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“Easy.” He laughs, reaching for the glass, his fingers grazing mine as he places it on a small table near the chairs. “Sit,” he commands, patting the seat next to him as he takes a seat.
“So tell me.” He looks over at me as I slowly sink down in the chair, perched on the edge like I’m ready to jump up at any second and run for the door. “What”—he leans over and places his hand flat against my belly before pushing me backward so I’m fully sitting in the chair—“is going through that head of yours?”
It’s not an overtly sexual move by any means but it’s possessive, maybe a touch dominant. Beckham Archer doesn’t wait for people to do something; he makes it happen.
The way he told me we were leaving the bar.
The way he grabbed my arm and brought me to his room.
The way he pushed me back in the chair just now, it’s like he’s already in control of me and I want to explore it more.
“I—I don’t think I should say.” I chew my bottom lip as a knowing smile forms on his.
“And why’s that, Brontë?” The way he keeps saying my name, again possessive and in control. A power move I’m sure but it’s working.
“It will certainly cross all sorts of boundaries and it would definitely break your rule.”
He takes another sip of his whiskey. “Hmm, well, I don’t recall saying we couldn’t express what was on our minds.”
“Tell me more.”
“More what?”
“More ways a man would seduce me or please me.”
He runs his hand over his jaw like he’s contemplating if he should.
“Stand up.”
I do as he says, standing in front of my chair. He reaches his hand out and grabs mine, guiding me to stand before him.
“Kneel.”
I don’t know what’s happening and I want to ask questions but at the same time, I just want to feel. I fall down to my knees, folding my hands in my lap as I look up at him. He’s sitting back in the chair, legs spread as he looks down at me. His blue eyes look dark against the dim light of the room.
“Good girl.”
He finishes his whiskey, placing the empty glass on the table.
“Do you know why you’re kneeling in front of me right now?”
I’m hoping it’s for the obvious reason, but I just shake my head no.
“Because you want a man to control you, Brontë. You want a man to tell you what to do. You want a man to dominate you, to make you bend and break the rules. That excites you, doesn’t it?”
My lips part but I don’t answer.
“If I slide my fingers inside your panties right now, I guarantee you they’ll be sticky with your desire, won’t they?” I nod my head yes and he continues. “You liked hearing all those things I said to you downstairs, didn’t you, you filthy girl?”
My pulse quickens as he sits up, leaning forward to tilt my chin upward with his thumb and forefinger.
“I’m giving you one chance, right now, to tell me what you want me to do to you tonight.”
I open my mouth, then snap it shut as I contemplate what he just said.
Is he offering? Is he going to do it if I tell him or is this just another game?
“I—I want,” I stutter before taking in a deep breath and squaring my shoulders. “I want you to fuck me like you described earlier. I want you to command me and take what you want from my body.”
