Chapter 8
CASSANDRA
My pulse is pounding when the Uber rolls through the gate.
Mrs. Koval meets me at the door with her pearls and posture, and a nod that is neither welcoming nor reprimanding. God, I wish she wasn’t so hard to read.
“You’re late. He’s waiting in the Blue Salon.”
Great.
Damien stands at the window, hands in his pockets, the light catching the silver threads in his hair. He doesn’t turn when I enter. I close the doors behind me and wait.
When he finally looks at me, I swear the temperature in the room drops.
“You’re in trouble.”
Not loud. Not angry. Just flat and definitive.
“I—” My throat goes raw. “I had to handle a few things in the city. I’m here now.”
“You were supposed to orient,” he says. “And wait.”
The floor beneath me feels like it’s moving.
I want to tell him about the rent and bills, about the boutique and Raquel, about Clara and the ten-day clock eating away at me. I want to tell the truth and still be forgiven.
But I can’t.
“I still have responsibilities. I came back.”
“That’s not the point.” He moves closer, his proximity nearly stealing my breath. “You don’t leave this property without permission. You use the phone I provided. You didn’t even take it. Five minutes means five minutes.”
It’s maddening what his voice does to me, making my pussy clench even when I’m scared. “I left a note.”
“You left a test whether you realize that was what you were doing or not.” A slight pause. “You won’t like what happens if strangers decide you are a convenient way to get to me.”
The prickle from earlier blooms under my skin.
“Strangers,” I echo. He means enemies.
I think of the dark sedan, the one I was sure had been following me.
“You are not invisible anymore. There are men who would try to hurt you to get to me because they think it’s easier. If you move without protection, you invite them to do just that.”
I lift my chin in defiance, worried my body might betray my fear. “So I’m a liability.”
“You’re an asset,” he corrects. “Assets are protected. Protection requires rules.”
My mind hates the sentence; my body chooses otherwise. Heat sparks low and fast, unfair and undeniable. He sees the change the way a predator would. He looks me up and down, as if I’m both game and feast.
“Eyes,” he says. I meet his gaze, giving him what he asks because I’m learning.
He places his hand under my jaw and tilts my face, studying it.
“Kneel.”
I sink down, knees on the soft rug, skirt pulling tight across my hips. Every nerve hums like a struck note, tuned to him.
His eyes look to my wrist. He takes my hand and pulls back my sleeve, checking. The red ribbon is there, tied neatly against my skin. His mouth curves, faint but certain.
“Good,” he says. “At least there’s one direction you can follow.”
I take a deep breath, registering the rush of pride along with the ache of uncertainty.
“Hands,” he says. “Behind you.”
I lace them behind my back. He studies me for a long beat—cataloguing, weighing, deciding—then nods once, approval distilled to a single gesture.
“Good.”
The praise hits like voltage. I feel my shoulders square up, my spine aligning like it’s been waiting for this exact teaching.
“You will ask before you leave the grounds,” he says.
“You will keep the phone with you and answer inside five minutes. Privacy. Precision. Truth. These are not suggestions.” His knuckle skims my lower lip.
“They are rules. You follow them, or you leave, not a penny more in your pocket. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Heat runs beneath my skin at his every touch.
“The ribbon,” he says, “is a reminder. Not a decoration. Do you understand the difference?”
“I do.”
“Say it.”
“I understand the difference.” The words come out quieter than I intend.
“Sir.”
“I understand the difference, sir.”
He tips my chin, that damn signature gesture. “Then we clarify. “Stand up and walk to the bed.”
I obey. Slowly, he approaches. I feel the heat of his nearness, his eyes moving over my body.
The Blue Salon seems to hum with anticipation, like a storm about to break.
He slowly unbuttons my blouse, sliding it off my shoulders before unsnapping my bra and tossing both garments to the floor.
“Kneel.”
My knees press into the rug. I lace my hands behind my back and hold his gaze. Heat curls through me as he reaches around and pulls my hands apart.
He ties my hands in front. “Up,” he says.
I rise awkwardly but obedient.
He steers me the last step to the bed, pressure steady on my spine, then lowers his voice as he says, “Now, Cassandra, we’ll see how well you follow orders. Stand up straight.”
I pull my shoulders back and lift my chest. His eyes trace my collarbone, hungry.
“Good,” he says again.
I can’t believe the effect that single word has on me. I’m soaked between my thighs.
He circles behind me, fingers grazing the zipper at my waist. The slow, deliberate unzip slices through the quiet, cool air kissing my spine as my skirt slides off my hips.
