I couldn’t look away as he pulled my right arm up and wrapped the leather cuff around my wrist. The buckles tightened and I sucked in a breath. It reminded too much of Mexico, the tattoo, inspection, injection. My fear consumed, and I jerked away. My shoulder bellowed as I tried to get free. I shoved Q in panic, tugging at the cuff, fingers fumbling to undo the buckle.

Q laughed softly, rubbing his lower lip with a thumb. “I’ll let you in on a secret, esclave. This is a first for me, too.” His hand dropped, cupping his erection through his trousers. “And it turns me the f**k on, watching you struggle.”

Two things I wanted most in the world: for Q to die a miserable death, and for him to f**k me. Being restrained highlighted all my stupid fantasies; I couldn’t stop the building moisture. Wetness coated inner thighs as Q gathered me closer.

“Fuck, tu me donne des envies primal.” Fuck, you make me hot. His voice throbbed, making me ache, yearn.

My heart broke a little more. He owned my sense of hearing, as well as my sense of smell. I couldn’t ignore the baritone of seduction, or the overwhelming need to obey.

Q pushed my left arm up and secured it. Lungs stuck together when he stepped back, leaving me shackled with arms in the air. My ribcage rose and fell with panicked breathing, igniting pain. “You can’t do this.”

He cocked his head. “I just did.”

“You know what I mean.” Swallowing back fear, I added brazenly, “You don’t want to do this. Something in you doesn’t want to abuse me. I can sense it.”

He froze, nostrils flaring. We stood, silently glaring, before he fisted my hair. “You don’t know anything, esclave. I want this. I’ve wanted this for too damn long, and you’re wrong that it hurts.” Chest strained in his immaculate suit as he leaned in, kissing the shell of my ear. He whispered, “I’m not afraid of hurting you. I’m afraid of how far I’m willing to go.”

If not restrained, I would’ve collapsed.

“Maître, vos invités sont arrivés,” Suzette said. The guests are here.

My eyes flew frantically to her, begging for help. She stood in the doorway with a mix of emotions flickering. The one I read the clearest was want. Her tongue darted between her lips, dropping her gaze.

Q waved toward the corner of the room. “Pull the rope, Suzette.”

Her gaze popped wide, and the need in her face dispelled, leaving shock in its place. “You sure, maître?”

He growled in warning and she jumped to obey. Wrapping tiny hands around a thick red cord, she pulled with one swoop.

I screamed as my shoulders wrenched upright and body weight transferred from feet to wrists. My tiptoes pointed, still on the pedestal, but only barely. I’d become shackled well and truly by gravity.

Q stepped off the podium, inspecting me. My br**sts stuck out proudly with arms above my ears, the mosaic dress exposing all parts. “Leave us,” he demanded, not looking at Suzette.

I couldn’t breathe.

Suzette left the room quickly, and all hope of getting away went with her. Q stood below, looking up. Slowly, he inserted a middle finger into his mouth and sucked. Eyes flashed with so much darkness I would never see the night again and not think of him. His tongue licked with intoxicating grace.

My lips parted, mesmerized. Somehow, focusing on him helped dispel panic, a reminder Q might be bad, but he definitely wasn’t the worst.

It was almost a relief when he grabbed my hip, holding me steady. Fingers bit into flesh. Slowly, he poked a finger through the fabric of the dress and found the dampness on my thigh.

Eyes shot to mine. “You continue to surprise me. I didn’t need to lick my finger after all.”

Cheeks pinked as he feathered up my leg and stroked my entrance. His finger slipped into wetness, and a groan rumbled in his chest. He pulled me closer and, like a pendulum, I went—his to move where he wanted. Pressing his face into my chest, his finger thrust inside, making my knees buckle. I swung slightly in the bindings.

His hand left my hip, wrapping around my lower back, securing tightly. “Ah, esclave. You continue to lie. Your body tells the truth.”

I wanted to curse. I had no control, but he was a maestro and like an unwilling instrument, I came to life.

“Q, it seems you’ve started without us,” a masculine voice oozed. Followed by another, “It looks as if he couldn’t restrain himself. Look at that delectable morsel.”

Chagrin painted my cheeks red. Four men stood, watching greedily as Q finger f**ked me. He stroked hard, quick, wrist rubbing against inner thighs as I tried to squeeze my legs together to stop him. He wasn’t gentle, and I couldn’t focus on his touch and the men at the same time.

Heavy eyes closed on their own accord as Q hooked his finger, stimulating my g-spot. I jumped as pressure inside built to a crescendo. Oh, God. I couldn’t come. Not like this. Not with men watching, hearing, wanting.

As my inner muscles clenched greedily around his finger, Q pulled away, leaving me panting and red cheeked. I swayed in the restraints, scrambling on tiptoe not to spin.

Q backed away, facing me. As he walked, he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked. Sucked the glistening wetness lingering there, sucked my taste, my very essence.

I wanted to weep.

My body pulsed, throbbed, and I resisted the urge to scissor my thighs, to try and find relief. I wouldn’t add to the smug look in his eyes. He knew I hurt, and he’d leave me that way. Fucking French bastard.

Reaching the four men, he shook their hands. They exchanged pleasantries in English, never taking eyes off me. I became the centrepiece. The object to gawk over, but not acknowledge.

“I didn’t know you’d taken up the family business, Q,” one man said, rubbing his greying moustache while eye-fucking me.

I expected Q to laugh, to mingle with the men I thought were his mercurial friends, but I jumped when he stabbed a finger in the man’s chest. “Don’t you f**king say that. It’s completely different.”

The man froze; a battle of testosterone took place between them, before he averted his gaze, shrugging. “Whatever you say.”

Another man, this one in expensive jeans and black shirt, looked about Q’s age. His face reminded me of a 1920’s movie star. Hair swept back and oiled, skin so smooth it looked like porcelain. “Q… ” he started, gawking at me with fear in his eyes.