My hair tumbles all over the pillow as I rear my head back with decadence. To quel the treacherous heat searing through my female core, I slowly touch my breasts. An image of a man I've never seen claiming my body as though it belongs to him rivals my breath, and soundly my chest rises and falls.

But this is nuts.

I close my blindfolded eyes, trying to calm my hormones down. It's been twenty minutes now since I arrived in this hotel suite, waiting for him like a bride waiting for his groom on their first wedding night. But hell, this far from that romantic endeavour even if he's the guy infiltrating my nympho now.

Why can't he show up already?

My stomach twists from overweening nerves. And then that fragrance I could recognize in my deep slumber rolls in like a thin blanket of air in a country field. Rich and wild, just as before, his presence traps me in a strong riptide, unable to fully comprehend whether this is reality or yet another fantasy.

But alas, this time it's real.

"Mister Castle?" I prop on my elbows at the sound of his footsteps.

"You surprised me, Miss Lincoln," he exhorts.

Relief fills my heart with vigor at the sound of his voice. It's him, so I ought to relax, but because it's him, I also can't seem to relax at all.

"I apologize for my being late, but we had no prior appointment served at this time frame so I'm naturally dissolved from fault here."  I hear him drop some stuff onto the bedside table and coast himself to a halt.

I don't know what to say. Slowly I fall back on the bed, bracing myself, leaving everything to chance.

The silence stretches and I believe his eyes are on me... or my half-covered thighs that I bind together comprehensively.

"You look beautiful," he whispers, no sign of him moving from where he's stopped. I swallow tightly, my heart thrumming violently. "But for someone who acted all crazy last night, I truly wonder what made you change your mind. Care to explain, Miss Lincoln?"

Money.  It's all about your money.

"Um... No, Sir." The answer slides automatically, and I mean it. "I'd rather not talk about it, and I'm deeply sorry about last night."

At last, he moves and the sound of his shoes isn't as loud as the ones he wore yesterday. He sits on the bed and soon I feel my legs held up rather gently by him. I gather no time to think or ask anything, as he takes them onto his lap.

What is he doing now?

When I try to rise he says, "Don't move. Keep lying still."

It's an order.

I do as he says, and smoothly he takes one of my heels off. I focus on his touch, his hold, his expert hands grazing my skin at each move he makes until my feet are bare.

He carefully puts my shoes down; I can feel it as he bends over, but I can see absolutely nothing.

"Whatever your reasons may be," he mutters deeply and quietly, "I have to make it very clear that you're going to do as I say from now on. You're not allowed to contradict or raise your voice or change your mind without a proper reason. What you think, what you feel—I want communication. And if you have a question, ask."

My breath hitches stuck in my throat, and I realize I've been holding the sheets too tightly as though my existence depends on it, and maybe it does.

This is it, Ara. You're officially his property, whatever the name is.

"You belong to me now," he says, affirming my thoughts exactly. How lovely. "But it doesn't mean I don't value your opinion in everything we'll be doing from this point. No, Miss Lincoln. You'll need to guide me at certain points, that way I can know how much you can handle, your limits, your strength, and mostly..." His voice trails off, and everything turns soundless in a heartbeat.

"And mostly what?" I exhale softly, and every muscle of my body seems to find some tension outlet.

"How you truly feel," he fills the blank. "I need to know your needs so let there be effective communication between us, are we clear?" he demands.

"Crystal," I reply, double relieved. "Does this mean you'll listen to what I have to say? Like... What I wouldn't want you to do to me?"

Hell, some things I don't want to even think of. Shit like anal sex is a no-zone to me and non-negotiable.

I'm not that adventurous even if I may have a million fantasies of my own. And I know a part of me wants to live it.

"We'll go through that later, Miss Lincoln." The masculine roughness of his hand is well felt as he gently caresses my leg, from the foot to the knee, repeatedly like an exciting play for him.

Holy hell. It's impossible to say still, for my body responds quite faster than any touch I've ever had before. Is it the fact that I haven't been fucked for almost a year now? I think I keep craving more of him.

Horny bitch!

"Tonight I want to understand you better. I want to know what your body truly desires," he says, his astute tone of voice husky and determined. "Are you okay with a little pain?" His hand advances toward my thighs, heading slightly above.

Goosebumps spread on my skin, and it's far from any sort of displeasure.

