Dinner is uncomfortable. An awkward first date with stilted conversation. Not helping is my general edginess as I try to act like I’m supposed to while also keeping up with boring small talk. And saying sir a lot, which is starting to grate on my nerves.

Cross sits opposite me, but he might as well be in another room. He eats as he does everything else, with purpose and poise. In a conversational lull, I try to picture him as a young soldier, bright-eyed and smooth-faced. It’s hard. On the other hand—thanks to Hollywood and his physique—I can easily imagine him as a super-soldier. Face camouflaged with black paint, a wicked knife in his hand. Big gun strapped to his back with ammo wrapped around his torso. Running toward an enemy yelling, “Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker!”

I cover my smile with my napkin.

“You’re not eating.”

His voice wipes the smile off my face. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Cross throws his napkin on the table. “For fuck’s sake, London, look at me.”

Startled, I meet his gaze, taking immediate note of the ticking in his jaw. My stomach sinks. “Sir? Have I done something wrong?”

He swipes a hand down his face, mulling thoughts, then sighs heavily. “Your behavior during dinner has been perfect, but I’m not interested in a slave. In fact, I wish you’d stop acting like someone you aren’t.”

I blink. “I thought… um, how do you want me to act, sir?”

Cross leans forward, features tight and fierce. “Cut the shit and tell me what you want.”

My palms are sweating, nerves clamoring. No, no, I’m ruining this. Looking around the loft wildly, my gaze hits and snags on a St. Andrews Cross. It’s beautiful, handcrafted wood. Oak or maybe ash. Black restraints wait for wrists and ankles. The piece dominates a white wall; subtle lighting makes the wood glow.

“You want that, do you?” he asks, tone lightly mocking.

I gaze at it another moment, then meet his stare. “Yes, sir.” My voice—unlike the rest of me—is calm and confident.

At my answer, something changes in him. Nothing quantifiable. More like a door opening in another room, or a shift of light just before dawn—too faint to see but nevertheless detectable to the senses. The air changes between us. Crackling with promise that wipes away the last forty minutes of superficial chitchat about the weather, current events… All of it disappears.

My breath hitches. His gaze narrows.

“I want pain,” I tell him. Unspoken is the conclusion, You want to deliver it.

“Give me the contract.”

I jump to obey. In reaching for my purse, I knock a fork off the table. My face hidden beneath the surface, I freeze, half in embarrassment, half in excitement. Will he punish me now?

“Nervous little kitten,” he murmurs. “We’re not playing yet.”

The words are flame to dry kindling. I’m instantly aching. Singular in my want. Him. And when the thought arises that I’ve never felt this intensity of need before, I slam it down. It’s just been a long time. It’s the newness. The illicitness.

“Quit stalling,” he snaps.

All doubts and insecurities dissolve in the onslaught of nuclear desire. I grab the fork and the contract, handing the latter to him and setting the former near my plate with a trembling hand. Cross scans the contract, spending long minutes on my checklist of limits. Though he wears a detached expression, I sense his readiness. He is predator in repose, ever aware of his prey, merely waiting for the perfect moment to act.

Finally, just when I think I might die without some release of the pressure inside me, he looks up and smiles. Slow and satisfied. It’s not a nice smile—not kind—but it’s everything I want.

Everything.

“Stand up, kitten.”

I stand, my bare toes curling against the wood.

“Listen very carefully,” he says, standing and walking around the table to my side. Pinching my chin lightly, he lifts my face and catalogues my features with precision; memorizing me, unmaking and remaking me. “From this moment on, you do exactly as I say when I say it. If you don’t want to do something, you use your safe word. What is it?”

Staring at his firm, perfectly shaped mouth, my own lips part. “Felix, sir,” I whisper.

He nods, expression hard and sharp. “Very good. I’m in a giving mood tonight. I’m going to whip you, and then I’ll make you come. If you come before I give you permission, I’ll forgive you this once. But from now until this is over, your orgasms belong to me. Understood?”

