Chapter 2: The First Lesson
The car slid through the city like a blade through silk, unhurried and inevitable. Jasmine pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching her reflection ghost over the passing storefronts. She didn't recognize herself. The woman in the glass looked small. She looked breakable.
Desmond drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. His silver ring caught the late morning light, the arcane symbols winking like they had secrets of their own. He hummed along to nothing, some melody only he could hear, and the casualness of it made her teeth clench.
"Where are we going?"
"Home."
The word landed wrong. Too intimate. Too presumptuous. She wanted to argue, to claw back some piece of agency, but the memory of his snap—that searing, shameful heat—kept her mouth shut. Her body still remembered. It prickled with the ghost of that manufactured want.
The building rose from the city's grid like a black monolith, all sharp angles and reflective glass. The car descended into an underground garage that smelled of concrete and money. Desmond killed the engine, and the silence that followed was absolute.
He didn't look at her when he spoke. "You're going to have questions. I'll answer them. But first, you need to see where you belong now."
She followed him to a private elevator. The doors slid open with a hydraulic whisper. Inside, he pressed his thumb to a hidden panel, and the car began its ascent.
The numbers climbed. Fourteenth floor. Twentieth. Thirtieth. Jasmine watched them tick by, her reflection in the brushed steel doors looking more and more like a stranger.
Forty-second.
The doors opened.
She stepped into a space that stole her breath.
The penthouse was cathedral-huge, all soaring ceilings and walls of glass that framed a skyline sprawling toward the horizon. But the light was wrong. Even at midday, the rooms lay under a dim, honeyed gloom, the sun filtered through heavy velvet drapes the color of dried blood. Candles flickered from every surface—on marble mantels, on floating shelves, clustered on the grand piano that dominated one corner.
The piano was playing.
Soft, mournful chords rippled through the air, and no one was sitting at the bench. Jasmine watched the keys depress and release on their own, dancing like spider legs, and her skin crawled.
"Don't mind that," Desmond said, moving past her with the easy confidence of a man in his own kingdom. "It gets lonely up here. Tchaikovsky keeps it company."
"Keeps it company?" Her voice came out small.
"The piano. The house." He waved a hand vaguely. "Old things appreciate old music."
He crossed to a sideboard of dark, gleaming wood and poured two fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass. He didn't offer her one. He simply drank, watching her over the rim with those amber eyes.
"Ask your questions, Jasmine. I can feel them buzzing behind your teeth."
She swallowed. "What did I sign? Exactly."
"Yourself." He set the glass down. "Your mortal coil and its eternal counterpart. In layman's terms: your body and your soul. I own them now."
"You can't own a soul."
"I don't expect you to understand the metaphysics. But the contract is binding on my plane and yours. You will serve me. You will obey me. And when your mortal flesh gives out, your essence will come to me, and I will keep it. Forever."
The words hung between them, ugly and undeniable. Jesus. He said it like he was reading a grocery list.
"And last night? The relief I promised? That wasn't a lie." He took a step toward her. "I gave you a night of pure, unadulterated nothingness. No past. No future. No pain. You floated in the quiet between worlds. Tell me it wasn't everything you hoped for."
She wanted to deny it. But the memory of that silence—that deep, cavernous relief—was a treacherous ache in her chest. It had been bliss. Absolute and total.
"It's not fair," she whispered.
"Fair?" His laugh was a low, velvet thing. "Fair is a human invention, designed to comfort the weak. I don't deal in fair, Jasmine. I deal in desire. And your desire was so loud last night. It eclipsed everything else. The exhaustion. The fear. The desperate, screaming need to just—"
"Stop."
"—make it all go away." He was closer now, close enough that she could smell him. Oud and frost. "You wanted that relief more than you wanted your life. And that's what I bought."
Her throat burned. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she blinked them back furiously. She wouldn't cry. Not in front of him. "What happens now?"
"Now, you learn." He circled her slowly, and she forced herself to stand still. "You learn your place. You learn what pleases me. You learn the shape of your new existence." His fingers trailed across her shoulder as he passed, and she flinched. "It won't be all suffering. I'm not a brute. I give my treasures what they need to shine."
"Treasures?"
"My collectibles." He stopped in front of her. "Come. I'll show you."
