Page 68 of Stalked

“You like seeing men together.” It's not a question the way Vane says it, but I answer anyway.

“Yes,” I admit, turning to face him. “I think men who fully own their sexuality have so much power. There's something incredibly masculine about it—being confident enough to take pleasure in that way.”

Vane's eyes darken as he studies me. “That's not what most women would say.”

“I'm not most women.” I hold his gaze steadily. “I spent years at The Red Room. I've seen and participated in just about everything you can imagine.”

His jaw tightens slightly at the reminder of my past, but he doesn't look away.

“I think all sex is beautiful,” I continue, my voice softening. “When it's consensual, when people are genuinely connecting and experiencing pleasure together—what could be more natural? More honest?”

Vane's expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his face. He pulls me closer, his hand splayed possessively across my bare hip.

“You continue to surprise me,” he murmurs.

Vane's attention shifts from me to the ceiling of the orgy room. I follow his gaze upward to where several sets of heavy chains hang from reinforced anchor points.

“What do you think about those?” He nods toward the chains.

My breath catches. “For me?”

“For you.” His voice drops lower. “I want to bind your wrists and suspend you just enough that you're on your tiptoes.”

Heat blooms across my skin despite my nakedness in the cool room. I glance around and notice the impressive array of implements arranged on sleek black shelves along one wall. Floggers of various materials—leather, suede, rubber—hang in graduated sizes. Beside them, softer implements: feathers, silk scarves, and fur mitts for sensory play.

What catches my eye most is the fire play station with its small torches, special wicks, and bottles of alcohol. I'd experienced fire play exactly once at The Red Room, and thememory of that delicious heat dancing across my skin makes my pulse quicken.

“I see what's caught your interest,” Vane murmurs, following my gaze to the fire implements. “Have you ever had someone trace flames across your body while you're completely helpless?”

I shake my head. “Not while restrained. Just once, on a table.”

“The sensation is entirely different when you can't move away. When you have to simply accept whatever I give you.”

Vane's words send a shiver of anticipation through me. The idea of being completely at his mercy while he traces fire across my skin makes my pulse quicken. I glance at the chains hanging from the ceiling, imagining myself suspended there, unable to escape the heat.

“I want that,” I whisper.

His eyes darken with desire as he leads me toward the chains. “You'll tell me if it becomes too much.”

It's not a question, but I nod anyway. “I will.”

He selects a pair of padded leather cuffs from a nearby shelf and fastens them around my wrists with practiced ease. The leather is butter-soft against my skin, the padding ensuring no marks will remain when he removes them.

“How many times have you done this before?” I ask.

“I've practiced,” he admits, his voice low. “For you.”

The distinction isn't lost on me. While I explored my desires with countless partners in New York, Vane prepared for me.

He adjusts the chains until I'm balanced on my tiptoes, arms stretched above me, completely exposed. The vulnerability is intoxicating—being naked and bound while he remains fully clothed, his green mask back in place.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

I watch as he selects his tools from the fire station—a small torch, alcohol, and specialized wicks. His movements aremethodical, precise. This isn't impulsive desire; this is calculated passion.

“Do you know why I chose green as my color?” He asks, preparing the wicks.

I shake my head, unable to look away from his hands.