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I follow Ryker down a hallway I haven’t seen before, the lace and silk of the lingerie offering no protection against the cool air or his hungry gaze. Each step on the hardwood floor feels like walking toward my own execution.

“Level Four is about endurance,” Ryker explains, his hand firm on the small of my back. “How much can you take? How long can you last?”

He opens a door to reveal a room unlike any I’ve seen. It’s circular, with mirrored walls and a polished wooden floor. In the center stands what looks like a ballet barre, but modified with restraints at various heights. Surrounding it are different stations: weights, resistance bands, and devices I don’t recognize.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Your training room.” He guides me to the center. “You’ll hold positions while I touch you. Move, flinch, or make a sound without permission, and there are consequences.”

My stomach twists as he positions me, arms extended along the barre, legs spread with my feet shoulder-width apart. The mirrors force me to see myself from every angle—vulnerable, exposed, terrified.

“We begin with thirty minutes. Each time you fail, we add ten minutes.”

The first touch is gentle—fingers mapping my spine. Soon, he’s alternating between soft caresses and sharp pain, pinching sensitive skin, and dragging ice cubes followed by burning wax. My muscles scream from holding the position. Sweat drips down my temples.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Fighting so hard not to move.”

When his hand slides between my thighs, I bite my lip until I taste blood, desperate not to make a sound. The conflicting sensations—my aching muscles, his knowing touch, fear mingling with inescapable pleasure—all of it creates a hellish cocktail of confusion.

“You’re dripping wet, but can your mind overcome it? That’s the real question of Level Four.”

I close my eyes, trying to escape, but his voice pulls me back.

“Eyes open, Kira. I want you to see everything I do to you. I want you to see yourself breaking.”

I feel his patience snap like a rubber band stretched too far. One moment, he’s circling me; the next, his fingers are digging into the lace of my bra, tearing it from my body with a violence that makes me gasp. The delicate fabric gives way easily, shredding beneath his hands.

“Enough games,” he growls, his voice hitting a register I haven’t heard before.

Before I can process what’s happening, he’s ripping the panties from my hips, the elastic biting into my skin before snapping. The stockings follow, leaving me in tattered scraps of black lace.

“Hands forward,” he commands, and when I hesitate, his palm connects with my ass in a stinging slap. “Now.”

My body responds before my mind can catch up, leaning forward over the barre. The cool metal presses against my stomach as Ryker secures my wrists to the attachments on either side, pulling them taut so I’m stretched across the barre like an offering.

The position forces me to bend at the waist, my back arched, and my legs straight. The mirrors surrounding us reflect every angle of my exposure, leaving nowhere to hide from my vulnerability or his hungry gaze.

“Look at you,” he breathes, his hands gripping my hips. “Fucking gorgeous.”

I close my eyes, trying to escape the sight of myself splayed open for him, but snap them open when his tongue makes sudden contact with the sensitive flesh between my legs. The shock tears a strangled sound from my throat—half protest, half something I don’t want to name.

Ryker devours me like a starving man. His tongue explores with devastating precision, finding every nerve ending. His hands grip my ass, spreading me wider as he licks and sucks without mercy. The intensity is overwhelming, building a pressure inside me that conflicts violently with my fear.

My wrists strain against the restraints as his tongue delves deeper. I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror—my face flushed, eyes wide with shock and unwanted pleasure, his head buried between my thighs, completely focused on dismantling whatever resistance I have left.

The pleasure builds higher and higher, a tsunami quickly gathering force. Despite my hatred for this situation—for him—I’m lost completely as his fingers replace his tongue, curling inside me with terrifying precision. His thumb circles my clit with just the right pressure, and pleasure builds that’s different from any orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

“Stop fighting it,” he growls against my inner thigh. “Let go, Kira.”

I can’t hold back any longer. The climax crashes over me with such violent intensity that I scream, my entire body convulsing against the restraints. And then a rush of wet heat pulses from inside me, gushing over his hand and down my thighs.

I’m mortified and confused, but still riding waves of the most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt. Through tear-blurred eyes, I catch Ryker’s expression in the mirror, and it stops my breath.

His calculating precision, which has defined every moment since my capture, shatters. His eyes widen, pupils blown black with hunger as he tracks the evidence of my release dripping down his wrist.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice ragged. “You squirted for me.”

He laps up the wetness with his tongue, groaning against my flesh like a man possessed. It’s animalistic, desperate—nothing like his usual measured dominance.