew what kind of night this would be the moment she stepped through the door.
The room was dimly lit, warm, the scent of leather and musk lingering in the air like an unspoken promise. A single chair sat in the center, a throne of control, draped in deep shadows. And in it, him.
Gabriel.
He was already waiting, legs spread, one hand lazily resting on his thigh, the other curled around the length of a black leather leash. It connected to the thick collar around her throat, the same one he had fastened on her before she left the house. A reminder.
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