All I can manage is a nod.

“Voice,” he snaps.

“Y-yes, sir.”

Touch me more. I’m burning. Please, please.

Cross steps back. My chin tingles with an echo of his warm fingers. When his lips curl again, there’s the undeniable edge of cruelty. He knows exactly how aroused I am—and he likes denying me pleasure. It’s a torture I didn’t consider, didn’t crave. But I understand now that it’s pain. Different, but just as exquisite.

“Stand facing the cross. Dress and bra come off. Leave the panties.”

My feet barely acknowledge the ground as I walk across the room. I’m not sure how I make it to the cross without falling on my face, but I do. As I draw down the side-zipper and let the dress pool at my feet, I have no shame at my near-nakedness. Still none when I unclasp my bra and it falls atop the dress. My loose hair slides across my bare back, heavy and soft.

Staring at the subtle whorls in the wood before me, I feel… weightless. Insulated. Sensual. Like an ancient goddess readying for a mighty ritual. Like nothing and no one can touch me.

Cool air on my spine is the only warning I have before my head is jerked back. Pain shimmers white at the edges of my vision. The thick cable of my hair secured in one hand, Cross steps close. Hard thighs meet the curve of my ass, my thong a laughable barrier for the thick ridge of his cock. Lowering his face to the exposed side of my neck, he breathes against my skin. There’s no contact other than breath, but my body reacts almost violently. I barely hold back a moan.

“Did you really think it was linear?” he whispers. “A to B, pain then pleasure? Oh, little kitten, you have so much to learn.”

His lips find my neck, grazing, then pressing firmly. Kisses trail from my ear to my collarbone, each sensation compounding until I’m lost in soft, hazy pleasure. For a moment, I wonder if this might be enough, that perhaps I don’t need—

Vicious teeth.

“Oh, God,” I rasp, jerking against unforgiving wood.

A second later, my ass is on fire. When my brain catches up, I realize he spanked me hard. Really hard. Pain in my neck and ass curls together with the arousal in my blood.

“What’s my name?” he asks mildly.

“Sir, sir, sir,” I chant, sagging against the cross.

Gentle stroke of his palm over my stinging backside. “Mmm, look at that bloom. Better than I imagined. Are you ready, kitten?”

“Yes, sir.” My voice is a thready moan.

He mutters something under his breath, then, “Flat to the cross. Arms up, legs out.”

My cheek pressed to the wood near one arm, I glance back, seeing first his face—expression shockingly soft and human—then his hand at the apex of his thighs, curled around his daunting erection.

Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Second thoughts, sir?”

A dark brow arches. “Not remotely, though I’ll consider a gag if you sass me again.”

The way he says it, like he wants me to talk back, hits my system like a drug. With sudden insight, I understand why this is referred to as play. My safe word holds the boundaries, but like an unsupervised playground of youth, anything goes. The last thing I expected was to have fun, but here I am, hiding my smile with my bicep as smooth strides carry my salvation to me.

He makes quick work of my wrists, then crouches to attach my ankles to the wood. The rope is smooth but not soft, and a few experimental movements confirm that I’m well and truly bound. Before I can even consider panicking, warm fingers skate up my bare legs. They tease my knees, swirl across my trembling thighs, and finally stroke outside the edges of the flimsy fabric between my legs.

“Second thoughts, kitten?” he mocks, punctuating the words by dragging his thumb over my swollen flesh, bound in its own way by black lace.

“Fuck no,” I whisper. “Sir.”

Whack.

The sound arrives first. Then the pain, radiating angrily from my inner thigh. I gasp, my eyes screwing shut on instantaneous tears. A second later, one long finger sinks inside me and curls. The edges of agony blur and reshape. I catch a sob with my lips, but he hears it anyway.

My relief given voice.

A soft kiss presses to my shoulder. “Welcome home, London.”