He led her down a hallway lined with doors. Most were closed, seamless panels of dark wood that offered no hint of what lay beyond. But one was ajar, and he pushed it open, gesturing for her to enter.
The room was a museum of the strange. Display cases lined the walls, each one lit from within by a soft, pulsating glow. Jasmine stepped closer, her breath catching.
Inside the first case was a music box. Delicate and ornate, its brass surface etched with swirls that seemed to writhe in the light. It was open, revealing the mechanism within. But where the comb and drum should have been, there was a tangle of gossamer threads, impossibly fine, woven into a pattern that made her eyes ache.
"An interesting piece," Desmond said, appearing at her shoulder. "A woman from Prague. 1873. She was a composer's wife. He was cruel. She used to wind this box every night before bed, hoping the music would soothe her enough to sleep."
Jasmine stared at the threads. "What happened to her?"
"She wished so hard that the music would take her away. And eventually, it did." He smiled. "Her essence is in those threads now. Every time the lid opens, she plays."
Oh God. Jasmine backed away from the case, her heart hammering.
The next contained a mirror. An antique silver hand mirror, its surface dark and clouded like old blood. "A jealous wife from the 1700s. She would look into this glass and see her rival's face, aging and withering. She died hating her. The glass kept the hate pure."
A child's porcelain doll. A crown of blackened thorns. A necklace made of finger bones arranged in a pattern that was almost familiar. Each artifact had a name, a history, a soul bound within it.
"Souls are stubborn things," Desmond said, moving through the room with the ease of a curator. "They cling to the objects of their obsession. The objects of their pain. I just... provide the storage."
"You're a monster." The words slipped out before she could catch them.
"Monster." He considered the word. "Such a limited human concept. I don't eat children or hoard gold. I merely collect what people throw away. Desperation. Despair. The last shreds of hope they're so eager to discard."
He stopped in front of a case that was empty, save for a pedestal. "I've been saving this one for something special."
She didn't want to ask. But the question escaped anyway. "What for?"
"For you." He turned to face her fully. "When you break—and you will—your essence will make a lovely centerpiece."
The horror of it hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled back, but the door behind her was closed. She hadn't heard it shut.
"Don't look so frightened." He closed the distance between them, slow and predatory. This was entirely different from the club. This was raw. Territorial. "You're not broken yet. And I find myself... intrigued by the prospect of you."
She pressed her back against the door. He stopped a breath away. "I want nothing from you," she said. "You're not taking anything else from me, I—"
His hand snapped out, gripping her chin. Not hard, but inexorably. "You don't get to want. Not anymore. Your wants are mine to grant or deny." He tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Do you understand?"
"Let me go."
"Say it. Say you understand."
Tears spilled hot and silent down her cheeks. She shook her head.
His grip tightened. Just a fraction. "Let me rephrase the lesson." His free hand came up, fingers tracing the line of her jaw, her throat, coming to rest at the collar of her sweatshirt. "You're going to learn obedience, Jasmine. The hard way. Or the easy way. The choice is yours."
She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper. "Why me?" It came out raw. "Why not someone else? There are a thousand desperate girls at that club every night."
"Ordinary desperation bores me. But you..." He released her chin, stepping back. "You have a particular quality. A spark I haven't seen in decades. And I want to watch it burn out."
He was so casual about it. Like he was discussing a vintage wine or a work of art he planned to acquire.
"Now," he said, his tone shifting to something more clinical, "strip."
"What?"
"You heard me. Clothes off. I want to see what I bought."
"No." The word was barely a whisper, but it was firm.
"No?" He raised an eyebrow. Curious. Amused. "You think you have a say? A claim to your body? I purchased that too, remember."
"I won't—"
He snapped his fingers.
The heat came back. Not the sudden fire of the car, but a creeping, insistent warmth that spread from her chest down through her stomach, pooling low and urgent. She gasped, clutching at her chest. The want was suffocating. It built until she could barely breathe, until her knees buckled and she sank to the ground, gasping.
"Don't." She choked. "Please."
"Please what?" He crouched in front of her, tilting his head. "Please stop? Or please more? Your body is telling me something different than your mouth, Jasmine."
She couldn't move. Couldn't think. But somehow, she did. She pushed through it with a shuddering gasp, forcing her own hands to obey her. He didn't make her. He wouldn't. He said he wanted her obedience, not her surrender.
