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"Nine," I said in a half-sob. "Eight. You're a monster. Seven. Six..."

She sped up on five. My voice cracked on three. On one, she let go of my wrists, wrapped her hand around my throat, firm and steady, holding my head against the door, and said, "Come."

I came so hard my vision whited out. My knees buckled, and the only reason I didn't hit the floor was her body pinning me upright, her fingers still working me through it, drawing it out until I was gasping and twitching and clinging to her shirt with both fists.

"That's it," she said into my hair. "That's my good girl. Look at you. All of that for me."

When I could see again, she was watching my face. Her own was flushed, her pupils blown wide, her breathing ragged even though I hadn't laid a finger on her.

"Holy shit," I said.

"Yeah?"

"I take back every mean word I've ever said to you. Except the stuff about your Instagram. That's still trash."

She pulled her fingers out of me slowly, and I whimpered at the loss. Then she brought them to my mouth.

"Open."

I opened. She pushed her fingers past my lips, and I tasted myself on her skin, and she watched me do it with an expression that made my stomach flip all over again.

"Clean them."

I did. Thoroughly, maintaining eye contact, because if I'm anything, it’s a goddamn professional.

"Fuck," she breathed.

"Mm-hmm," I said around her fingers.

She took them back, licked her fingers—god—and then she bent and scooped me up. Just picked me up. One arm under my knees, one behind my back, my whole naked body against her fully dressed one.

"I can walk, you know."

"Your legs are shaking."

"That's your fault."

"I know." She started down the hall. "And I'm proud of it."

I caught impressions of her house over her shoulder as she carried me: clean lines, big windows, very little furniture, every surface empty like a showroom.

"Your house is very minimalist," I observed. "Very 'I have money, but I've never had a feeling.'"

"Are you critiquing my interior design right now?"

"I'm a multitasker. I can be sexually destroyed and judgmental simultaneously."

"Keep talking," she said mildly, "and see what happens."

I kept talking. Obviously. "Like, would a throw pillow kill you? A plant? A single framed photo of a human being you love? It looks like a serial killer's vacation home. It looks like the villain's lair in a Netflix thriller. It looks..."

She set me on my feet at the foot of an enormous bed. The far wall was solid glass, the whole city spread out below us in gold and black, and I had about one second to appreciate the view before she put her hand flat between my shoulder blades and turned me to face her.

"Kneel."

My mouth closed.

She pointed at the floor. A thick rug, pale gray, expensive. "Here."