Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Vaughn
I don't go back to my room.
How can I?
I head straight to my office, close the door, and pour myself three fingers of scotch with hands that aren't entirely steady.
Then I drain the glass in two swallows and pour another.
What the fuck did I just do?
I sit at my desk, the empty glass in my hand, and try to process what happened in Eden's room twenty minutes ago.
I touched her. Sort of.
Used the vibrator on her over her clothes, watched her come apart beneath my hands, heard those breathy little gasps she tried so hard to suppress, saw the exact moment when fear transformed into curiosity transformed into desperate need.
Watched her back arch completely off the bed when she finally surrendered to the pleasure her body had never been allowed to feel.
And I've never been so hard in my life.
Never wanted anyone so badly that it felt like physical pain radiating through every nerve.
Never had to exercise so much control to keep from crossing the lines I'd promised not to cross.
I set the glass down with a sharp click against the mahogany desk.
Adjust myself through my pants.
The pressure is almost painful, my cock straining against the fabric, demanding attention I won't give it.
Not yet.
Not until I can think clearly.
Not until I understand what the hell just happened to my carefully constructed plans.
I told her I wouldn't take anything for myself.
That this was about her, her pleasure, her discovery.
About showing her that her body wasn't shameful, that desire wasn't sin, that she had a right to feel good without guilt or fear or the weight of the Sanctuary's lies crushing her.
And I meant it.
Every single word.
But fuck, watching her respond—watching her body do exactly what I knew it would do, watching her fight the pleasure with every ounce of her Sanctuary training and then surrender to it completely, watching her come for the first time in her twenty-three years—that was the most erotic thing I've ever experienced.
More erotic than any of the experiences I'd had before.
More intense than anything I'd bought or negotiated or controlled.
Because this was different.
This was Eden, who flinches when I come too close, learning that touch doesn't have to mean pain.
This was Eden, who was taught her body was shameful, discovering pleasure.
This was Eden, who has every reason to hate me, trusting me enough to let me show her.
And I didn't even touch her skin.
Didn't kiss her.
Didn't undress her.
Didn't slide my hands beneath the silk of her pajamas or feel her bare flesh or do any of the thousand things I wanted to do.
Just showed her what her body could feel with gentle vibration over her clothes.
And nearly lost my goddamn mind in the process.
I want to go back.
The urge is overwhelming, almost irresistible.
Want to knock on her door right now.
Want to see if she's okay, if she's processing what happened, if she's lying in that bed touching herself with the vibrator I left on her nightstand, exploring on her own now that she knows it's possible.
But I can't.
Can't scare her.
Can't push too fast.
Can't let her think this was about my gratification instead of her liberation, even though we both know that's partly a lie.
Even though my body is screaming at me to go to her.
I pour another scotch.
My third. Or is it my fourth? I've lost count.
This was supposed to be controlled.
Calculated.
Part of a larger strategy I'd mapped out with the same precision I use for corporate acquisitions.
Show her pleasure, make her body crave what I could give her, slowly break down her walls until she chose to stay because leaving would mean giving up sensations she'd never experienced before.
Make her dependent on me.
Make her choose the cage.
But the control is slipping through my fingers like water.
I can feel it fraying at the edges, threatening to snap entirely and leave me with nothing but raw need and obsession.
Because this stopped being about strategy the moment she looked at me with those hazel eyes and whispered yes.
The moment she trusted me enough—terrified as she was—to let me show her.
The moment she came apart in my hands and made those sounds I'll hear in my dreams for the rest of my life.
This is becoming personal.
And personal is dangerous when you're trying to maintain control.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath.
This isn't just about possession anymore.
It's not about owning her or keeping her or even making her dependent on me.
I'm invested in her pleasure.
In her discovery.
In watching her understand that everything the Sanctuary taught her was a lie designed to control her, to make her small, to strip away her autonomy and make her accept whatever scraps of existence men decided to give her.
I want her to understand her own power.
Want to watch her reclaim parts of herself that were stolen before she was old enough to fight back.
I care about her healing.
And that's fucking terrifying.
Because caring means vulnerability.
