“Don’t fucking move,” Swiss ordered.
His voice was low, guttural, commanding.
I blinked, my hand pausing midair. The amusement that I’d witnessed earlier was nowhere to be seen. His expression was completely different. Darker. Sinister.
My heart was beating so loud I could barely hear around the roar.
“From now until when I decide, anything you do in this room, you wait until I give you permission to do it. You don’t move an arm, you don’t take off an item of clothing, and you don’t come unless I approve it.” He arched a brow. “You understand me?”
My body thrummed with need. And a little fear. That should’ve been the moment when my past trauma surfaced, when a panic attack started to take control of my body.
But I did not have control of my body.
Swiss did.
And despite my past—or maybe even because of it—I liked that. Loved that. He was a stranger. He could hurt me, yes. But I’d been hurt by a man before. That I could handle. I hadn’t experienced the feeling of excitement and arousal in my blood before. Not once.
And Swiss hadn’t even touched me. Hadn’t even kissed me.
“Do you understand me?” he repeated.
I nodded. “Yes,” I said, my voice husky.
His eyes flickered over me, slowly. “Good,” he murmured.
Then he knelt at my feet.
Knelt at my feet.
Slowly, he pulled off my shoes. His fingers were cool and firm as they rubbed the soles of my feet.
My eyes rolled to the back of my head as he found some kind of pressure point that I didn’t know existed.
With devastating slowness and reverence, Swiss’s hands rubbed upward, underneath my jeans to my calves.
Then he stood, towering over me as he unbuttoned my jeans. My body was vibrating with need, my blood pumping through my veins white hot.
“Lift your hips for me, baby,” Swiss said softly.
I instantly obeyed, even though my limbs felt like lead.
He rolled my jeans off me, discarding them on the floor before hovering above me, staring at me in my underwear.
The panties weren’t bad. I’d changed into a nice pair when I’d made the decision to come here. Not because I’d expected anyone to see them, but because I always made sure to wear nice underwear.
Nice was relative considering what I used to wear cost hundreds of dollars.
These were cheap red lace panties from Target. But I’d never worn red panties. Was never allowed.
So the act of wearing them was rebellion.
And I was very glad I chose this particular pair for this particular night, despite feeling self-conscious. I resisted the urge to cover the sliver of my belly that he’d exposed when taking off my jeans.
Swiss’s hands trailed over the faint stretch marks on my stomach, light and barely there. They traveled downward to the small scar where they pulled my daughter out.
He was exploring the history on my skin with a gentleness that I hadn’t thought him capable of, certainly not after the warning he gave when we came in here.
His finger slipped under the lace panty, and I lost my breath. But it didn’t go downward. Instead, his head lowered, and he kissed me gently, there, through the fabric.