Page 128 of Suite 7

I stare at the toy.

Another feeling sits underneath the shock, though — one that has been building since he texted Careful what you ask for. I already know what it’s like when Kane is in control. I already know what it means when he says trust me. He has never once let me fall.

I hike up my dress with trembling fingers, slide my panties aside, and insert the toy. It settles inside me, snug, hidden.

I check my reflection. I look normal. Composed. Slightly flushed, which is the champagne.

No one will know.

I smooth my dress, reapply my lipstick, and return to the party on legs, already aware that the thing I’m walking back into has changed in a way I can’t fully account for yet.

I’m halfway across the gallery when I see them again, Kane and Lisa, heads bent together over something on her phone. She laughs and touches his arm.

A cold flash moves through me.

Then the vibration starts.

Low. Teasing. Barely there.

Across the room, Kane’s hand is in his pocket. He’s still talking to Lisa. But his eyes flick to me for a second.

I force myself to start walking. Casual. Purposeful. The vibration increases — not enough to make me obvious, enough to make every breath a small negotiation.

The bastard.

I’m mid-sentence with the Whitfields when the vibration pulses.

Once. Twice. Three times.

My voice catches. “—and for a foundation profile that size, the narrative needs to do two things at once—” Another pulse. I grip my champagne glass. “Build public trust and protect the family legacy.”

Mrs. Whitfield peers at me. “Are you alright? You look flushed.”

“Just warm. These gallery spaces.” I fan myself with the program.

The vibration shifts. Pulse, pulse, steady. Pulse, pulse, steady.

This couple could be important clients.

The moment I have the thought, the vibration eases.

I go still inside.

It could be coincidence. Or Kane’s been reading my body language from across the room, watching for the exact moment I tensed, easing off before I fail. I let my shoulders drop. Trust that he won’t push too far.

“What I’d suggest is a tailored press strategy — something that frames the anniversary as a milestone rather than a moment.” My voice steadier now. “I’d love to put together an initial outline for you. May I get your contact information?”

“That would be wonderful.”

The vibration pulses twice. A short rhythm that I read as his reaction. Good girl.

I exchange contact information. Professional. Composed. The arousal building with every breath, and I’m not fighting it anymore, existing with it, trusting the hands on the other end of the remote.

Not a scene. No safewords, no structure, no walls holding the edges in. This is him, reading me from across a gallery full of people who have no idea, finding the precise line between more and too much and walking me right along it.

That’s the thing I’m only understanding now, floating here in this dress with his toy inside me and my professional smile intact: he’s not restraining himself for my sake. He wants the edge. He’s making me walk it, but he never lets me fall off.

And in a room full of people who’d destroy us both if they knew what we were doing, I trust that completely.