Means she has power over me that I never intended to give her.
Means this stopped being a transaction and became something else entirely.
Something I don't know how to control.
Something that scares me more than I want to admit.
I drain the scotch.
Set the glass down with more force than necessary.
Pull up my laptop and open the security system.
I shouldn't.
Should give her privacy.
Should let her process without my voyeuristic observation.
But I can't help myself.
I pull up the camera feed for her bedroom.
She's sitting on the bed, still fully dressed in those silk pajamas and robe.
The vibrator is on the nightstand where I left it, rose gold gleaming in the lamplight.
She's staring at it like it might come alive and attack her.
Like it's dangerous.
It is dangerous.
Just not in the way she thinks.
As I watch, she reaches out slowly and touches it with one finger.
She pulls her hand back like it burned her.
Then she stands abruptly, paces to the window and presses her forehead against the glass, her breath fogging the pane.
Her shoulders are shaking.
Is she crying?
The thought makes something twist painfully in my chest. Something that feels uncomfortably like guilt.
I watch as she wraps her arms around herself, holding herself together.
As she stands there for long minutes, just staring out into the darkness beyond the window, beyond the grounds, beyond the cage I've built around her.
Processing.
Trying to reconcile what she felt with what she was taught to believe.
Trying to understand if pleasure makes her weak or wrong or corrupted.
Trying to figure out if she's still the good girl from the Sanctuary or if she's become something else entirely.
After what feels like an eternity, she moves away from the window.
She goes back to the bed and sits down, picking up the vibrator again.
She turns it on and my breath catches.
My entire body goes still.
Is she going to—?
But no. She just holds it.
Presses it against her palm like I showed her, feeling the gentle vibration against her skin.
Studies it with an intensity that makes my chest tight.
Then turns it off and sets it carefully back on the nightstand.
Not tonight.
But she's thinking about it.
I can see it in the way she keeps looking at it.
In the way she touches it again, just briefly, her fingers trailing over the smooth rose gold surface before pulling away.
She's curious, and curiosity is all I need.
I close the laptop before I'm tempted to watch longer.
As I lean back in my chair, I make a decision.
Three days.
I'll give her three days to process what happened.
Three days of space and normalcy and no pressure.
Three days to let the curiosity build until she can't stand it anymore, until it consumes her thoughts, until she has to know if it would feel that good again.
Three days for her to convince herself that asking is her choice.
And then I'll offer more.
Not push. Not demand. Not show up uninvited at her door.
Just offer.
And let her ask.
Because that's the key to all of this. She has to ask. Has to choose. Has to believe it's her decision, her desire, her need.
Even though I'm the one engineering every single step.
Even though I'm manipulating her curiosity, her fear, her desperate need to understand herself.
Even though this is all a carefully constructed trap disguised as liberation.
I check my watch. Nearly midnight.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
Text from Callum:
Everything all right, sir? Motion sensors picked up activity in the guest wing around 11. Just checking in.
Of course he noticed.
Callum notices everything.
Former SAS, trained to see patterns, to identify threats, to monitor and assess and report with military precision.
I hired him specifically because he's thorough, because nothing escapes his attention, because he's loyal to a fault.
Right now I hate him for it.
I text back:
Everything's fine. Eden and I talked. That's all.
Talked. Sure. If you count giving her her first orgasm as talking.
His response comes quickly:
Understood. Security is clear for the night. I'll see you in the morning.
I set the phone down and pour another scotch.
The amber liquid glows in the lamplight, beautiful and poisonous.
Like everything in my life.
I sit there in the darkness, thinking about Eden and pleasure and the three days I'm going to have to survive before I can offer to touch her again.
Three days of watching her on cameras, seeing if she uses the vibrator alone, gauging whether curiosity wins over fear.
Three days of being patient when every instinct I have is screaming at me to go to her.
Three days that might actually kill me.
But I can do it.
Because the alternative—pushing too fast, scaring her, breaking the fragile trust we're building—that would destroy everything I'm working toward.
So, I'll wait.
And when the three days are up, I'll see if she asks.
If she wants more.