Page 74 of Dominion’s Collar

The floor parts for us without being asked. I carry her across the scening area and through the lounge. As we pass the bar, her face turns into my throat. Not shame. The reflex of a woman becoming aware of the room she just surrendered in. She stays there for a breath, then lifts her head. Looks at the club she just let see her break apart.

She doesn't look away.

Renata glances up from behind the bar. Her expression doesn't change. Marion raises her wine glass a fraction from the archway and goes back to her conversation.

Dwayne is near the stairwell. He sees me carrying her and doesn't blink.

"Room four is open upstairs," he says.

"Thank you."

The stairs are narrow. She curls tighter against me. Her fingers hook into my collar, and the grip is the grip of a woman who isn't finished with what this evening started.

The room upstairs is simple and well-appointed. A wide bed with Egyptian cotton sheets. Low lighting. A lock on the door.

I set her on the bed. She lets the blanket fall. The collar is the only thing she's wearing, and in the low light, the ruby catches fire.

I strip the leathers. Pull the shirt over my head. The relief of the pressure against my cock is immediate and not remotely sufficient.

She watches me undress with an attention that has nothing academic in it. Her gaze moves from my shoulders to my abdomen to the length of me, and the hunger in it is open, unapologetic.

I come down over her on the bed. The weight of my body above hers. Skin to skin for the first time since the fire play, and the contact runs through me like a current. Everywhere her fire-heated skin meets mine, the warmth radiates.

I take her wrists. Both of them. Pin them above her head with one hand, my grip replacing the rope from the shibari. Her fingers flex against my palm.

"Color?" I ask.

"Green." Her voice is raw and certain.

"Don't move your hands until I say."

She nods. Her wrists stay where I put them.

I press myself against her entrance. She's still slick from the orgasm, still swollen, and the heat radiating off her body meets mine. I push inside her slowly. One long stroke that seats me completely. A low, shattered noise breaks out of her.

My forehead drops against hers. I hold still. Let her body adjust. Let mine.

I've refused this the first time, and the second time it didn’t come up. Kept the focus on her body, her response, her surrender. Held the line because control demanded it. She asked again tonight, and I'm done holding the line.

She's tight around me, and the fire has stripped her skin bare to sensation. I can feel each small contraction as her body accommodates me. Entering her after holding myself through the entire fire scene is enough to blur the edges of my control.

"You feel—" She doesn't finish.

I pull back slowly. Push in again. Deeper. "I know exactly how you feel."

She gasps, a fractured thing. Her body lifts toward mine, and the angle shifts. I sink further into her. Her wrists strain against my hand. I hold them.

"Still."

She goes still. The effort of it is visible in the tension across her stomach, the trembling in her thighs. She wants to move. I'm not letting her.

I set the pace. Slow. Deliberate. Long strokes that draw nearly out and push back in. Each withdrawal makes her grip tighten around me, and each return makes her exhale a sound that's closer to breaking than breathing. Her wrists flex under my hand with every stroke, testing the hold without trying to break it.

"Look at me."

Her eyes open. Dark, wet, nearly all pupil. She looks at me while I move inside her, and the openness in her face is the most dangerous thing in this room.

"You're mine tonight." The words come out rougher than I planned. "Say it."