My chest rises, skin prickling under his gaze, every untouched inch alive with anticipation. His restraint is as potent as any touch; a promise held in check.
His breath warms my neck before his lips do, open-mouthed, teasing my pulse. A careful bite of my lower lip follows, just sharp enough to make me gasp.
My eyes want to close, but I hold his stare. My body aches to lean in, but I stay still, caught in his command.
“Take off your panties.”
My face goes red. Am I really about to do this?
I take a deep breath, then, with my hands still bound, hook my thumb under the waistband of my panties. It’s a bit awkward, but I manage to shimmy them down to my ankles and step out.
“On the bed,” he says, voice low and firm. “All fours.”
He guides me from the bed’s edge to its center. I position myself, knees and elbows pressed into the mattress, hips raised.
He kneels behind me, palms settling on my hips. I’m totally bare before him. I’ve never been this exposed in front of a man before. The few times I’ve had sex, it wasn’t like this.
“Chin higher,” he says, thumb brushing my jaw. I obey. “Knees wider.” I shift, spreading myself open wider for him, my cheeks flushing, knowing his gaze is scanning every inch of me.
His hands trace my spine.
His mouth follows, lips grazing my flesh. His fingers brush my breasts, circling my nipples until they harden, my breath hitching. He pauses and steps back, leaving me trembling on all fours.
“What do you want?” His voice is low and demanding, drawing my focus.
My breaths come in short, ragged gasps, arousal coiling tight. “You,” I manage, voice breathy and thick with need. “I want you.”
He chuckles, dark and controlled, stepping behind me again. “You think you’ve earned me?” His tone sharpens. “You haven’t. Not yet.” A long pause, heavy with intent. “For your disobedience, I ought to leave you like this—wet, yearning, aching with no release.”’
I whimper, hips twitching, the threat sinking deep.
“But” he continues, voice softening, “I’m not a complete monster.”
His hands return, one palm gliding along my inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin there before reaching my pussy.
His fingers part my slick folds, slow and purposeful, tracing the edges with a featherlight touch that makes me shudder.
He circles my entrance, not entering, just teasing, drawing out my arousal until I’m dripping.
My instinct is to turn, to watch him.
“Face forward,” he orders, as if reading my mind. I happily obey, heart pounding.
He strokes my clit lightly, a slow, torturous rhythm that sets my nerves alight. My pussy clenches, slick and aching under his touch, every stroke pushing me closer to the edge.
“Oh… oh my God.” The words explode out of me.
“Lie down and roll over,” Damien commands next.
His hands guide me onto my back, the mattress cool against my skin. He tightens the ribbon looped around my wrists, binding them securely above my head to the headboard. The silk tightens just enough to hold me in place, my body stretched out, completely vulnerable.
He steps back, his sharp gaze raking over my naked form. My skin prickles under his scrutiny, and I revel in the hunger in his eyes, the way he drinks me in, possessive and controlled.
He comes close again, one hand settling on my pussy, fingers gliding along my slick folds, teasing my entrance with deliberate restraint.
His other hand cups my breast, thumb circling my nipple until it hardens, sending sparks through my core.
My clit throbs as he strokes it, setting a rhythm I can’t escape.
“Oh God,” I moan, voice trembling.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, “but you only come when I say.”
His touch builds, one finger slipping inside me, curling just right, while his thumb grazes my clit. Heat coils tight, my hips shifting.
“Oh God, please,” I gasp, clit pulsating. He brings me to the edge, walls clenching, then pauses, letting the ache grow unbearable.
“Not yet,” he says sharply. “You come on my command.” My breath turns ragged, a desperate whine escaping.
“Fuck,” I whimper, trembling under his control.
He presses harder, two fingers thrusting deep in my pussy, thumb relentless on my clit. The rhythm is ruinous, edging me closer, then pulling back.
“Please.”
“Beg properly,” he says.
My legs shake, his hand on my belly holding me steady. “Please, sir, may I come?” I plead, voice breaking, pussy aching.
“Good,” he growls. “Now come for me.”
Release crashes through me, my walls spasming around his fingers as I cry out, “Oh fuck!”
My head tilts back, my back arching as my arms test the restraints. My heart pounds as my clit pulses, his steady breath at my ear like a lifeline.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, guiding me down. “You did so well.”
He lifts his fingers, slick with my arousal, and holds them up, studying the glistening tips in the dim light. His eyes lock on mine, dark and intense, as he brings them to his lips. Slowly, he licks my juices, savoring the taste with a low hum that sends heat flooding through me.