Page 12 of Royal Deception (Royals of the Underworld #2)

CLARY

J ust as I’m settling in for the night, the events of earlier replaying in my mind, my phone pings with a message from my boss.

I frown, picking it up. A late-night email from Rory isn’t unheard of, but something about this feels different.

Subject: Contract Negotiations.

My pulse kicks up. Confused, I open the email—and my eyes widen.

A BDSM contract.

My breath catches as I scan the document, reading over detailed terms, expectations, and an extensive list of limits.

I swallow hard, my gaze flicking down the page, lingering on certain…

intense suggestions. My cheeks heat as I briefly wonder if these are the kinds of things Rory is into—before I notice his own marks already filled in.

The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. He’s given me a guide—his own boundaries, his preferences. A strange mix of relief and intrigue settles in my chest.

Some things are an easy no. Branding? Absolutely not. But others… My fingers hover over the screen as I consider them. Breath play. Sensory deprivation. Things I’d never given serious thought to before. Soft no, for now. But the fact that I’m even contemplating them? That surprises me.

I set my phone down, sinking back against my pillows, my mind spinning. Excitement thrums under my skin. I’d thought about everything from earlier more times than I cared to admit today, replaying it in my mind over and over.

And now that I know that Rory isn’t opposed to continuing our little game, I feel the familiar tingle of need between my thighs.

Glancing around, I realize that I’m way more awake than I’d been a few minutes ago, so I creep over to the door and lock it before returning to my bed and yanking my lacy, ruffled PJ shorts down, along with my underwear.

My pussy is already slicking up as I recall the way Rory stood over me, raising the belt to bring it down with a sharp thwack against my bare flesh, the detached expression in his eyes, dispassionately punishing me for my behavior.

My fingers find my folds and I tease them inside, brushing a finger over my clit, letting out a tiny hiss. Oh, God, yes!

“Rory,” I call softly. “Oh, please, punish me, Sir.” Imagining him standing over me now has me whining low in my throat as I stare, watching his mouth move into a frown.

“Someone is being naughty,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “You’re touching yourself without my permission.”

“Please, I need to be punished,” I say back, mouthing the words as I imagine him reaching for his belt. “Punish me, sir!”

He unclips his belt and with a swift yank, holds it in his hand. “I’m going to spank your thighs,” he growls. My hand speeds up faster, and I swear I can almost feel the wind whistle across my skin and the sharp snap of the belt as it makes contact with my tender flesh.

My knees are bent toward my chest and I can almost feel the intense heat of the welt that rises with each smack. The pain would be exquisite, so sharp and yet stinging so good.

My fingers find my entrance and I plunge in two at once, needy for more. As the Imaginary Rory spanks me, I fuck myself roughly on my fingers, needing the relief more than anything.

Just as he lands the final blow in this imaginary scenario, I find myself flying over the edge, pleasure coursing through my veins as I come apart at the seams.

Once I’m done cleaning up, I climb back into bed, my body still thrumming with anticipation. I send my reply to Rory, eager, restless. My heart pounds as I stare at my phone, waiting for a response.

Nothing.

I fight to stay awake, checking my screen every few minutes, but exhaustion wins. Sleep claims me before I can hear back from him.

At work the next day, I’m restless, jumpy, half-convinced Rory will appear behind me at any second, fingers wrapping around my wrists, his voice like velvet against my ear.

"Are you ready to be my good girl?"

Heat licks at my skin at the thought, but reality is far less thrilling. Rory is all business, his focus locked on mitigating the fallout from yesterday. He doesn’t so much as glance my way beyond the usual work directives.

I throw myself into tasks, handling the quieter, necessary gestures in the wake of Danny’s death. A condolence card to his family, a donation check slipped inside. Arranging for flowers to be sent to the funeral home on behalf of the Brannagan family.

By lunch, my stomach is in knots from the gnawing silence. Rory still hasn’t acknowledged my reply.

Enough is enough.

I make my way to his office, coffee in hand. A peace offering. Or maybe an excuse.

I hesitate for only a second before knocking. “Sir?” My voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. “Can I speak to you for a moment? It’s about yesterday.” I lower my voice. “About the contract.”

Rory doesn’t even look up. “This is a place of business, Miss Woodcrest,” he says smoothly, fingers flying over his keyboard. “We’ll discuss that later.”

I tighten my grip on the coffee cup. “But?—”

“Later.” His tone sharpens, his words commanding, final. “In private.”

I swallow hard, pulse fluttering.

Message received.

I nod stiffly and retreat to my desk, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t ease. If anything, it pulls tighter.

At home that night, I’m cleaning the kitchen when there’s a rap at the door, sharp and short. Kate looks up from the couch, her brow furrowing. “Expecting someone?”

“No,” I say, already throwing the rag down as I hurry to answer the door.

I’d given up on hearing from Rory at this point, convinced he’d let me stew in uncertainty until he was ready. But the moment I open the door, I realize I was wrong.

Rory Brannagan himself stands on my doorstep, the crisp lines of his coat cutting a striking figure against the dim hallway light.

