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The first touch of his mouth against mine is barely there, a question more than a demand. But when I press forward, eliminating that last whisper of space between us, the question becomes a statement: bold, declarative, undeniable.

His kiss consumes me, overwhelming in its intensity.

One hand tangles in my wet hair, tilting my head for better access, while the other spans my waist, fingers splayed across my lower back.

The contradiction of the cool tile at my back and the burning heat of his body pressed against my front sends conflicting sensations shooting through me.

When he breaks the kiss, I’m gasping for air. His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling in the steam between us.

“Rule three,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “You are always being watched. Always protected. There is no privacy from me. No barriers. No holding back. Do you understand?”

The implications of his words penetrate the haze of desire. “The cabin?—”

“Security cameras are at every entrance. Motion sensors are throughout the property.” His hand slides from my waist to my hip, fingers digging into my flesh with possessive pressure. “I see everything, Molly. I need to, to keep you safe.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Not an apology, not quite a warning, that sends chills through me despite the heat.

“And rule four,” he continues, lips brushing against my neck now, teeth grazing sensitive skin. “You do exactly what I tell you, when I tell you, without question. In return, I promise to keep you alive.”

I should object to these terms and assert my independence. But his mouth is trailing fire along my collarbone, his hands mapping territory on my body that feels increasingly like it belongs to him. And beneath the desire, a cold reality: without him, I’m already dead.

“These aren’t optional, Molly,” he murmurs against my skin. “They’re non-negotiables. These are the rules that keep you breathing.”

His hand slides between us, fingers tracing patterns on my abdomen that drift lower with each passing second. “Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” I whisper, then gasp as his fingers find my clit, circling it, pulling a moan from me.

Cole’s free hand grasps my chin, forcing my gaze back to his. “Look at me when you say it. So I know you mean it.”

The command in his voice, the passion in his eyes, and the skillful movement of his fingers: it all combines into a perfect storm of surrender. I lock my eyes with his, letting him see everything.

“I understand your rules,” I reply, each word deliberate despite the tremor in my voice. “All of them.”

Something flashes across his eyes before he captures my mouth again in a bruising kiss.

His fingers increase their pace between my thighs, circling my clit with relentless pressure.

My entire body tightens as he slides two thick fingers inside me, curving upward to find the spot that makes my vision blur.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls against my mouth. “So ready.”

I can’t deny it. My body betrays me, slick and hot around his invading fingers. The heel of his palm grinds against my clit as his fingers pump deeper, stretching me, preparing me. My hips rock involuntarily, seeking more friction, more fullness.

Cole’s free hand grips my thigh, lifting it to hook around his waist, opening me further to his touch. The new angle sends shock waves of pleasure through my core. Water streams down between our bodies, adding another layer of sensation as his chest rubs against my sensitive nipples.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, nipping at my lower lip. “Take what you need.”

My hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, as the pressure builds to unbearable heights. I’m riding his hand now, shameless in my pursuit of release, my head thrown back against the tile as his mouth descends to my exposed throat.

“Come for me,” he commands against my lips. “Show me.”

My body obeys before my mind can process his words, pleasure surging through me in waves. Cole holds me steady through it, his body the only solid thing in a world suddenly liquid and formless.

As I return to myself, trembling and breathless, reality reasserts itself one piece at a time.

The shower is still running, steam filling the bathroom, with Cole’s arms around me, supporting my weight.

And beyond this room, a world where Alessio still hunts us, where safety is an illusion maintained only by the man holding me.

“That’s a good start,” Cole says, and I feel a rumble through my chest. “But we have a lot more ground to cover with these new rules.”

He turns off the shower with one hand, the other still firmly around my waist. Without warning, he lifts me, hands gripping beneath my thighs as if I weigh nothing.

My legs instinctively wrap around his back, my arms circling his neck for balance.

The sudden movement leaves me dizzy, or maybe it’s the lingering effects of my orgasm, or simply his proximity, his scent, his heat, the hard length of him pressed against my core.

