I’m kneeling on the bed, waiting for him. Toes tucked, knees spread, sitting on my heels with my head bowed and my hands laced together behind my neck. It’s not the first time I’ve been in this position, but it feels that way. The give of the mattress under my knees makes the position difficult to maintain. The burn in my overused muscles has gone from unpleasant to excruciating. Then again, at this point I’d be willing to walk over hot coals for sex with Dominic Cross.

“You’re shaking, kitten,” he purrs from somewhere in the room. I think he’s in the armchair beside the window, but I don’t dare look up.

“Yes, sir. I want you, sir.”

“What exactly do you want? Tell me the truth.”

I suck in a breath, my mind filling with carnal images. Him behind me, my ankles tied to the bedposts as he drives into me. Face-to-face, slow and needy and vanilla. Tied up and dangling from the ceiling at the exact height necessary for…

“Say it.”

“I want to touch you, sir,” I blurt. “I want to suck your cock. I want your arms around me as I ride you and you bite my breasts. I want you to kiss me and fuck me and make me come.” I gasp into silence, a hot blush blooming under my skin. As much as I’ve thought the words, I’ve never in my life spoken so brazenly.

After a pregnant pause, I hear the music of his belt buckle. “Your wish is my command. Come here, London.”

My mouth waters as I scramble off the bed. I was right—he’s in the big leather armchair—and when I get a good look at him I almost trip. Shirtless, his hair mussed, candlelight making poetry of his face and torso. Slouched with his elbow propped on the armrest, one fist supports his head while the other lazily strokes the most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen.

“Any day.” His voice is wry and satisfied.

“Yes, sir,” I breathe, falling to my knees between his spread legs.

“Hands behind your back. Good girl. Come get it.”

The first taste of him on my tongue is perfection—salt and musk and power and servitude. When he breaches my lips, I’m the one who groans in pleasure. And when he hits the back of my throat and I gag and swallow, his voice comes strangled and dark, “Fuck, that’s good.”

I find a rhythm that makes his hips twitch, alternating my attention between the thick, flared head and testing the limits of my deep-throating skills. His fingers thread through my hair, gripping hard, sending crackles of pain through my body and drenching my inner thighs. When he takes control, I relinquish it gladly.

Never has submission been more empowering than now, with his breathy grunts above me, the muscles of his thighs quivering. His filthy whispers of how beautiful I look doing what he’s wanted for so long—choking on his cock. I’ve never been so turned on in my life, and when he draws my head away, I whimper in protest.

Gentle hands cup my face, thumb dipping into my mouth, fingers wiping saliva from my chin. Panting, I stare up at him. Whatever he sees in my eyes brings an unrivaled intensity to his expression. I can only imagine I look exactly how I feel—devoted, trusting.

In love.

The revelation shimmers through me, finding no resistance. And suddenly my loving him is a foregone conclusion—a fact divorced from fear, regret, and grief. It doesn’t feel new or even surprising. Of course fate brought me here. I belong with him. To him.

“I feel it too,” he whispers, then sweeps me up into his lap. I throw my arms around his neck, my head turning, our mouths meeting in seamless, soul-melting grace.

He tastes like home.

For endless, blissful minutes, he devours the offering of my mouth and gives my hands free rein. I read him like Braille, caressing the hollows and swells of muscle. His throat. Behind his ears. Hollow of his bellybutton. Ridges of his abdomen. The smattering of dark hair on his chest and arms. I lose myself in his artistry until he dips fingers between my legs. I gasp into his mouth, reverting to carnal need.

With a low groan, he propels us to standing. I hang from his shoulders, my palms memorizing the pull of muscles in his back as he walks us to the bed. Kicking off his pants, he sits once more with me in his lap, scooting back until he leans against the headboard. Gravity rewards me with friction and hardness where I need it most. I grind against him, mindlessly seeking my deepest urge.

Dominic hisses, teeth sinking into the meat between my shoulder and neck.

“Take what you want.”

My hands dive between us, my eyes following as I fit him to my entrance. He draws my hair back and up, clenching it in a fist, and we watch together as I sink slowly down. To my shock and pleasure, he breaks first, his head falling back against the headboard.

“So fucking tight,” he growls.

And it is—a tight fit. Exactly as I knew it would be and so much more. I clench around him, already close to climax from what feels like the longest foreplay known to man. When I’m fully seated, I go still, gasping at the sensation that’s so much deeper than physical penetration. My nails dig helplessly into his shoulders. Against my better judgement, I look up, straight into his eyes.

His thumb traces my lower lip. “Hi,” he whispers.

A tear spills down my cheek. “Please,” I breathe, not knowing what I’m asking for.

But he knows.

My throat is captured by a strong hand. His other traps my wrists at the small of my back, pulling until I’m curved back, strung tight as a bowstring. I shudder in relief at the strain in my shoulders, the pressure on my airway.

“Get to work, kitten.”

With a ragged moan, I swirl my hips, seeking and finding a rhythm that makes my eyes roll skyward. Dominic murmurs approval, his mouth falling to my breasts. He’s gentle at first, licking and sucking, worshipping my nipples. Then, as I move faster and harder against him, his teeth sink deeply into soft flesh. Marking me without apology, knowing exactly how much I can take. The pressure on my neck increases, my oxygen slowly diminishing.

“Oh, fuck, fuck,” I chant.

“Do you want to come?” he growls.

“Yes, please, sir, please.”

“Say it first.”

Teeth graze one ultra-sensitive nipple, then the other. Our bodies slide into that space of pure synchronicity, moving together like ripples over water. My orgasm barrels toward me, unstoppable, and for the first time, I doubt my ability to obey him.

An anguished wail rises inside me. “Please!” I scream.

With a yank of my wrists and push of his body, I careen onto my back. My legs find purchase on his hips, the only remaining control I have. Even my voice doesn’t belong to me anymore, emerging in hoarse groans. Dominic hovers above me, his chest sliding against mine, his thrusts now impossibly deeper and harder.

“Look at me, London,” he snarls. “Tell me, and you can come.” The second I open my eyes and see his—dark as sin and hot as fire—I lose the fight.

“I love you,” I sob.

And with the admission comes my release. Cataclysmic. Too hot and bright. My bones melt to liquid pleasure.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

With a final, jerking thrust, he spills inside me. Each quiver of his body hits me like a drug, blissful and sedating. I float, half-asleep yet more conscious than I’ve been in years, as he releases my wrists and gently draws my hands out from behind my back.

Dropping his elbows to either side of my shoulders, he presses his forehead to mine. Sweat from his brow drips onto my cheek and mixes with my tears.

“Told you I’d fuck the truth out of you.”

I laugh, then sob.

His lips find mine and he whispers against them, “I love you, too.”