But as she rose to her feet, meeting the hunger in his amber eyes with a defiance she didn't feel, she knew the truth she was running from—
She was terrified of him.
But she might be more terrified of what he made her feel.
As she pulled her sweatshirt over her head, she told herself this was the last time she'd obey. She would fight. She would run. She would find a way.
But even as she thought it, she could feel that part of her—the desperate part, the one that had signed a contract for a single night of peace—whispering that maybe, this was where she'd always been heading.
She was naked now. Cold air kissed her skin.
Desmond smiled—a predatory grin that made her stomach drop. "Beautiful. And obedient." He circled her, appraising. "A pity about the defiance. But defiance can be trained."
"Don't touch me," she whispered.
"I see no reason to honor that request."
His hand came up—slow, deliberate, a cruel tease of inevitable warmth—and settled at the base of her throat, his thumb brushing over her pulse, which was fluttering like a trapped bird beneath the fragile architecture of her skin.
Jasmine shuddered as his thumb pressed, a faint pressure that sent a whisper of panic through her limbs. But her arousal, that thrice-damned heat, flared brighter, hotter, softer against the fear. She felt her body betray her, nipples hardening, thighs pressing tight together.
"There," he murmured, feeling the catch of her pulse. "There she is. The girl who signed her name so eagerly. She's still in there, isn't she? Buried under the terror. But I can see her."
His hand slid lower. She didn't want it. She wanted it. She hated herself for wanting it.
"Please—"
"Please what, Jasmine?" His mouth was at her ear, his breath cool against the heat of her skin. "I'm listening."
She couldn't bring herself to speak, so she did the only thing her traitorous body could manage. She let out a shuddering, gasping sound—half-sob, half-moan.
"That's enough." He stepped back, suddenly all business. The heat in his eyes cooled to a clinical assessment. "Dress. We have things to do."
She blinked, confused by the whiplash. "What?"
"You're not ready for a full lesson yet. Tonight, we start slowly. There's a ritual—a small one—to formally bind you to this place. To me. You'll be present for it. You'll kneel and you'll accept what you are."
"And if I don't?"
"Then we stay here until you do." His smile was cold. "And I assure you. I have more patience than you have will."
He turned and walked toward the door, leaving her shivering among the artifacts of his conquered souls. She dressed slowly, her hands shaking, her body a traitorous mess of want and fear.
By the time she followed him, walking on unsteady legs, she realized he hadn't touched her. Not the way it mattered. And yet she was already his in ways she couldn't articulate.
The door to the museum room shut behind her with a click that sounded like a lock engaging. And for the first time in the long, terrible minutes since she'd entered Desmond's world, something—some primal, self-protective part of her—began to whisper that she might not leave here alive. And she could only hope she wouldn't beg for it anyway.
She followed him through the penthouse—past the self-playing piano, which had shifted to a darker, more discordant piece—and into a room she hadn't seen before. It was circular, bare, with a floor of black stone shot through with veins of dark gold. Candles ringed the perimeter, their flames burning an unsettling violet-blue.
In the center of the room stood a brass bowl on a tripod of black iron. Beside it, arranged with grim precision, were implements that made her stomach lurch—a blade with a curved, obsidian edge, a quill, a stoppered vial of something dark and syrupy.
"First lesson," Desmond said, turning to face her. "Words matter. Rituals matter. And the bonds we forge in blood are the bonds that cannot be severed."
He gestured to a spot before the brass bowl. "Kneel."
She didn't kneel.
"Jasmine." His voice dropped. Warning threaded through it. "Kneel."
Her body had betrayed her all day. And now, she forced herself to stand. "No."
A flicker of something—surprise? Respect?—crossed his face. "Stubborn. I like it. But we have time to waste, and you don't."
He moved too fast to follow. One moment he was across the room, the next he was behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. She gasped as his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
"If you want to make this difficult," he said, his voice low against her ear, "we can make it excruciating. I can break your will in an hour. Or I can nurture it for a year. Which would you prefer?"
Tears blurred her vision. "You're going to kill me anyway. Why does it matter?"
"It matters because of how you're remembered." This was soft, almost tender. "You still have your dignity, Jasmine. I'd hate to see you lose that before I take everything else."
