Luka’s eyes cooled. He straightened slowly, hands braced on his knees, studying me as if I’d disappointed him.
“You said wherever I want,” he said, almost casually. “I assumed you meant it.”
Panic flared—first in my chest, then everywhere. “I did,” I rushed. “I do, I?—”
He stood. For a split second, I thought he might walk away. He just looked down at me, unreadable. The silence tightened until I couldn’t breathe.
I scrambled forward on my knees. The carpet burned my skin. “No—I meant it. All of it.” My voice shook. “Anywhere. However you want. I just—” The words tangled. “I’ve never—no one’s ever. But I want it. I want you. Please.” It came out ugly and desperate, but it was the truth.
He didn’t move. His face gave nothing away.
Then he crouched down, bringing us level, his forehead almost touching mine. Those bright, invasive eyes locked on my face.
“You want it?” he said quietly. “You want me to use you however I see fit?”
I nodded.
“Then earn it.” His voice turned diamond-hard. He planted his hands on either side of his knees, boxing me in with denim and shadow. “Show me you know how to obey.”
I looked up at him, waiting for a command. Something to fix this. “How?” I whispered. “Tell me how.”
He didn’t blink. “Go to bed.”
I hesitated, thrown by the simplicity.
He didn’t repeat himself. He just pointed to the bed.
I stood, knees aching, and crossed the room. The sheets were still tangled from before. I perched on the edge, unsure whether he wanted me open or composed, and looked up at him for instruction.
“Lie back. Head on the pillow.”
I did. The mattress dipped under my weight. My skin felt too hot and too cold at once, my breathing still uneven.
He moved to the bedside. Then he stopped. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, hands in his pockets like a man studying a fire he had no intention of putting out.
I pressed my thighs together, aching for a shred of friction. For a signal from him. Anything.
“Look at you,” he said at last, his voice soft. “Absolutely beautiful.” He raked his gaze down my body, then up again. “You want me to fuck you.” It wasn’t a question.
I swallowed—mouth dry as tinder—and nodded.
“You want it so badly you’re going to come apart if you don’t have me.”
I managed another nod and a whimper.
Luka smiled. Cold. Certain. He leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the damp hair at my temple.
“Good,” he said, brushing his thumb across my cheek, the touch almost tender. “But not tonight.”
The words didn’t land at first. I waited for the rest—the correction, the next command.
But it never came.
Instead, he pulled the duvet over me. He smoothed it to my shoulders, tucking the edges in with slow, careful hands. The gesture was gentle. The control underneath it was not.
Heat flooded through me—frustration, want, anger—but he just kept tucking, as if I were something fragile. As if I belonged to him.
He brushed a loose strand of hair from my forehead. “Go to sleep,” he said quietly. “Fantasize about me. Every way I’m going to ruin you. Every way I’ll break you open until you forget your own name.” He grazed his lips across my cheek, my temple, then my forehead. “But you’re not going to touch yourself, Alex. Not tonight.” His voice hardened. “I want you wound so tight, you snap the moment I put my hands on you.” He straightened up. “Don’t touch yourself. Not a finger. Be a good girl, and keep your hands off what’s mine. Understand?”