Page 72 of Dominion’s Collar

Her body stops distinguishing between the two. My hands and the fire and my mouth become one continuous act of dismantling her.

The fourth pass across her stomach makes her hips lift off the table. Involuntary. She presses them back down, and the effort drags a moan out of her that vibrates through both of us. Low and helpless. A woman whose body has outrun everything she thought she controlled.

I can see her arousal. The flush darkening on her throat. Her thighs pressing together then releasing. The slickness between her legs visible and spreading.

My own arousal is a constant, brutal pressure. I'm choosing to hold it because what matters is her. What she's giving me. What I'm accepting while she doesn't know I've figured out what she's hiding.

I trail the wand above her stomach. Close enough that the heat reaches her. She holds perfectly still, lying beneath a lit flame and choosing not to move because I told her not to.

She trusts me with fire. Neither of us is telling the other everything, but right now, the weight of what I'm holding is heavier than what she's keeping from me.

I kill the flame and reach for the squeeze bottle. A thin trail of alcohol from her sternum to her hips.

"This one will be longer," I say. "Don't move."

She nods. Her eyes are wet.

The wand touches the trail. The flame catches and races from her sternum to her hips. This burn lasts longer, and the warmth floods her entire torso.

Her body strains against the table, held by the command alone. Her hands grip the table's edge. The collar glints at her throat. The cry she releases is half word, half plea.

I put both hands on her hips and hold her down. Press my thumbs into the heated skin above her hip bones. She's trembling.

I've watched this woman hold herself together through conversations that would've broken someone less disciplined. Right now she can't hold still because of what I did to her body with a flame and my hands.

"Color?"

"Green." The word is barely there.

I lower my mouth to her hip bone. Kiss the heated skin. Drag my lips across her stomach where the flame traced. A broken whimper escapes her, and her thighs fall open.

I run two fingers through her folds. The slickness is immediate, coating my hand, the arousal audible when I spread her. She's drenched.

The fire didn't just prime her nerve endings. It burned through every barrier between her body and what it wanted.

I circle her clit with slow, deliberate pressure. Her hips roll toward my hand.

I did this. The fire, the hands, the mouth. I took a woman who walks into this club armored in composure and reduced her to this. The satisfaction of it is dark and specific.

"Sebastien." My name torn from her. She said it in the shibari too, but that time it surprised her. This time she knows what my name on her lips does to me, and she's giving it anyway.

"Not yet."

I press two fingers inside her. She clenches around me immediately, tight and slick and hot, the walls gripping my fingers in rhythmic pulses. I curl forward and find the spot that makes her entire body seize.

Her hands leave the table. Reach for me.

"Hands. Down."

She forces them back. Her hips are moving against my hand now, and I let them. The pace is mine but her body is chasing it, and the desperation in the motion is visible across every muscle she has.

I work her slowly. Curling, pressing, withdrawing to circle her clit and then returning. Building a cadence designed to keep her at the edge without letting her fall. The fire play taught her body to process intensity in waves. Now I'm using the same pattern with my hands.

She starts to tighten. I feel the contractions beginning, the threshold approaching.

I stop.

"No." The word rips out of her. "Don't stop."