His hand released her hair, smoothing the strands with an almost gentle touch. He stepped back. Waited.
She wanted to fight. God, she wanted to claw his eyes out and run. But her legs were shaking, her heart was hammering, and at this point, she was just pretending to herself that she had any choice left. She sank to her knees on the cold black stone.
"Good girl." The words were a caress. "Now we can begin."
The ritual was worse than she imagined. He took the obsidian blade and cut a line across his palm, letting the blood—dark and thick as oil—drip into the brass bowl. Then he took her wrist, and before she could jerk away, he'd sliced a shallow line across her skin. She hissed as the pain bloomed.
"Blood binds," he intoned. "Soul answers soul. What is given cannot be taken back. What is surrendered cannot be reclaimed. I claim this mortal, body and essence, as my own until the end of her days and beyond."
He pressed his bleeding palm to hers. The contact sent a shock through her, and she felt something shift—like a hook catching in her chest and pulling her inexorably toward him.
When he released her, she looked down at her palm. The cut was already closing, sealing into a thin, silvery scar that hadn't been there before.
"What did you do to me?"
"The binding. It's done now." He pulled a cloth from his pocket and cleaned his blade with methodical care. "You belong to me. In this world and the next."
She rose unsteadily to her feet. The room spun. She felt hollow and full at the same time, like something had been taken and something else left behind.
Desmond smiled—kind, gentle, utterly monstrous. "I'll show you to your room." He paused. "My room, actually. You'll be staying with me from now on."
"No—"
"It's not a request."
Her legs gave out. She caught herself against the wall, breathing hard. The binding had sapped something from her—her strength, her will, some essential part of what made her Jasmine.
He caught her as she stumbled.
"If you're good—obedient—I can make this bearable for you. Even pleasant. I don't enjoy suffering for its own sake." He leaned in close, his forehead nearly touching hers. "But if you fight me, I will break you. And I will enjoy that too."
She looked into those amber eyes—so warm, so human, so utterly wrong—and felt the last shred of her resistance crumble.
"Get some rest," he said, stepping back. "We'll begin again tonight."
He turned and walked out, leaving her alone in the candlelit room with the smell of blood and the weight of what she'd become.
She sank to the floor. The tears came then, hot and silent.
She thought of the campus café. Of her friends. Of her dorm room with its cracked ceiling and its posters and its comforting clutter. She thought of the life she'd been so desperate to escape.
She'd gotten what she wanted. She'd been freed from her pain.
And now she understood, with terrible clarity, what that freedom had cost.
Somewhere in the penthouse, the piano started to play again. A dirge this time. Slow and mournful, as if the house itself was grieving for her.
Slow and mournful, as if the house itself was grieving for her.
Jasmine lay on the massive bed in Desmond's room, staring at the ceiling. She hadn't moved since he'd deposited her here an hour ago. The sheets were black silk, impossibly soft against her skin, and the pillows smelled like him—oud and frost and something darker she couldn't name.
She should be plotting her escape. Calling for help. Screaming until someone heard her. But her limbs felt weighted with lead, her thoughts moving through syrup. The binding had done something to her. She could feel the hook in her chest, the invisible tether that pulled taut whenever she thought about running.
Instead, she slept.
When she woke, the light through the floor-to-ceiling windows had shifted to gold. Afternoon. She sat up slowly, her body aching as if she'd run a marathon in her sleep. A tray of food sat on the bedside table—fruit, cheese, a glass of water. She hadn't heard anyone come in.
She ate mechanically. The food tasted like nothing.
Desmond appeared in the doorway as she was finishing the last of the grapes. He'd changed into a dark cashmere sweater and tailored trousers. His hair was swept back, still damp from a shower. He looked devastating and utterly out of reach.
"Good. You're awake." He crossed to the bed and extended a hand to help her up. "We have an appointment."
She didn't take his hand. She rose on her own, swaying slightly. "What appointment?"
"You need clothes. The ones you own are unacceptable." His gaze swept over her rumpled sweatshirt and jeans with mild disdain. "We're going shopping."
"Shopping." The word felt absurd. "You're taking me shopping."
"Don't sound so surprised. I told you yesterday." He turned and walked toward the door. "Five minutes. I'll meet you in the car."
