Morning came in slices of pale light across the carpet. The room was cool; her skin was warm. Lena woke on her back with her hands exactly where he'd left them—palms up on the pillow, fingers relaxed, as if her body had kept the pose without asking permission from her mind.
The collar was still buckled at her throat.
For a beat she did nothing but feel: the faint rub of leather when she swallowed; the dull, satisfying ache in her hips; the hum in her blood that meant she hadn't really come down, only paused.
Her phone lit.
Not Ethan.
Julian: Shower. Coffee. Black. Lobby in 20.
Julian: Collar stays.
Her pulse climbed in one clean line. She showered fast, steam fogging the mirror, then dressed to be unarguable; charcoal sheath, jacket with a razor lapel, hair swept back. No necklace. The collar lay just under the edge of her blouse if she stood straight. She would.
The lobby smelled like roasted beans and quiet deals. He was already there, black hair smooth, gray eyes clear, a dark suit that looked like intent turned into cloth. He didn't stand when she approached. He didn't have to.
"Sit," he said softly.
She did, knees together, ankles crossed in habit. Then felt the way his gaze slid to the line of her neck. She relaxed her shoulders. Let the leather touch air.
"Look at me," he murmured. She did. The corner of his mouth hinted at approval without granting the full thing. "Good."
He slid a small envelope across the table. "Read."
Inside: a single, cream-white card.
Terms:
1. Obedience — Immediate compliance to direct commands. If unsure, ask Sir, how do you want me?
2. Access — Answer when I call. If you can't, you notify me first. Not after.
3. Permission — No touching yourself unless I grant it. No exceptions.
4. Truth — No softening, no omissions. What you feel, what you want, what you fear—say it.
5. Presence — A change kit at your office. When I text, you change. You send a photo.
6. Marks — You will check for them in the mirror and remember who put them there. You will wear them, not hide them.
At the bottom, a blank line.
SIGN: ______________________
Her breath stalled. "Here?"
He didn't smile. "Here."
She held his gaze, felt the quiet around the table tighten, and signed. The pen felt heavier than it should have. When she slid the card back, his fingertips brushed hers, barely a touch, and heat shot up her wrist.
"Color?" he asked, voice pitched for her alone.
She knew the protocol: green meant go, yellow meant slow, red meant stop. He'd taught her without words, each scene reinforcing the code until it lived in her.
"Green," she breathed.
"Stand."
They didn't leave the lobby. Not right away. He stood as if to go, but instead stepped behind her chair, fingers grazing the back of her neck above the collar. Just enough pressure to make her pulse jump.
"Upstairs," he said, low and certain.
The elevator ride was silent. Too silent. Her hands itched to smooth her skirt, but she kept them at her sides because she knew he'd notice if she moved.
His room was dim, curtains drawn against the morning. The door clicked shut behind her and she was against it. His mouth on hers, his hand in her hair, the kiss deep and claiming.
"Jacket off."
She obeyed.
"Dress next."
The zipper slid slow, his fingers grazing her spine. The fabric pooled at her feet, leaving her in heels and the collar. His gaze lingered on the leather like it was the only thing she was wearing.
"You signed," he murmured. "Now you prove it."
He guided her to the bed, pressing her forward until her palms met the mattress. When he pushed her skirted hips back, she felt the first brush of his hand, firm, unhurried, down the back of her thigh.
"You remember number three?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir," she whispered. "No touching without permission."
"And now you have it."
Her fingers found herself instantly, slick and desperate. His hand came down over hers, pressing her deeper, controlling the pace until she was rocking against her own palm at his rhythm, not hers.
When she was trembling, breath broken, he moved behind her, sliding into her in one deep thrust. Her cry caught in the pillow. His grip on her hips tightened, each stroke deliberate and unrelenting.
"Say it."
"I'm yours," she gasped.
He drove harder. "Again."
"I'm yours, Sir…"
The words dissolved into a moan as her climax took her, sharp and overwhelming, pulling her apart around him. He held her there, letting her feel every aftershock, until his own release came with a low groan against her neck.
When he pulled out, he straightened the collar with one slow tug. "Now it's binding," he said.
And she believed him.
End of Chapter Six
Next: Chapter Seven - Exposure