Page 62 of Stalked

His eyes darken, and I see his chest rise with a sharp intake of breath.

“Lie down,” Vane commands, gesturing to the platform.

I hesitate for only a moment before obeying. The platform is surprisingly warm against my back, the leather restraints brushing against my skin as I settle into position. My heart hammers in my chest—not from fear, but anticipation.

Vane looms over me, his masked face half-hidden in shadow. “Your safe word is 'red' for stop, 'yellow' for slow down, 'green' for continue,” he recites, his voice deep and methodical. “You'll use those to communicate your limits. If you can't speak, you'll snap your fingers three times. Understood?”

I blink up at him, surprised. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he murmurs, moving to fasten the restraints around my wrists first, and then my ankles.

My mind races. The way he moves, the confidence in his instructions, the attention to detail—Vane knows what he's doing. This isn't amateur hour; this is a man who's studied the lifestyle.

His fingers fasten the leather restraints around my wrists with practiced ease, securing them perfectly—tight enough to hold but not to restrict circulation.

“How long have you been doing this?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity.

A smirk plays at his lips. “Long enough to know what I'm doing.”

“Did you learn because of me?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

Vane pauses, his hands stilling against my skin. For a moment, I see something flicker behind his eyes—vulnerability, perhaps.

“I learned because I wanted to be ready,” he says finally. “For when you came back.”

The admission washes over me like a warm wave. While I was exploring my submission in New York's elite BDSM club, Vane was learning too—preparing, studying, mastering techniques. Not just for anyone, but specifically for me. He'd been planning this reunion for years, making himself into the dom he thought I needed.

Vane turns to the array of gleaming blades. His fingers hover over several before selecting a particularly wicked-looking knife with a curved tip and a handle wrapped in dark leather. The blade catches the red light, sending crimson reflections dancing across his mask.

“Are you ready?” He asks, his voice dropping to that hypnotic timber that makes my insides clench.

I nod, but uncertainty flickers through me. “Will it...” I swallow hard, finding my voice. “Will it scar permanently?”

Vane's eyes soften. He turns the knife slowly in his hand, letting me see it from all angles.

“No,” he says gently. “Not unless you want it to.”

I consider this for a moment, the leather restraints pressing against my wrists as I shift slightly. “I don't think I want that,” I say finally. “Not permanent marks.”

“Then it won't,” he promises, the surety in his voice wrapping around me like a blanket. “This is about sensation, not lasting damage.”

Vane crouches beside me on the platform where I'm lying. The knife glints as he holds it above me, his eyes never leaving mine. My breath quickens as I watch him, anticipation making every nerve ending hypersensitive.

“I'm going to make you feel things you've never felt before,” he murmurs.

The first touch of metal against my skin makes me gasp. It's cold—so cold it almost burns as he traces the flat of the bladealong my collarbone. He moves with deliberate slowness, letting me feel the weight and temperature of the steel.

“Breathe,” Vane instructs, watching my chest rise and fall. “Feel everything.”

The knife travels down between my breasts, the blade never breaking skin but threatening to with each tiny movement. My body tenses instinctively, but the restraints hold me perfectly in place.

When he circles my nipple with the flat side of the blade, I whimper. The contrast between the cold metal and my heated skin creates a sensation all its own. He repeats the motion on my other breast, making both nipples harden painfully.

“Look at how your body responds,” he says, his voice thick with desire. “You were made for this.”

The knife travels lower, across my stomach, tracing patterns. My muscles contract beneath the metal's kiss, my hips lifting slightly off the platform.

“Please,” I whisper.