She’s shaking, trembling with rage, or maybe need. Her hips roll, and she pushes into the web between my thumb and forefinger. Definitely need.
She’s trying to control me, so I do the only thing a self-respecting Dom should do. I hold myself perfectly still, denying her even a sliver of pressure.
“Goddammit,” she whispers. “You’re a fucking sadist.”
“Not fucking,” I say, my amused tone doing more to nettle her than anything I could do to her body. “Yet.”
“Arsehole!”
I chide her, clicking my tongue. When she flexes uselessly against my wrist, I withdraw my thumb, making a show of wiping it dry on the flat, heaving plane of her belly.
“WhatwillI do with you?” I ask mildly.
“The cane,” she says, like the two words scorch her tongue. “Whatever you do, don’t touch me with a cane.”
I take a full step back.
She’s gorgeous, pinned up on that cross. The muscles of her arms stand out; she’ll feel the strain in the morning. Her hair has come loose from whatever braid she wore in church; the curls fly around her head now, untamed. Her face is flushed, soft pink hiding her lightest freckles. Her inked chest looks like an abstract painting.
I want to stroke her legs. I want to tease her clit until her thighs spasm. I want to give her one finger, two, three, use her own slick heat to stretch her until my entire hand is deep inside, and she’s coming around my wrist.
But she’s my sub. I’m her Dom. And she doesn’t get to tell me what to do.
“That’s called topping from below, girl.”
“I’m not?—”
“You’re not in charge. You don’t get to say you want the cane.”
“Idon’twant it!”
I catch her jaw between my thumb and forefinger, squeezing hard enough to make her eyes grow wide. “Don’t lie to me,” I say, low and steady. “Do not fucking lie to me, girl. And don’tevertry again to top from below.”
Leaving her hanging, I cross to the armoire. I need a moment to temper my control. She needs to learn her lesson.
I take my time, stripping free my black silk bowtie. I remove my diamond studs and slip off my platinum cuff links, settling them on an empty shelf above an array of silver butt plugs that gleam like medical equipment.
My cummerbund. My shirt. My shoes and socks. I fold my tuxedo trousers, adding them to the shelf. I step out of my boxers.
Naked, I turn back to the cross.
The games I play in this dungeon are like the elaborate cons Shannon ran. Everything turns on my ability to read my mark, my sub. I need to check in with her early and often. I need to seehow she’s responding. I need to adjust my strategy so I can best incapacitate her. So I can win.
Kate’s Red Cap tattoo stands out on her thigh, mocking me with its bright red ink. The hatch marks of her cutting scars march down to each knee.
She’s used to pain. She’s confident and she’s strong and she’s horny as hell, so her tolerance will be at its highest.
But I know she can’t handle a cane, not yet. Not when I’m the one slashing it through the air. Not when I’m the one in control.
I take my time choosing a tool shecanmanage. The cat o’ nine tails is made of black leather, each long strand knotted tightly at the end. The handle is carved ebony. It’s heavy in my hand as I turn back to face her.
I hear her swallow from across the room. I don’t know if that’s because she’s accepted she can’t break free from the cross or because she’s afraid of the punishment I’m about to administer.
I shift my grip on the cat as I cross the floor. She’s trembling when I reach her, arms and legs shivering like she’s been caught outside in a storm.
“Please,” she says. “You don’t have to do this. Let me down from here. I can make you feel good. Just undo the cuffs. Let me show you what I can do.”
She’s good at this. She pleads like she means it, like freedom is the only thing in the world she desires.