Chapter Twenty-One
Elliot
I watch her watch me.
She thinks she’s subtle.
She isn’t.
For weeks now, I’ve felt her gaze from across the restaurant. Always alone. Always with some excuse to linger.
Precious little thing.
Too shy to approach me outright.
Until now.
She’s not shy tonight.
Not in that soft pink dress that clings to every curve, not in those heels that make her legs look like a masterpiece in motion.
She knows what she’s doing.
Or at least, she thinks she does.
I set my spoon down, fingers lacing together as I lean back slightly. “What’s your name?”
Her breath catches just a little.
Oh, sweet girl.
Did you really think you were the one making the first move?
“Juliet,” she says. Then, like she’s offering me something sweet, something deliberate, she adds, “Juliet Lovelace.”
Oh.
Now, isn’t that fitting?
Soft, romantic, something straight out of a fairytale.
And yet, she isn’t innocent.
Not dressed like that. Not with the way she tilts her head slightly, letting those pretty pearls shift just enough to catch the light.
She knows the effect she has.
She just doesn’t realize she’s the one caught.
“Juliet,” I say, rolling her name slowly, letting it unfurl from my lips, watching the way her spine straightens, anticipating.
She swallows.
I see it.
The delicate bob of her throat, the way her pulse flutters just beneath the surface.
She doesn’t dress like this on campus.
I’ve seen her there before, not that she knows that.
Cute little skirts. Pretty bows in her hair. Tempting. Just as tempting as she is now.
The kind of softness I could sink into.
The kind of girl who would need a firm hand.
And I would enjoy giving it to her.
She lifts her wine glass, sips slow, eyes peeking at me over the rim.
Testing me.
Seeing if I’ll blink first.
I won’t.
I never do.
“And yours?” she asks, so polite, so demure, like she isn’t sitting there with her thighs pressed together, like she isn’t already thinking about how my hand would feel gripping her jaw, tilting her chin up, making her look at me when I take what I want.
“Elliot,” I say simply. “Sterling.”
Her lips part slightly.
She wasn’t expecting that.
Oh, sweetheart.
I can already see how this will go.
She’ll push, softly, at first. She’ll test, she’ll tease, she’ll bat those lashes and smile like she’s in control.
And then?
She’ll crumble the second she realizes she isn’t.
She shifts slightly, dragging a manicured nail along the stem of her glass, pretending to be so casual.
But I see the way her chest rises and falls just a little quicker.
I see the way she presses her knees together.
Good girl.
“Elliot,” she repeats, and there it is.
The shift. The subtle little turn of the tables.
I hear it in her voice.
That velvet-smooth tease, that edge of something wicked beneath all that softness.
I can almost hear her screaming it.
I lift a brow, watching her watch me, and then, just to remind her who is in control here, I signal for the check.
And I pay for both of our meals.
Her lips part.
Not in shock, not in protest.
Just in acceptance.
I push my chair back, standing, adjusting my cuffs with practiced ease before glancing down at her.
“Walk you to your car?” I ask, not really asking.
She swallows, eyes wide, calculating, sweet.
Like she’s just realizing she has my attention now.
You wanted it, little girl.
Now you’ve got it.
I guide her through the parking lot, my hand grazing the soft curve of her back. A light touch. Barely there.
But she feels it.
I know, because her breathing is just a little shallower. Because she slows, just a fraction, like she doesn’t want me to pull away.
Oh, baby doll.
You don’t have to worry about that.
She stops by her car, turns to face me, and I don’t touch her.
I don’t have to. I just look at her. Let my weight, my presence, my expectation settle between us.
And she sinks into it.
Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat. Her fingers flex against the strap of her purse.
She is already waiting for me to tell her what to do.
I love this moment.
The moment before they realize what they’ve gotten themselves into.
Some take longer than others. Some still cling to the illusion of control.
But this one is already fighting a smile.
I can see it. The twitch at the corner of her lips. The anticipation. The way she knows exactly what I’m about to say.
And still, she waits for it.
“Follow me home.” Not a question. Never a question.
And here is her chance.
Her moment of clarity.
She can recognize what’s happening. Realize she’s out of her depth. That she doesn’t belong in a man’s bed, not my bed, not unless she’s ready to give me exactly what I want.
This is where good little girls hesitate.
Where they decide whether or not they’re truly ready.
I hope she doesn’t hesitate. I hope she already knows what’s required.
Her lips part slightly, breath catching in her throat.
And then?
That smile. Soft. Subtle. Knowing.
My pretty little doll.
