“What’s your name, little sub?”

“Sophie Ryder.” When his brows lowered she hastily added, “Sir.”

Emery patted his thigh with one palm. “Let us begin the
contest. You will come and sit on my lap and I will command
you.”

Sophie’s stomach pitched so deep it felt like it hit her
toes. Emery leaned back, his arms rested on the back of the
couch. He looked every bit a prince, a leader of a pride of
lions, merely waiting for his conquest, his prey. His
relaxed position only made her feel more helpless.

She knew he could move fast, catch her in his arms and have
her bent for punishment again in seconds if she dared to
resist him. Her nipples pearled beneath the unforgiving
leather of the corset, rubbing until they ached. She
clenched her hands to stop them from shaking.

Here we go, you can do this. Sophie approached him and sat
across his lap. She wriggled, trying to find a comfortable
position, unable to ignore the feel of his muscular thighs
beneath her.

He cocked one eyebrow imperiously, as though her
restlessness had somehow offended him.

“Do not squirm.” He issued his first command.

She stilled instantly. Her only movement was her breasts
rising and falling with her breaths.

“Look at my eyes, only my eyes.” His tone softened, but the
rough edge still scraped over her, making her hungry for the
promise she found in his gaze. The voices around them faded
and she slipped deeper and deeper into his dark spell.

He would be a rough lover; carnal, quiet. He wouldn’t
whisper sweet words, wouldn’t utter harsh arousing
statements. He’d simply take her, take her again and again,
the grinding, the pounding. The soft silence punctuated by
uneven breaths, the stroke of rough hands over her sensitive
skin. Everything a sensible, modern woman shouldn’t want
from a man in bed. He’d be all animal in all the right ways.

She’d never been with someone like him before, might never
be again, and the thought was an intoxicating one. To be at
the mercy of such power, such electrifying sexual control
and surrender it all to him... Her mouth was suddenly dry,
her pulse tapping Morse code for help as she tried to
maintain a semblance of calm. Would she be able to give in
to him? To let him guide her through the dark lust that so
often took hold of her when she had no way of releasing it?

Yes... She could let go with him, and the uncertainty of
what would happen when she did was half of the excitement
that lit a fire in her veins.

His hands settled on her hips, fingers slowly stroking back
and forth, teasing her skin beneath the leather mini-skirt.
What would it be like to have his hands on her bare flesh?
Fingers exploring between her legs.

“Tell me what you’d like, Sophie.” Emery leaned his head
down, his brow touching hers, eyes still locked on her face.

She gulped, her mouth dryer than the Gobi Desert.

“What would it take to make you lose control? Do you want a
hard fuck? A desperate pounding? Or would you like to have
your hands bound, lying face down on a large bed, softness
against your belly and my hardness above you, in you?” His
erotic whispers were so soft, so low that no one nearby
could hear what he was saying to her. The images he painted
were wild, vivid, yet blurry—like a strange combination
between Van Gogh and Monet. Sweet and sensual, then dark,
exotic and barely comprehendible. Emery was an artist in his
own way, an erotic painter of words and pictures.

“I’d take you slow, so slow you’d lose all sense of time.
You’d focus only on me, on my cock gliding between your
thighs, possessing you.” His words were slow and deliberate,
as though he’d given them years of thought, but the slight
breathless quality to the whisper made her realize she was
not the only one affected.

The first quiver between her thighs was inevitable. She
shifted, restless on his legs, despite his command not to move.

His breath fanned her lips. “Oh, god,” she murmured.

He smiled, unblinking, and licked his lips. She wanted that
tongue in her mouth, tangling with her own. She craved his
hands on her bare flesh.

“Please...” she moaned. He moved his hands down from her
hips, to her outer thighs, barely exerting any real
pressure. That made it worse. The hint of his touch, the
promise of the pressure she craved. Sophie wanted him
digging his fingers into her skin, holding her legs apart as
he slammed deep into her.

“Take a deep breath,” he issued another command.

She obeyed. Her heartbeat seemed to expand outward from her
chest until the pulse pounded through her entire body so
hard she swore he could feel it beat through her skin
wherever he touched her. The throb between her thighs nearly
stung now—her need so great, his effect so potent.

“When I take you, no matter the position, you will like it.
I’ll bend you over a couch.” He stroked one finger on her
outer thigh, made circular patterns. “I’ll push you up
against a wall.”

With little panting breaths she wriggled, trying to rock her
hips against his lap, but he held her still. She nearly
screamed in frustration at being denied what her body
frantically needed.

The finger moved higher, past her hip, up to her ribcage.
“Spread and bound open on my bed.” His fingertip quested up
past the laces of her corset. “You’ll twist and writhe,
unable to get free. At my mercy, Sophie, my mercy. You will
beg and when I’m ready, I will grant your every desire, just
as I take mine.”

She couldn’t breathe. The orgasm was so close. She could
feel it, like a shadow inside her body, breathing, panting,
waiting to be set free. She was ready; she wanted to climax
in his arms, wanted to forge that connection which would tie
her to him. Terrifying, shocking, intimate, but damn if she
didn’t want it more than anything in the world at that
moment. Wanted it more than her story, more than the
interview, more than easing her pain from the past. She
needed pleasure. His pleasure.