He carries me from the shower, not bothering with towels, water dripping from our bodies onto the stone floor. In three long strides, he crosses to the bathroom counter and sets me down on the cold marble. The temperature shock pulls a gasp from my lips.

“Rule five,” he adds, voice casual as he reaches into a drawer beneath the sink. “Your pleasure belongs to me now. So does your pain.”

Something in his tone sends a fresh surge of heat through me, settling low in my core. He straightens, and I see what he’s retrieved: a black leather belt doubled over in his large hand.

“This isn’t about punishment,” he says, reading the question in my eyes. “It’s about trust. About surrender. But surrender you can take back anytime. This doesn’t make you mine forever. It makes you mine for as long as you choose to be.”

My pulse quickens. I should feel disgusted. Instead, I feel a dark thrill at this unfamiliar territory, this further crossing of boundaries. “What do you want me to do?”

“Turn around. Hands on the counter.”

His order is straightforward. I hesitate only a moment before obeying, sliding off the counter to stand before it, then turning to place my hands flat against the cool marble.

The mirror reflects our image: me, small, water beading on my skin; him, towering behind me, all hard muscle and controlled power, his expression a study in focused intensity.

Cole steps closer, his body heat radiating against my back without touching me. “Spread your legs wider.”

I comply, feeling exposed, and inexplicably aroused by this positioning. In the mirror, I watch as he brings the belt forward, trailing the leather along my shoulder, down my spine, across the curve of my hip.

“I’m going to strike you five times,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact. “Not to hurt you. To wake up your nerve endings. To teach your body to respond to me in every way possible.”

My breath comes faster now, shallow and uneven. “And if I say no?”

Our eyes meet in the mirror. “Then we stop. Immediately.” A pause, then: “Do you want to stop?”

This is the moment to draw a line. But I hear myself say, “No.”

Something flashes across his face: approval, desire, something darker, maybe something feral. “Good. Now, count each one. Out loud.”

The first strike comes without further warning, the flat of the belt landing across the upper curve of my ass with a sound that seems obscenely loud in the enclosed space. It’s not pain, exactly: more of a sharp sensation that turns into warmth, then begins to fade.

“One,” I say, surprised by the steadiness of my voice.

The second falls slightly lower, with marginally more force. The sting is immediate, sharper than before, but followed by a rush of heat that seems to travel directly between my legs.

“Two.”

By strike three, my skin is sensitized and receptive. The belt lands across both cheeks simultaneously, and I jerk forward involuntarily, a small sound escaping my throat.

“Three,” I manage, my voice noticeably less steady.

The fourth catches the underside of my cheeks, where they meet my thighs. This one genuinely stings, and I rise onto my toes, gasping.

“Four,” I say, the word closer to a moan than I intended.

Cole pauses before the final strike, his free hand coming to rest lightly on my heated skin. The contrast between the cool counter beneath my palms and the warmth of his touch creates a dissonance that heightens every sensation.

“Last one,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “This one will be harder. You can take it.”

The final strike lands with precision across the center of my ass, harder than the others, but still controlled. The sound that leaves me is undeniably a moan, my body arching into the sensation rather than away from it.

“Five,” I breathe, trembling not from pain, I don’t think, but from the cocktail of endorphins now flooding my system.

Cole drops the belt and steps forward, pressing himself against me from behind, his cock demanding against my sensitive skin. One hand slides around to cup my breast; the other dips between my legs to find me desperately wet.

“See how your body responds?” he murmurs against my ear. “Pain and pleasure. Fear and arousal. They’re all connected.”

His fingers circle my clit, still swollen and sensitive from the earlier orgasm. The overstimulation borders on too much, yet I push back against his hand, seeking more.

“This is rule five,” he continues, his words punctuated by moving his fingers. “Your responses belong to me. All of them. The pleasure —” he increases the pressure, making me gasp, “— and the pain.” His other hand pinches my nipple hard enough to make me cry out.