Just in case she’s too distracted to follow simple instructions, I pull out my phone. “Your number.”
She rattles it off without hesitation.
Doesn’t even need to be told twice.
I like that. I like her.
And she has no idea what she’s just signed up for.
She follows me home.
Perfect little rabbit stepping into the wolf’s den.
I already know how this ends.
Her, tied up and trembling.
Her knees sore from kneeling.
Her voice wrecked from begging.
She doesn’t know that’s where this is heading yet.
Not really.
She thinks she does.
Thinks she’s playing a game.
But cute little things like her, they don’t have a clue what men like me are.
I swipe my keycard, the gate sliding open, granting her entrance.
She follows.
Of course, she does.
The metal creaks closed behind her, locking her inside.
Sealing her decision.
I park.
She pulls in beside me.
I sit in the car for just a second, watching.
And fuck me.
She shifts, one leg sliding out of the car first, and her skirt rides up.
A whisper of pale thigh. Then, pink satin bows.
My cock twitches.
Because that means she knew.
That means she planned this.
That’s adorable.
I’m going to eat her alive.
She stands, smooths down the fabric, like she didn’t just show me something filthy.
Like she doesn’t realize that the second I get her inside, I’m pushing that skirt up to her waist and ruining her. I want to tear those stockings off with my teeth.
She’s quiet as she follows me up the stairs, but she’s watching me.
Not nervous. Not uncertain.
Curious.
Like she wants to pick me apart. Figure me out. Slip inside my mind and see what makes me tick.
That’s cute.
She has no idea what she’s asking for.
I unlock the door, push it open, wait.
No hesitation. She steps inside.
I shut the door behind her.
She breathes in deep. And makes a soft, satisfied sound.
A quiet little purr.
Fucking hell.
I watch as she catalogs everything. Her mind is quick. Her eyes sharper than I expected. She does it the way I do when I enter a new space, putting things together, sorting them, understanding.
Her gaze flicks over the dark leather of my couch. The bookshelves. The neatness.
She takes me in like I’m a painting she’s studying.
She likes what she sees.
That’s good.
Because she hasn’t seen me yet.
Not really.
She turns, those wide, knowing eyes locking onto mine. “You have a lovely home, Elliot.”
She waits a beat. Lets the air go heavy. Lets the tension stretch just enough.
And then she tilts her chin just so. Her lips part, her lashes flutter just slightly. And she whispers, “Sir.”
Hell.
I nearly lose it.
It’s not just the word.
It’s the way she says it.
Like she’s been waiting.
Like she’s wanted to say it all night.
Like she knows exactly what it does to me.
I step toward her. Not fast. Not sudden.
Just close enough to watch her reaction.
Her breathing hitches.
She’s soft. So soft.
But not delicate.
She doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t step back.
She just looks up at me. Big, pretty eyes. Holding her ground.
I lift my hand.
Slow. Measured.
And I touch her.
Just my fingers, ghosting under her chin, tilting her face to mine.
Testing.
She doesn’t pull away.
Of course, she doesn’t.
Her lips part.
A little shudder slips through her frame, the barest, prettiest thing.
I let my thumb trace the curve of her lower lip.
She trembles.
She’s so ready for this.
“Say it again.” Soft. Commanding.
She exhales, her breath warm against my skin.
And then, so sweetly, so obediently, “Sir.”
And just like that, she’s mine.
She stands before me, eyes wide, waiting, eager.
Such a good girl.
I could make this last all night. Keep her trembling on the edge, make her work for every reward. But first, I want to see how well she follows orders.
“Undress,” I say.
I stay exactly where I am, watching, waiting, giving her no further instruction. She has to figure it out.
And oh, does she.
Her fingers move to the delicate row of buttons at the side of her dress, slipping them free one by one, slow and careful, like she’s savoring the moment for me.
It pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but pink lace and those filthy, beautiful stockings.
I exhale through my nose, barely restraining a groan.
Garter belt. Thigh highs.
Fucking bows.
I knew she’d be sweet under all that elegance, but this? This is better than I expected.
She watches my reaction, tilts her head slightly, lips parting like she’s considering something. Then she takes a slow step forward, standing so close I can almost feel the heat of her body against my fully clothed one.
“Do you want me to leave the heels on, sir?” she asks.
I drag a hand down my jaw. I want to ruin her.
“Yes.” My voice is deeper than I intend, roughened by the sight of her, by the breathless way she’s watching me like I’m the answer to every question she’s ever had.
She smiles, satisfied, like she already knew the answer.
Little brat.
But then, her hands go to my belt.
