Page 77 of Bought

Suddenly, all my thoughts, fears, and worries are put aside. This will probably be the last time we are ever together. I’m going to cherish every moment so that when he learns the truth and never wants to see me again...

When I’m home alone, aching for him…

I’ll at least have these memories.

He begins undressing me slowly. My dress slides off my shoulders, the fabric whispering against my skin like a secret. Then down my hips, inch by inch, until it pools at my feet. I feel exposed, bare.

Beautiful.

Lucian circles me, brushing his fingertips along my waist. “Arms up.”

I obey, trembling yet eager. He leaves me standing there, arms raised as he takes off my bra, which joins the pile at my feet. My naked breasts ache for him, and he takes the moment to worship the sight of them, like he’s memorizing every inch of me.

And maybe he is.

But the cuffs are soft, made of suede and lined with fur. He gently secures each wrist before attaching them to the wall hooks. Not so tight I can’t move, just enough to make me give in.

He has my heart as caged as my body.

“Still doing okay?”

“Yes.” My answer is breathless. “More than okay.”

He moves behind me again. Rope brushes my skin like a kiss, and I realize he’s circling my limbs, binding me to his will. Thematerial is strong, restraining, yet silky soft. Each knot is placed with purpose, crossing over my ribs, my thighs, framing my breasts.

He moves with quiet, confident focus, as if my body is a canvas he’s known forever.

I have to ignore the fact that he’s so good at this because he’s done it many times before. But he looks at me like I’m the first.

Then he says, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Making my heart stop.

I manage a reply, “Thanks to your handiwork.”

“You’re the reason for my work, the muse for my art. And right now, you’re prettier than a Picasso.” He runs a fingertip over the curve of my breast. My chest feels heavy, my nipples tight to the point of discomfort. He drags his finger over one, then takes it between his fingers and pinches.

I feel my insides tightening all the way to my core.

“You’re shaking,” he says softly.

“I'm scared.”

“Of me?”

Yes.

“No. About how much I want this. About how new everything is. This whole room, this night, everything about you and your life, it's all so new to me.”

“Let me show you more.” His palm rests on my lower belly, as if he’s cupping his hand to catch the flutters inside.

He steps back, and the sudden distance makes my skin ache for his return.

A riding crop appears in his hand. Not too long. Not too thick. The tip is thin, flexible leather. He brushes it down the center of my chest. Once. Then again.

“Lucian…”

“I want answers, little girl.” His voice has that dangerous edge it sometimes gains. Low and soft but sharp as glass. “Tell me about the Morettis.”

I freeze.