Page 81 of Dose

I show it to her before covering her eyes. The silk lies smooth across her face, loose enough not to drag at her hair, secure enough to take the room away.

Her breathing deepens. Her fingers curl once against the headboard and release.

“Tell me what you can feel,” I say near her ear.

“Cool air. The sheet under my legs. Your breath.” A pause. “I don’t know where your hands are.”

“How does that feel?”

“Loud.”

“Color?”

“Green.” Her mouth curves. “Impatient, but green.”

“Good girl.”

The shiver that runs through her is mine.

I start at her throat without closing my hand around it. My mouth follows the line down to her collarbone while one finger traces her sternum. She turns toward every touch, trying to predict the next one. I make prediction useless.

For this hour, she does not have to think about Korte, the western hub, or the children spread across eleven possible endpoints. She agreed to three decisions: continue, pause, stop. Everything inside those limits belongs to me.

My palm settles over her stomach. The muscles jump beneath it.

“Where next?” she whispers.

“Wherever I decide.”

Her hips shift.

“More.”

“Not yet.” I press her flat with my right hand. “You asked me to choose.”

“I’m beginning to question my methodology.”

“Your methodology is excellent.”

I kiss the inside of her thigh and feel the next protest gather before she voices it.

“Daddy.”

There it is.

I touch her lightly at first, two fingers circling until her legs tense around my shoulders. The first broken sound leaves her when I increase the pressure. I learn the rhythm she begins to chase, give it to her long enough for her breathing to fracture, then remove my hand.

“No.” The word is pure frustration. “I was close.”

“I know.”

“You stopped.”

“Very observant.”

She tugs at the cuffs. “I dislike you.”

“Color?”