"Pain?" I breathe. "But you said you'll never hurt me." My one hand finds my chest and without knowing I'm toying with my nipples.

Again? What's wrong with me?

"No touching yourself, Arabella. Not without my permission." His imperious voice is unquestionable.

I reluctantly dismiss my hand, probably rolling my eyes.

Abruptly, he stands up after quitting the sweet business he's been doing.

I feel cold, aroused, a slightly bereft now that I'm free from his touch.

"This is why we need you tied up," he mutters, and I think he's taking something—one among the few stuff I've heard him putting when he arrived. "And yes, Miss Lincoln. A little pain can never hurt," he adds sternly.

That's madness! I hate pain.

"What are you talking about?" I prompt. "You promised—"

"There's a fine line between Pain and Pleasure, Arabella," he states as he climbs onto the bed, and then he straddles my lap as if he's kneeling, my body between his knees. "Hands up," he articulates.

Oh, fuck! Trepidation blooms in me and all the excitement turns into a nerve-wracking flutter of tiny butterflies in my tummy.

Obliging to his wish, I stretch my arms and allow him to do as he pleases. His face is near mine—I can feel his warm breath of freshness hovering—and all I begin thinking of is his lips. How would he taste if we kiss now? He's close, too close that I want mine to brush his.

Focus, Ara.

And he says, "Pain can only hurt if it's more than you can handle, Miss Lincoln."

A smooth leather material grips my skin as he cuffs my hands. It smells of... I don't know. Suave? Plastic?

Oh, we're talking about pain. That's a very important matter, bitch! Focus.

"And how can you tell how much I can handle?" I quiz, and God knows how I feel when his sensibly not-small erection presses onto the apex of my thighs as he moves obliviously.

He's wearing something soft yet firm, a cadet trouser perhaps, and a shirt of almost cotton or linen material. He's casual, unlike yesterday, and I bet he looks great, not that it matters.

"Your body will," he answers coolly. "And if it fails to do so, you'll have to do it for me." He's done tying my hands, and this time it's leather cuffs, very smooth.

Not the ones police use.

"How? Am I allowed to tell you to stop if it gets severe?" I ask, and quickly add, "I mean,  is there a specific way to let you know with words?"

"You need a safe word," he says with a sigh, and I don't need magic or superpowers to realize he's closely studying me right now. My lips twitch. He huffs and explains, "The safe word is the ultimate hint that a Dom will need to withdraw from anything he's doing. It's the sub's guaranteed protection, and an indication that she's reached her limit."

Oh. That's something.

"And... the Dom automatically stops?" I find it fascinating.

"Certainly. Any true Dom will abide by that important rule."

"Are you... a true Dom?"

He chuckles, amused. "We'll have to find out, Miss Lincoln. Are you ready?"

Fuck, I am. No backing out.

He leans toward me, closer until our faces are inches apart, and my body wiggles beneath him as if it's waiting for more. His lips brush against my bottom one, and I can't fight the urge to kiss this man, to devour him intravenously.

But to my disappointment, he only whispers, "What will be your safe word, Miss Lincoln?"

Huh? I inhale sharply and my body temperature is high—so high that I need a fan. How does he fluctuate my emotions like this? I wet my lips stoutly.

"I get to choose?" I croak.

"Yes. I'll let you choose. It better be something you won't forget no matter what happens," he instructs, his face pulled back onto a safer distance.

But the hardness between his legs keeps growing, and so is the dampness in my canal. I fail to stay still; my body moves with an unquenchable thirst to be ravaged.

"Anything?" I can't think of any words.

"Yes, anything." He's certainly having so much fun at my expense.

Okay, when did this become a classroom test? Any word, Ara! A city? Food? Color? Ugh, nothing comes to mind.

He laughs gently. "You can't choose, Miss Lincoln?" He mocks me.

"Adrian," I breathe.

Silence.

After a while he snaps, "What?" Surprise is evident in the tone of his voice.

"I said Adrian. That's my safeword."

Yes, your name.

I feel his breath hardening, and I wonder if I've made him mad. I don't know why but his name came to mind, and it's unfitting in this context, by but I want to press and see where it goes.

Another long silence.

Until...

"Okay, Miss Lincoln. That is your safeword. I hope you never ever forget it," he finally acquiesces. 

_______

A/N: Long chapter, huh? 🥰 I tried lol. Thank you all for reading, and your vote would mean the world to me.