NOVA POV
I should know better by now. After dealing with Grant for over a month—maybe two if you’re being generous—I should’ve learned my lesson: anything that makes his lips curl in that sinful, mischievous way it did when he ntioned the red room. It’s never for my comfort. It’s for his enjoynt.
Always.
Grant doesn’t chase pleasure that accommodates anyone else. He creates it, controls it, bends it until you’re shaking on your knees, whether you like it or not.
And still, here I am, following him like a fool, body thrumming in anticipation while my pussy clenches with the sick thrill of what if.
He walked ahead of with that bold, primal energy that made the air feel heavy. Grant doesn’t just walk into a room, he claims it.
His shoulders roll, his back is straight, his stride is smooth and lethal like a predator who knows you’re already caught. My thighs pressed together helplessly; I swear I could feel my own slick dampening the thin lace between my legs.
He’d already chosen what I should wear, of course. A three-piece lingerie set in bloody red, the kind that doesn’t cover a damn thing but sohow makes you feel even more naked.
A garter belt that hugged my waist like it owned , a see-through lace brassiere that barely pretended to cover my nipples, just teased them with a whisper of color and then the "panty." If you could even call it that. More string than fabric, a whisper of a G-string that did nothing but fra my pussy like it was on sale for the highest bidder.
Any sane girl would be embarrassed. And I am sane, I wrapped a robe around myself before following him out. Call it self-preservation.
Even if he’s seen every inch of , there’s sothing about walking around in nothing but scraps of lace that feels like tempting fate. And if Grant’s anything, he’s the kind of man who’ll take temptation and double it just because he can.
The elevator we stepped into wasn’t the normal one, it was the elevator inside the elevator. Don’t ask how that works, because I couldn’t tell you if my life depended on it. One minute it looked normal, the next his fingerprints and eyeballs were being scanned by so hidden blue light like he was about to launch nukes. For all I know, maybe he was. Grant has that kind of money.
"Is there any trigger you have that I need to know?" he asked, not even glancing at . His voice was smooth, controlled, almost clinical as the elevator whirred to life.
"Hello?"
His tone snapped out of staring at his broad back like a starved idiot.
"Oh." I tugged the robe tighter around , suddenly nervous. "I don’t think I have any."
His smirk flashed across the reflection in the steel doors, sharp and hot. A wolf who’d just been told the lamb had no teeth.
"That ans this body is mine to do as I please," he said, low and rough. "For as long as I want. Right, Nymph?"
My breath caught. The way his voice dropped an octave did things to I can’t even explain. My lips parted before my brain caught up.
"Yes, Daddy," I purred.
The smirk spread, darker now, more dangerous. He lood over as the elevator stopped, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the air. I felt small, smaller than my 5’4 self had ever felt, like he could crush with a glance.
"Say that again, bitch." His voice vibrated straight down into my cunt, and I swear my pussy clenched so hard I thought I’d drip onto the elevator floor.
"Yes... Daddy," I whispered again, dragging my tongue slowly across my bottom lip.
He didn’t hesitate as his hand shot out, wrapping around my throat in a grip so firm my knees buckled. The elevator doors slid open, and he walked forward, dragging by my throat like I was nothing more than his pet.
And God help , I moaned at the tightness, at the dizzying rush of air deprivation. My nipples peaked against the lace bra, aching for attention.
It was everything I’d fantasized about in those filthy mafia-vampire novels I read where the main lead choked his woman until she was on the edge of bliss and fear.
My eyes fluttered, a moan escaping, and he leaned in close enough that his nose brushed mine. His lips hovered over but never touched.
"You like being treated like a filthy bitch, don’t you?" His smile was pure sin.
"Yes..."
My tongue darted out to trace his lips. I slurped softly against them, greedy, trying to take his mouth in a real kiss. My hands itched to claw down his chest, feel his abs flex under my touch.
But Grant froze and, without warning, he shoved back, his grip releasing as cold detachnt slipped over his features.
"Did I ask you to do that?" His voice wasn’t Grant’s anymore. It was Mr. Calloway’s. The CEO tone. Business-like, Cold detached and ruthless.
"I—I’m sorry," I stamred, my chest heaving.
"You will be."
And just like that, his hand was on my neck again, harsher this ti, dragging deeper into the room.
The Red Room was nothing like I expected.
For one, it wasn’t even red. The entire the scread luxury in shades of deep, royal purple. The bed in the center was massive and circular, larger than the oversized king in his bedroom, covered in silk sheets that glead under low lighting.
Above it, the ceiling carried a perfect mirror of equal size. A stage and its audience all in one.
The headboard wasn’t a headboard at all, but a tal grid displaying restraints, whips, cuffs, paddles, so I recognized from porn binges, so from erotic forums, others I couldn’t even na. Toys for every level of sin, from beginner curiosity to full-blown degradation. My mouth went dry.
And of course, he noticed.
Grant returned with a pair of handcuffs, not the cold steel ones hanging as display, but gold ones lined with pink fur. Deceptively soft. A mind ga.
I held out my wrists automatically, eyes gleaming with anticipation, but he didn’t et my gaze. Instead, he spun around, cuffed from behind like I was a criminal, and pushed toward the massive oak desk sitting in the corner.
By then, my robe was gone and forgotten. Lace and garters clung to pathetically, but I felt naked. More than naked. Exposed.
Behind , the sound of his belt unbuckling snapped my breath short. Then—rip. My G-string shredded, leaving bare.
The anticipation burned like fire. My chest rose and fell as seconds stretched into agonizing minutes. Then sothing tightened around my throat—a belt. His belt. He pushed forward so I bent over the desk, ass up, back arched, completely offered to him.
When the blunt head of his cock pressed against my folds, I stiffened, a gasp clawing its way out of my throat. He spat, spreading it with one thrust, and then he was inside, stretching inch by inch.
"Take it, bitch," he growled, yanking my cuffed wrists higher up my back until I cried out. His other hand pulled the belt at my throat tighter, keeping leashed like an animal.
My fear, my sha, all of it burned away under the raw, filthy pleasure flooding my body. His cock pounded into , his heat pressed against my spine, his scent flooding my senses. I moaned like a wanton slut, chasing every stroke.
"Let it out, Nymph," he commanded.
And I did. Every scream, every sob, every filthy sound he wrung out of echoed against the mirrored ceiling above us.
When he finally pulled out, spilling hot across my ass, the silence felt heavy, broken only by our ragged breaths. My body trembled, my throat raw from his grip, my cunt aching and ssy.
And yet, through it all, one thought rose to the surface, forcing itself out of in a hoarse whisper.
"Why can’t I face you when we fuck? Why can’t I touch you?"
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