Chapter 5 The Expanding Obsession

She complied, the silk wound around her wrists, tight but not painful.

Then he stepped close, tilting her chin up.

"Now," he said, voice like velvet and fire, "you don't get to come tonight. Not once. Not until I say so."

Her lips parted, breath ragged.

He led her to the chaise, pushed her down gently. Spread her legs.

And then began a slow, torturous seduction.

Teeth grazed the skin on her hips, his breath teasing her thighs.

And when his tongue finally flicked her clit, her back arched with a cry.

But he pulled back.

"No," he murmured. "You don't get that yet."

She whimpered. "Damien, please"

He slid two fingers inside her. Slow. Deep.

She clenched around them.

"So wet for someone you claim wasn't flirting with another man."

His words sliced through her, raw and thrilling.

He thrust his fingers slowly, curling them just right, driving her mad with need.

She writhed, close. Too close.

And he stopped.

Again.

Savannah let out a frustrated cry, tears stinging her eyes.

"Please!"

"Not yet."

He climbed over her, fully clothed, pressing the hard line of his cock against her slick heat.

He kissed her finally deep, rough, claiming.

Then pulled back just enough to whisper, "Tell me who you belong to."

She trembled beneath him.

"You."

"Say it again."

"You. Damien. I'm yours."

He growled, kissed her again, and this time, he didn't stop.

He pushed inside her in one slow, devastating thrust.

She cried out, bound and burning.

He set a rhythm designed to torment, to tease, to control.

Slow. Deep. Withdraw.

Then fast, brutal, almost too much.

She begged. Pleaded.

But he didn't let her fall. Not yet.

Only when she was shaking, mindless with need, her body on the edge of ruin only then did he snap the tie from her wrists.

And pulled her into his lap.

"Now."

She went with a sob.

He followed a heartbeat later, spilling inside her with a groan.

They collapsed together, sweat-slick and breathless.

She rested her cheek against his shoulder.

His hand brushed her hair back.

But when she looked up, his eyes were shuttered.

Distant again.

Not the Damien who had just made her feel like a goddess. Not the man who had whispered her name like a prayer.

This was the man in control. Guarded. Cold.

"That's all this is, Savannah," he said quietly. "Don't mistake pleasure for promises."

Her heart squeezed. The ache wasn't just physical anymore.

She was falling.

And he was still holding her at arm's length.

Savannah arrived at Blackwood Tower quite late that evening, her heart thudding with anticipation. Damien had sent a car-black, sleek, and silent, and inside it had been a single note:

Wear nothing under your dress.

By the time the elevator doors opened to the penthouse, her skin was already humming. Damien waited for her by the grand piano, dressed in a black shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled up, his collar unbuttoned. Casual, yet lethal.

A thin folder rested on the piano's surface.

"You are here," he said, voice low.

Savannah nodded. "You called."

He opened the folder. Inside was a document. A contract.

She stepped closer to skim the first lines. Breath caught.

This agreement defines the physical submission of Savannah Arden to Damien Blackwood. Consent is given to engage in acts of control, pleasure, denial, and surrender, for the duration of their private arrangement.

She fluttered her gaze at him. "You want me to sign this?"

He came to stand behind her, his hand sliding down her spine.

"I want you to understand what I plan to do to you. I want your submission. Your trust. And your consent to break every boundary you thought you had."

His mouth grazed her ear.

"Sign it, and I'll take you away for the weekend. My island. My rules."

Savannah stared down at the pages, explicit, erotic, deeply personal. Her body was already burned at the thought of what those pages promised.

So she signed.

And Damien did not kiss her. Did not even touch her further. He simply smiled.

Pack light. You won't be needing much.

The island was private, surrounded by turquoise waters and palm trees that swayed like whispered secrets.

Damien led her into a glass villa overlooking the ocean. Everything inside had white, silver, and mirrored surfaces. Clean. Pristine.

Until he touched her.

Then everything shattered.

He stripped her slowly. Deliberately.

And when she stood naked before him, he whispered, "Hands above your head."

She obeyed. He bound her wrists in silk and attached the tie to a hook above the bed.

She was stretched, exposed.

He circled her slowly. "You've given me control, Savannah. That means I decide what you feel, when you feel it."

He wasn't in a hurry.

His mouth explored her inch by inch, kissing her inner thighs, her stomach, biting at her nipples until she cried out.

A feather appeared from somewhere.

Then ice.

He teased her clit with contrasting cold flicks of ice, followed by the slow, agonizing drag of the feather over her flushed skin.

"You don't speak unless I ask you a question. Understood?"

She whimpered.

He slapped her inner thigh light, sharp.

"Yes, Damien," she gasped.

He smiled. "Good girl."

Then he laid her onto a glassy table.

"Look," he ordered.

She turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of her fully splayed self, her wrists still bound above her.

"You're beautiful when you give in. Watch what happens to you."

Into her, he went slowly, deeply... an inch at a time. He never made eye contact with her.

She moaned as she watched the reflection of his form dominating her own, a complete surrender of absolute control.

Every thrust was deliberate; every thrust was for a reason.

"You don't come until I tell you."

He brought her to the brink time and again, touching her all over, never allowing her release. Her thighs quivered. Her body was screaming for acquittal.

"You got yourself into this," he reminded her, softly biting at her shoulder.

"I know," she murmured, tears welling up. "Please."

Finally, he allowed her to achieve the release she'd wanted-all in one earth-shattering thrust.

She broke apart beneath him.