She stood there, numb, as the door clicked shut behind him. Part of her wanted to laugh. Part of her wanted to cry. Instead, she found a brush on the vanity and dragged it through her tangled curls, then splashed water on her face. She caught her reflection in the mirror and barely recognized the hollow-eyed woman staring back.
The car was the same low, sleek beast as before. Desmond held the door open for her, and she slid into the leather seat, her skin prickling where her thighs brushed the cold surface. He didn't speak as they pulled into traffic. The city slid by, glittering and indifferent.
They stopped in front of a boutique that Jasmine would never have dared to enter on her own. The windows displayed gowns that cost more than her monthly rent. A woman in a severe black dress met them at the door, her smile practiced and servile.
"Mr. Vael. We have the private room prepared."
The private room was lush and mirrored, with velvet seating and champagne on ice. Racks of clothing had been arranged in neat rows—dresses, blouses, trousers, all in fabrics that whispered against her fingers.
Desmond settled into a chair, crossing his ankles. "Try them on. I want to see everything."
Jasmine stood frozen. She could feel her rebellion building, a hot, prickling thing under her skin. "I don't want to."
"Jasmine." His voice was patient. Dangerous. "We discussed obedience. You chose to kneel. You chose to accept the binding. Don't make me remind you of the alternative."
The memory of that snap—the heat, the humiliating, consuming want—made her cheeks flush. She grabbed the nearest garment and retreated to the changing room without a word.
The first dress was a deep emerald silk that draped beautifully, but he shook his head immediately. "Too modest. Try the red."
She tried the red. Then a cream-colored sheath. Then a black cocktail dress with a neckline that plunged to her navel. Each time, he studied her for a long moment before dismissing her with a gesture.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered, reaching for the next hanger.
"Excuse me?"
She turned to face him, her teeth gritted. "I said this is ridiculous. You're not even looking at me. You're just—" She gestured helplessly. "Whatever this is. A power trip?"
Desmond rose from the chair with fluid grace. He crossed to her, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. His hand came up, fingers tracing the line of her collarbone where the cheap dress dipped.
"You think I'm not looking?" His voice was low, intimate. "I'm devouring you with my eyes. This dress is a distraction. But you're not ready for what I'm imagining yet."
Her skin caught fire where he touched. She hated it. She hated him. But her body pressed toward his hand like a plant seeking sun.
He stepped back, and the moment shattered. "There's one more set I want you to try. It's in the back."
He disappeared behind a curtain and returned with a hanger draped in crimson silk. The set he held out to her was the most sinfully beautiful thing she'd ever seen. A bra of deep red lace, so delicate it seemed spun from spiderwebs. Panties that were barely more than two triangles of fabric connected by a fragile string. And a matching garter belt.
"Put it on," he said.
She stared at it. "You can't be serious."
"Put it on, Jasmine."
Her rebellion flared, bright and hot. "No. I'm not wearing that. I'm not your—your doll. I'm not putting on this ridiculous—"
His hand shot out, gripping her jaw. The snap came before she could finish the thought, and the heat flooded her body—suffocating, insistent, pulling a whimper from her throat. Her traitorous flesh answered his command. Her fingers, trembling, reached for the lace.
"Undress," he said.
She stripped out of the black dress with shaking hands, her skin pebbling in the cool air of the changing room. She reached for the lingerie, her movements jerky and desperate. The red lace slid over her skin like a second layer, the fabric whispering against her nipples. The panties sat on her hips, a bit of nothing, made to be torn aside.
She looked up. In the mirror, her own eyes met hers. She looked wrecked. Aroused. Humbled.
Desmond appeared behind her in the reflection. He looked satisfied. "Good girl."
The praise was a liquid warmth through her veins, and she hated herself for how much she wanted to hear it again.
His hands settled on her waist, thumbs stroking the lace at her hip. She could see his reflection dark and imposing behind her, and her pulse fluttered.
"This looks made for you," he murmured. "Like it was designed for my pleasure. Do you like how it feels against your skin?"
She swallowed. "Yes," she admitted, hating the truth of it.
He grazed her skin with a slow, deliberate touch. The fabric slid against her nipples, and she bit her lip. She was already growing wet, her thighs pressing together against the ache.
"Open your legs for me," he said.
She complied, her body on autopilot. The room was warm, but goosebumps erupted along her arms, across her thighs. Every inch of her hummed in anticipation.
