Sweet Persuasion

He smiled, an arrogant smile of male satisfaction. He knew damn well she wanted him. Wanted him badly. Still, she voiced it because she was compelled to do so.

“I want you, Damon. I’m going to go crazy if you don’t make love to me soon.”

With his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger, he tilted her chin, angling her so that her mouth was inches from his own. She sucked in all available air. Would he kiss her? Would he finally kiss her?

He pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth. Soft and gentle. Just one kiss, so light, and yet it burned the tender skin. Her chest swelled and her stomach turned over, and just that quickly, it was over.

He pulled away, his eyes glittering as he smoothed his thumb over her bottom lip.

“Soon, Serena. Soon I will have you, and you will have me. Anticipation is half the pleasure. For this reason, I would not want our coming together to happen too quickly. It is to be savored, not rushed.”

She snuggled back into his arms, holding his promise close to her heart. Yes, she was impatient. She wanted him desperately, but it went beyond sex. She wanted his care. His regard. She wanted to be pampered. She wanted to belong.

Exhaustion, spawned by too much excitement, crept over her body. The adrenaline rush had left her and on the heels of her explosive orgasm; she resembled a gelatinous puddle.

When the car stopped, she moaned her protest, and Damon chuckled low in her ear. “Stay still, Serena mine.”

She relaxed in his arms as Sam opened the back door. Damon carefully extricated himself from around her and eased out of his seat. Then he reached back in for her, sliding his arms underneath her body and lifting.

A sigh of contentment whispered past her lips as he carried her up the steps to his house. As soon as they were past the doorway, he lowered her until her feet hit the floor. He turned her around until she faced him, and he reached for the lapels of the robe he’d adorned her with.

Her mouth opened in protest, but he silenced her with a stern look.

“When you’re in my home, you’ll stay undressed unless I’ve chosen to clothe you.”

She stared dumbly at him as he pulled the robe over her shoulders and let it slide down her arms. Air from the vent above blew quietly over her skin, and she shivered. Her hands went to her arms in a protective measure, but he wouldn’t allow it.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he husked as he pried her hands from her body. He caught her fingers in his and squeezed gently. “You are a beautiful woman, and I have no intention of allowing any of that beauty to remain hidden while you are in my keeping.”

“I have to have permission to put clothes on?” she asked incredulously.

He stared wordlessly at her, telling her in no uncertain terms what he thought of that question.

“Okay, okay,” she grumbled.

“Come with me,” he ordered.

He put his hand to her back and urged her forward. Her bare feet padded across the wooden floor, and while before she had gravitated toward him, to the warmth and security of his body, she now kept a foot of distance between them. Self-preservation.

She wasn’t sure why she suddenly quaked with uncertainty, but now that she was on his turf, doubt niggled at her.

They entered what was obviously the master bedroom. It was huge, a suite. In the center, a king-sized bed rested. It was a mahogany, four-poster frame that dominated the space. Everything else in the room was secondary to this centerpiece.

To the left a large armoire stood flush against the wall. The wood was a match to the bed, in fact, to all the furnishings in his house. Rich, dark woods. Masculine and warm.

“Sit there on the bed,” he told her.

She walked to the edge and perched gingerly, hands clasped in her lap. He moved with grace and elegance that was a contradiction to the rough, animalistic way he’d fucked her mouth just an hour before. He was indeed a contradiction, one that intrigued her. Outwardly he seemed so civilized, so refined. He was the epitome of culture, a consummate gentleman. And yet there was a caveman buried under the polished exterior. A man driven by his needs and desires. A man who quite simply wouldn’t accept less.

He opened the armoire, and she heard a slight rustle. A moment later he turned around, a small package in his hand. Curious, she stared as he opened the box and pulled out a gold circlet.

The bed dipped as he settled beside her, not one but two bands in his grip.

“Turn around and look at me,” he directed.

She shifted and turned, bending one leg and dangling the other over the side of the bed.

“I opted not to use a collar on you.”

Her hand flew to her neck as her eyes widened. She knew of the practice of collaring slaves, but it seemed so . . . barbaric.

“However, I am greatly pleased by the idea of you wearing the mark of my ownership, so I bought these.”

He held up the cuffs, opening one. His free hand trailed up her arm and stopped midway between her elbow and her shoulder. Then he clasped the cuff around her arm, the metal cool against her flesh.

It was a beautiful piece of jewelry. Feminine and thin. Not thick or bulky. It was about two inches wide with intricate designs etched onto the face. And it fit her perfectly.

He reached down and caught her foot in his hand and raised it to his lap. Again, his fingers trailed over her flesh, sensual and soft. He opened the other cuff and secured it around her leg, just above her ankle. The anklet was a perfect match to the one on her arm, and it conjured images of a harem girl, adorned in gold, as she danced for her sultan.

“For as long as you belong to me, you will wear my mark,” he said. “You won’t remove them, not even to bathe.”

She glanced at her arm and then down to her ankle. She felt exotic, not at all like herself, and wasn’t that the purpose of this? To step outside herself and live a fantasy?

Another giggle threatened to escape, and she swallowed it back. How absurd was this? She was sitting naked on the bed next to a man who’d just shackled her for all practical purposes. Shackled her and commanded her to stay naked while she was in his presence.

Clearly she was loopy.

“First, a shower,” Damon said as he studied her closely. “I’ll have a tray brought up, and we’ll eat in bed afterward.”

“Tray brought up?” she croaked. Did he have servants who would be witness to her nakedness? To the fact she was acting as his slave? Good lord, would he want to have sex with her in plain view of anyone walking by?

“You’re starting to panic,” he reprimanded. “Relax and allow me to take care of you, Serena.”

She inhaled deeply through her nose and then let it out in a long exhale. “I’m sorry. I won’t question you again.”

He smiled. “Yes, you will. Of that I’m sure.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the satisfied glint in his eyes. “And what will you do?”

“I have my methods of punishment,” he said in a silky, sexy-as-hell voice.

“You’re not exactly encouraging me to be good,” she murmured.

He shook his head. “No games, Serena. That isn’t what this is about. If you want games of cat and mouse, disobedient slave to punishing master, you’re better off with someone else. As much as this is a fantasy and not your reality, in the time you’re with me, it will be real. In all ways.

“I want your obedience. I expect it—no, I demand it. I don’t relish nor will I enjoy the idea of punishing you. So if you seek to bait me so that you enjoy the thrill of discipline, you’re sure to be disappointed.”

She nodded. “I understand.” She glanced down at the band circling her arm again. Unable to resist, she raised her other hand to touch the beautiful designs. “Why did you choose this instead of a collar?”

“Because I want you to wear the sign of my ownership in public as well as private, and a collar . . . I don’t seek to embarrass you, nor do I desire to make our relationship public. It’s a private matter between the two of us and not open for speculation. All that matters to me is that you know that you belong to me. What others think or not is irrelevant. I’m not so insecure that I need you to overtly scream to the world that you are my slave.”