Kate’s gaze flicks between us, taking in Rory’s tailored suit, his commanding stance. Surprise flits across her face, then something sharper—disbelief.

“You must be lost,” she says, forcing a polite smile. “This isn’t exactly your kind of neighborhood.”

Rory barely spares her a glance. “I’m here for Clary.”

Kate blinks, clearly thrown by the idea that someone like him would show up for someone like me. Her fingers tighten around the arm of the couch. “Oh,” she says before shifting her attention to me. “Well?”

Heat crawls up my neck. I grab Rory’s sleeve and pull him inside, shutting the door before she can ask anything else. “We’ll be in my room,” I mumble.

Kate’s response is a skeptical hum, but she doesn’t stop me.

I close my bedroom door, pulse unsteady. Rory moves through the small space, eyes sweeping over my neatly made bed, the books stacked on my nightstand. He doesn’t belong here, either.

He turns, fixing me with that unreadable stare. “You signed the contract.”

I swallow. “I did.”

“I want to make a few things clear.” He unbuttons his coat and drapes it over the back of my desk chair. The movement is deliberate, just like him. “This will not interfere with work. That means no discussing it during office hours. No lingering looks. No slips in front of others. Understand?”

I nod.

“Our arrangement exists strictly within the confines of our sessions. One night a week.” His voice is low, even. “That is the extent of our relationship.”

I bite my lip, resisting the urge to fidget. “So, outside of that, we pretend it doesn’t exist?”

“Correct.”

Something about the finality of it sends a strange pang through my chest, but I push it aside. This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Clear lines. Clear rules.

Rory steps closer, his presence wrapping around me like a slow-building storm. “And one last thing,” he says, his gaze steady. “No more orgasms without my permission.”

I swallow, forcing myself to breathe slowly in and out.

“Can you agree to those terms?”

“Yes,” I answer, my voice nearly inaudible.

His lips twitch, something like satisfaction in his smirk.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Rory doesn’t make a move, though. He stays rooted in place, watching me closely as though assessing my response, measuring my willingness. The weight of his gaze sends a shiver down my spine.

“There’s something you need to understand about me,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “I’m a strict master, Clary. I expect complete obedience. Brattiness doesn’t please me. Once we start this arrangement, you surrender complete control.”

A tremor races down my spine at his words, the idea sparking something primal and exciting to life inside me. The idea of just shutting down like that, giving someone else the reins for once–it’s downright intoxicating.

No more endless second-guessing. No more wondering whether I’m doing a good enough job. Just following orders.

His eyes darken as if he can see the effect his words have on me. “This isn’t just about pleasure. It’s about trust. I will take care of you, but you will listen. You will obey.”

I swallow, my heart racing, hyper-aware of how close he is right now. “I understand.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods. “I’m going to start slow tonight. No need to take off any of your clothes. I want to see how easily I can get you to obey my commands.”

I tense slightly, uncertain of what that means, but as he steps forward and touches my wrist with a brush of his fingers, it has an immediate effect. I feel something akin to calm washing over me.

“Just breathe,” he murmurs. I exhale slowly, his fingers sliding up and over my forearm. His touch is light but deliberate. Grounding. Focusing on the sensation instead of the rapid thoughts whirling around my head has me melting under him, desire mixing with a kind of peace.

“Good girl,” he says, and the praise is like a spark catching in my chest.

His hands move to my shoulders, applying the faintest pressure. “Drop them.”

I realize I’ve been holding myself stiff, my shoulders locked tight with tension. At his instruction, I let them relax, sinking slightly under his touch.

“Close your eyes.”

I obey without hesitation.

“Don’t think. Just listen to me.”

I focus on the cadence of his voice, the deep timbre smoothing over me like velvet. His fingers ghost down my arms again, a light pressure, a guiding touch.

“Feel,” he instructs. “Nothing else. No worries, no distractions. Just this.”

I inhale, then exhale. My body loosens further, my mind quieting. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not overthinking. I feel as though I’m floating in the ether, no worries, no stress. Just Rory.

“That’s it,” Rory praises, his voice a low murmur. “Good girl.”

A sigh slips from my lips. The words soak into me, warm and weighty. I never knew how much I craved this—a firm hand, a steady voice guiding me, leading me into something deeper.

“From now on, when you are with me like this, you don’t have to think,” Rory tells me. “I will do that for you.”

A shiver rolls through me but my heart remains steady, already locked into Rory’s commands.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper.

His fingers curl under my chin, tilting my face up slightly. “That’s my girl.”

As Rory leaves, his presence lingers in the air, leaving me with a strange stillness. I sit on the edge of my bed, mind racing.

Was this a mistake? Can I handle this arrangement between us?

I thought I could deal with the situation. Slipping into the role of submissive seemed far too easy before. But now, doubt starts creeping in. Not to mention the baby, which really puts a wrench in the whole thing.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling. Maybe I’m just overthinking. But at the same time, it feels like I’m standing close to the edge of something, uncertain whether I should keep going.