She doesn’t undo it immediately. No, she toys with the buckle, lets her fingertips graze the fabric of my slacks, letting me feel her obedience before she’s even fully given it.
Clever.
She kneels, taking her time, palms dragging down my thighs as she settles on her knees before me. Where she belongs.
She looks up.
And fuck me, that look.
“Can I touch you, sir?” she asks.
I exhale, long and slow, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. “Yes, baby doll. Touch me.”
Her hands work my belt open, the metal buckle clinking as she undoes it with slow, measured movements.
I don’t help her.
She doesn’t want me to.
This isn’t hesitation, it’s calculation. She’s teasing me, taking her time, making me wait.
I exhale sharply through my nose as she slides my zipper down, her fingertips just barely grazing my cock through my slacks.
She watches me. Not my body, my face.
Like she wants to see exactly when I break.
Little fucking menace.
I could stop this now. Reassert control. Make her beg for it.
But why would I?
She tugs at my waistband, slides my pants down, her hands dragging over my thighs as she does it. She sighs, soft and content, like this is exactly where she wants to be.
Like she’s settling in.
She brushes her lips against my hip first. Not quite a kiss. Just warm breath and the softest touch of skin.
And fuck, she’s watching me.
Waiting. Measuring. Seeing how much I’ll let her get away with.
Her mouth moves lower, parting just slightly as she drags her tongue over my skin.
Fuck.
I flex my fingers, fighting the urge to grab the back of her head and shove her mouth where I need it.
She licks again, slow, deliberate, just beside where I want her most, her lips barely ghosting over me.
She’s enjoying this. Enjoying the power she thinks she has.
“You’re a little tease,” I murmur, my voice low, warning.
She grins, nipping lightly at my hipbone before finally, finally, wrapping her fingers around me.
God. Her hands.
So small, so soft, so fucking perfect.
She strokes once, slow, her palm dragging over every thick, aching inch of me.
She hums softly, almost like she’s admiring her work.
Her lips part, her breath warm against me, so close.
I clench my jaw, exhaling hard.
And just as she’s about to ruin me completely, she stops.
Stops.
What the fuck?
She lifts her head, fingers still wrapped around me, her breath uneven but her eyes too sharp, too knowing.
And then she says it. “You need to know something first.”
No. No, I don’t.
“Juliet,” I warn, my voice dangerously low.
“I have men,” she says.
My head tilts slightly.
Her man.
I ate his dessert.
Now I’m about to fuck his girl.
And I don’t think I even fucking care.
Then it hits… Men.
Not exes. Not one. Plural.
I stare at her, waiting for her to crack, for her to break into a teasing grin and tell me she’s fucking with me.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she squeezes me lightly, her thumb swiping over the sensitive tip, like she knows exactly how to keep me just desperate enough to listen.
I exhale, long and slow. “So, what, you want me to be your dirty little secret?”
She smiles. Like I just said something adorable. “No, sir,” she purrs. “I want you to be part of the family.”
The family.
Her thumb brushes my length, breath hot against my skin.
I stare down at her, at those soft, parted lips, at the way she watches me like she already knows exactly how to ruin me.
And I’m not sure which of us is the wolf anymore.
“Suck me,” I say, because if I’m the prey tonight, she’s going to have to earn her catch.
“Yes, sir,” she breathes, and just like that, my control is already slipping.
Her mouth is warm, teasing, her tongue dragging slow along my length before she takes me in, inch by inch, testing how much she can handle. She keeps her eyes on me, drinking in every reaction, every flicker of tension in my jaw, every sharp breath I take.
She’s playing the obedient little thing so damn well.
Like she was made for this.
Like she was made for me.
My hand tangles in her hair, guiding her just a little, just enough to feel the way she shudders at the pressure, the way she leans into it like she wants me to take over completely.
I groan, head tipping back, the heat of her mouth, the slow drag of her tongue almost too much.
And then she pulls away.
I look down, ready to snap at her, ready to drag her right back where she belongs, but she’s already rising to her feet, licking her lips, eyes glittering with something dangerous.
“I want to see your bedroom,” she whispers.
I don’t even hesitate.
I pull her to her feet and lead her down the hall, pulse pounding, desire burning low and hot.
When we step inside, she sees the restraints at the corners of my bed and she gasps, eyes going wide.
Then, to my utter disbelief she bounces on her toes, clapping her hands together.
“Are you going to tie me down, sir?” she asks, practically glowing.
I stare at her.
This girl. This sweet, innocent-looking little thing.
I was so sure I had her right where I wanted her.
But now?
Now, I think she might have me.