Page 47 of Watch Me Burn

CATERINA

I t’s almost adorable, the way my husband still thinks he holds the power.

I’ll admit, I’ve missed watching him like this. There’s something intoxicating about slipping back into the shadows, like sliding into silk that was made for your body. Familiar territory where I’ve always been queen.

I wonder how furious he’d be if he knew I was watching him right now.

Aaron has evolved, I’ll give him that. But there’s one lesson we haven’t explored yet, something I’ve been aching to teach him. Something that will strip away every layer of that beautiful composure he wears.

I watch through the app as he steps from his car, shoulders carved in stone, jaw locked with that devastating authority.

His suit remains flawless even after crawling beneath his former employee’s car, orchestrating her perfect demise.

He moves like the city kneels at his feet, like denial has never darkened his doorstep.

But I know his secrets. I know exactly what makes him weak when the lights go down and pretense falls away. And tonight, I’m going to feed that craving until he’s drunk on it.

Men like Aaron Jackson don’t bend. They reshape the world to their will. But that reign ends tonight. I’m not rewriting his rules, I’m burning the entire playbook he’s written on control.

The penthouse belongs to me now. Mine to claim, to command, to bend until he breaks beautifully.

A single candle flickers in the corner, its flame painting shadows that writhe like promises across the walls. Darkness with purpose. A silent, inescapable invitation to surrender.

I perch on the arm of the chair I’ve chosen for tonight—not his favorite leather throne of arrogance, but something unforgiving. Solid oak, straight-backed, bolted to the floor like an altar.

Tonight, my husband will learn what it means to worship.

I selected it picturing exactly how he’ll appear when bound to it—muscles taut, control finally stripped away. It’s going to take every ounce of restraint not to devour him too quickly.

Aaron steps inside, shedding his coat and scanning the darkened space with growing suspicion.

“Lights,” he commands the automated system.

Nothing. I cut the power before he got home.

“What the hell,” he mutters under his breath. “Cat?”

He ventures deeper in, every instinct screaming that something has shifted in his carefully ordered world.

“Shoes off. Shirt too,” I purr from the shadows.

He goes utterly still. For a heartbeat, he’s caught between recognition and distrust of what about to take place right before him. “What is this?”

“Your surprise,” I say, uncrossing my legs. “Now be a good boy and do as you’re told.”

He can’t see me, not fully. But I see him perfectly—every flicker of doubt, every pause in his breath as he weighs his next step.

“Problem, Mr. Jackson?” I ask, voice low, every word sharpened by intent. Nothing will derail what I’ve set in motion tonight. “You’re usually so good at instructions or does obedience only come easy when you’re the one holding the leash?”

The silence stretches for a beat too long before his first shoe hits the floor with a muted thud. Then the second.

His fingers hover at the buttons of his shirt. That flicker in his eyes, uncertainty mixed with rebellion, says so much more than words could. He’s weighing the shift in power. Testing it. But even now, I can see the way the idea tempts him. The reluctant unraveling has already begun.

I step forward, letting the shadows fall away as I move into the candlelight.

His gaze lifts, and he takes a visible breath.

That cold, calculating stare I’ve come to know so well fractures, replaced by something far more thirsty.

He sees the stockings. The lace. The rope coiled around my arm. The glint of steel in my hand. A small blade gleaming under candlelight. The blindfold, and the matching bindings wrapped around my other wrist like a bracelet only a dominant brat would wear.

His eyes flick to the chair.

Recognition. Realization. Restraint.

Like what you see, baby?

“No problem.” The edge in his voice is gone.

“Kneel, slowly,” I say, stepping to the side.

He lowers himself to the ground, not taking his eyes off me the entire time. Watching Aaron kneel, the king brought to his knees willingly, thrills me more than I expected.

“Chin up.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, lifting his head.

“No talking. Crawl to the chair. I want to enjoy watching you comply.”

Aaron’s chest rises and falls, as if he’s at war with himself.

Against something he wants to shut down but can’t quite resist. And then, he begins to crawl toward the chair slowly, keeping his chin up the entire time.

His shirt is open now, exposing the defined ridges of his chest, the slight sheen across his skin.

“Good. Now, sit.” He obeys like a man approaching his own reckoning, aware of the danger, gripping the arms of the chair like they might anchor him to what he used to be.