His fingers hooked the edge of the panties, pulling the damp fabric aside. "You're soaked already. So needy." His voice was pure silk. "Look at how wet you are for me. This is what I do to you. You're not so stubborn when I have you like this, are you?"
She couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe. He was behind her, pressing his hardness against the swell of her ass, and the feel of it made her knees buckle.
"Please," she heard herself say. The word tore from her throat. "Please, I—"
"Please what, Jasmine? Tell me what you want."
"You." She gasped. "I want you to touch me. Please, I need—"
He dropped to his knees behind her before she could finish, his hands gripping her hips as he buried his face between her thighs. His mouth was fire against her slick flesh. He pulled the lace aside and lapped at her with a flat, hungry tongue, tasting her like she was his last meal.
"Oh—" She staggered, catching herself against the mirror. Her bare palms slapped the cold glass, and she watched their reflection. He was between her legs, his dark head bent forward, his eyes locked upward, watching her face as his tongue worked her.
"Spread for me," he ordered against her flesh, the words vibrating through her.
She widened her stance, and he growled his approval. His mouth was relentless—teasing, probing, his tongue a decadent torture. He lapped at her clit in broad, slow strokes until she was teetering on a precipice, then pulled back to circle it with his tongue, sharp and quick, until she was begging. His finger slid inside her, crooking just right, and her vision went white. The orgasm crashed over her like a wave breaking against rocks, and she felt herself let go. Hot liquid gushed from her core, soaking his face, dripping down his chin. A violent shudder wracked her body as he kept lapping at her, drinking every last drop.
"Beautiful," he murmured, rising to his feet. His chin was slick with her, and somehow that raw, obscene visage only made him look more commanding. "You taste like sin and surrender. I could drink you for eternity."
She was still trembling, her chest heaving, her thighs shaking. He caught her wrist and turned her to face him. His hand came up, a finger tracing her swollen, sensitive lips before sliding inside her.
"You belong to me," he said, his voice a low promise. "And I will enjoy claiming every inch of you."
He pulled his finger free, and his eyes were molten amber, hungry. "Now, keep this on." He retrieved a long trench coat from a rack and held it for her. "You're wearing this out of the store. Nothing underneath except this set."
She blinked, the haze of her orgasm clearing just enough for comprehension to set in. "You can't be serious."
"I'm extremely serious." He helped her into the coat, smoothing it over her shoulders. It was a dark, silky trench that skimmed her thighs. "Every step will be a reminder of who you belong to. Every whisper of fabric against your bare ass will make you wet, won't it?"
She bit her lip. Her body answered before her mind did, a hot blush sweeping across her chest.
He leaned in and kissed her, no warm seduction but pure, consuming possession. His taste was still on his lips—her own musk, mixed with his dominance. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark.
"Let's go."
She walked out of the changing room on unsteady legs. The saleswoman barely glanced at her, and Jasmine realized she must have heard everything. Shame and arousal twined inside her, her cheeks burning as she crossed the boutique floor, the air from the trench coat whispering along her bare skin. Each step sent a jolt of sensation through her, her thighs brushing together, her nipple tracing the lace.
Desmond walked beside her, one hand resting at the small of her back—not guiding her so much as staking his claim. He opened the door for her and watched her slide into the car, his eyes lingering on the flash of bare thigh she couldn't quite hide.
As the car pulled away from the curb, he reached over and laid a hand on her leg. His fingers crept upward, sliding against the edge of the lace. She sucked in a sharp breath, her thighs pressing together.
"Should I pull over and let you demonstrate how grateful you are?" His voice was idle, conversational. "Or should I make you wait until we get home?"
She didn't know which option terrified her more. She couldn't say anything, just stared at the passing city as his fingers traced idle patterns on her thigh, each brush another kind of claim. The car hummed beneath them, and somewhere in the distance, the sun was sinking, casting long shadows across the streets.
When they finally reached the penthouse, Desmond helped her out of the car. The elevator ride was a torment of anticipation, his hand still resting on her thigh, his thumb stroking small circles. She could smell herself on him still, raw and intimate.
The doors slid open.
"Now," he said, guiding her toward the bedroom, "we're going to discuss the terms of your service. And I think you'll find my expectations are quite thorough."