As if that grip will save him from what comes next.

I move closer, breathing him in. “You’re here to follow my orders. You are not to think or act on your own accord. That’s my job tonight. That’s how I want you, how I need you.”

He stares into my eyes but remains utterly still.

“Understood?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Place your hands on your lap and keep them there.”

He does as he’s told, while I begin with his wrists.

Wrapping the rope with deliberate care around his legs and hands.

Rough enough to bruise, strong enough to bind but not to cause significant discomfort.

Each loop, each knot is willful. Not just restraint, but a ritual between us.

My fingers brush the inside of his wrist, feel the sharp jump of his pulse beneath the skin.

“You’ve never done this willingly before, have you? Never allowed someone to command you,” I murmur, lowering to my knees in front of him.

“No.” His breath catches. A quiet, involuntary tell.

“But you’ve wanted to.” My hands spread down his thighs, forcing his legs apart. “Letting go. Being obedient. Submitting.”

“Yes.” His eyes are locked onto mine, blazing. No denial. No shame. Just heat.

“You’re doing so well for me, baby.”

I bind his ankles to the chair, forcing his stance wider. The position is vulnerable by design, every inch of him exposed, spread, accessible. I feel the tension in his thighs, the twitch of restraint in his muscles, the way his pride tries to hold on while his body already begins to yield.

When I slide the blindfold over his eyes, he goes stiff. That high-alert stillness men like Aaron only fall into when the rules shift. When the threat is real. When the hunter becomes the hunted.

“Your body. Your mind,” I whisper at his ear, letting my breath ghost over his skin. “Are all mine now. And you’re giving it all to me, willingly.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, pushing up his hips.

I stand, slapping him hard across the face. “Behave.”

This is punishment to free him, not dominate him. There might be elements of domination to this dance, but at the core, my intent is to release Aaron of everything. Even if it’s just for one night.

When I lift the gag to his lips, he flinches, shaking his head. Hesitating but not from fear, but the enormity of what comes next.

“You have to obey,” I say softly, brushing my thumb over his bottom lip. “Give me everything. Even when you don’t know where it’ll take you.”

“I can’t,” he whispers, the sound barely audible. But it’s not resistance. It’s that captivating type of fear.

“You can,” I answer, pressing the gag between his lips. “And you will.”

He opens for me, slow but certain. I tie it carefully and a little looser than I’d like. But I don’t want to hurt him to silence him, the act alone is the power move.

There’s something devastatingly intoxicating about gagging Aaron. Silencing the man who usually silences everyone else.

I step back to admire my work.

“You look so fucking perfect.”

I’ve fantasized about this more than I care to admit. Power given to me by choice. With trust. By the kind of need that terrifies him because it doesn’t come with restraint.

I trail my fingers lightly along the ropes, down his chest, around the inside of his thigh—never settling, never giving him the touch he really wants. Just enough to make him strain, to make him listen to the sound of my movements and wonder where I’ll go next.

Then I walk away. He can’t see me, but he hears me. The sound of my heels moving across the floor. The rustle of lace as I undress just out of reach. The soft clink of glass as I pour a drink I have no intention of sharing.

He stiffens with every sound. Imagining. Waiting. Suffering.

When I return, I drag the back of my nails along his sternum, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Then lower. Past his navel. Just above his cock.

I hover, letting him feel my breath.

“You want me to touch you?”

His whole body answers with tightness, with the smallest tilt of his hips, the flex of his fingers behind the chair.

“You don’t get what you want tonight, Aaron. You get what I decide you’ve earned.”

I move behind him, and he tries to track me. Smelling me, as if that would help him in any way.

My lips graze the shell of his ear. “And right now, you’ve only earned the edge.”

I reach around and cup him through his pants, pressing the heel of my palm against his hard cock. Just enough to make him groan. To keep him wanting.

Then I pull away again, letting the silence settle as he feels my absence.

When I straddle him, bare skin meeting the harsh texture of his suit pants, his entire body jerks beneath me. The ropes strain in protest.

I grind against him once, just enough to make him wish for more. The sound he makes behind the gag is a muffled moan, deep and helpless.

“You’re already close, aren’t you? God, look at you. Stripped of your voice. Of your ego. Of all that carefully constructed control you wear like a mask.”

He growls in response, the sound feral, like he’s seconds away from losing himself.