Fuel the Fire (Calloway Sisters 3)

He’s not interested in the food. That much I’ve gathered.

I find myself tapping my heel on the floorboards while he sips his wine. He watches my eyes narrow to pinpoints.

“If your silence is my punishment for handcuffing you,” I say, “then you should know that it’s more of a prize. Your voice bleeds my ears.”

His lips curve upward. “Vous êtes ravissante.” You are exquisite. His serious tone clenches my heart, his eyes sweeping my sheer gown once more, to show that he’s talking about more than my previous exaggeration. Then Connor picks up the second wine glass. “And I’ve spent the past three hours in a pantry with only Ryke as company, so I’ve had plenty of time to decide what your punishment will be. The silent-treatment isn’t nearly satisfying enough to be a part of it.”

“If I didn’t tie you up, you would’ve left,” I refute.

He doesn’t deny this. He stands in front of me, sipping his wine and holding out the second glass. I reach out to take it, but he draws it to his chest again.

I scowl at his juvenile tactic.

He grins more, and then he scans the room for the third time, his mind seemingly reeling, but I see the smile behind his eyes. “Say something nice about me, and I’ll give you the wine.”

I think he’s testing to see how far this “compliment” situation will go on his birthday. I fully meant to be kinder to him today, for the sake of celebrating him. But it’s difficult to compliment a man whose ego outsizes the room. “You’re not a horrible lover,” I start, even forcing a tight smile.

He drinks my wine. Ugh. “You can do better than that, Miss Highest Honors.”

I cross my ankles. He uses his foot to spread them open, my knees parted. My chest expands in a deep inhale, his dominance so apparent and unyielding. “You’re tall,” I say.

He drinks more from my glass, consuming about half. I love and hate that burgeoning, conceited grin. I love and hate his good looks: polished in black slacks and a white button-down, his wavy brown hair styled, his skin smooth with charming eyes and a self-satisfied mouth.

“I’m waiting.” He swishes the wine, cupping both glasses but he focuses just on mine.

“Your dick is huge.” I press my lips together.

He laughs once. “That’s a fact, darling. It’s not what I want from you.” He swigs another fourth of my wine.

I let out a breath. “You’re demanding when you want to be.” He almost raises the glass to his lips again but I speak quickly. “And you’re so brilliant and attractive; it becomes maddening”—my heart pumps faster—“that someone like you exists, and that you should be here in our bedroom, that we should share a bedroom at all—it’s unreal and the most fulfilling life I could ever think to dream.” I whisper, “I’m tragically in love with you, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

He clasps my hand and lifts me to my feet. I watch him pour his wine into my glass, filling it entirely before passing it to me. He sets his empty glass on the vanity behind me, the silence winding more and more tension. I take a small sip, my body already warm and flushed.

His hand rests on my lower back. I hold his gaze, imagining we’re alone in a ballroom together, dressed accordingly, prepared to conquer the world. He asks, “And how does time act on my birthday?”

Time.

“It’s malleable,” I breathe. There is no carriage ready to morph into a pumpkin at midnight. I’d push tonight into the morning.

My words seem to move him, his lips meeting mine first. He kisses me slowly, then more forcefully, lasting a brief moment that sets my pulse on fire. He rotates me to the vanity and pries the wine from my fingers. He sets the glass on the floorboards out of reach. “Put your palms flat on the surface,” he orders.

I push some of my Chanel perfume bottles aside and then place my palms on the wood, my back still straight.

He leaves for a second, his warmth edging further away from me. Through my vanity mirror, I see him slip into the closet. When he returns, he carries more than a few items: a belt, a diamond collar, a tie, and of course, handcuffs. Of everything, the belt worries me the most. He’s never hit me with one, and it’s not a particular fantasy of mine.

We have small floggers, but if he uses them, it’s to tease me, never to whip me. I have a threshold of pain that stays at pain and never verges into pleasure.

He knows this, but the belt still causes alarm. “Connor,” I say, “I don’t want to be whipped.”

His legs knock into the backs of mine, pushing me further against the wooden edge. The force slides the stool underneath the vanity. “I know, Rose.” He kisses the nape of my neck once—no twice, my pulse thrumming for more.

Then he sets the diamond collar beside my flattened palm and instead hooks the belt around my neck, tight but not suffocating me. He wraps the end around his fist, the visual more stimulating than I thought it’d be, my leg muscles constricting and heart skipping every other beat.

“Your punishment,” he says in the pit of my ear. And then I feel the soft fabric of his tie around my eyes. He knots it behind my head. I’m blind to his movements, but I feel him slowly, so slowly, unzip my gown, cold pricking my bare back.

He shifts the fabric off my shoulders, uncovering my arms. I can sense my breasts being fully exposed, my nipples hardening as his large, masculine hands travel across my skin. I may not have a bra on, but I do wear panties. They’re something I’ve never worn before. I meant to one time, but I chickened out and changed before he saw.

I thought tonight would be perfect since there is no way in hell I’d ever wear them again. But now I can’t even see his reaction with this stupid blindfold.

I lift it above my eyes as he pinches one of my nipples. Connor catches me through the mirror, and he spanks me, so hard that I careen forward, my hipbones digging into the wooden edge. A gasp tickles my throat, and I think I’m sufficiently soaked now.

He tugs the tie down. “Don’t touch this.”

“I’ll wear it in a second,” I refute, about to pull it back up to my head. I have to see your reaction to my panties goddammit.

His brows furrow, curious now as to my odd demands. While he’s thinking, he unbuttons his shirt, and I absorb every little curve of his defined muscles. He sheds his shirt and rewraps the belt around his fist. His gaze suddenly trains on my ass. He knows he has to finish undressing me.

And then my vision darkens once more, the tie covering my eyes. “Connor—”

“If you want to negotiate, you need to give me something in return. That’s how deals are made.”

He has to be so technical. Though, I usually am too. He tugs my dress further down my waist, basically telling me I have five seconds to put in an offer. “If you remove this blindfold, I’ll…let you hit me with the belt.” I cringe as soon as the words escape.

“No,” he rejects my offer. I’m sure he wants me to shut up…

“You can gag me with the tie.”

“Okay,” he agrees, but he never removes the tie. Instead, he yanks my gown to my ankles. I swear his entire body tenses against me, and I instantly pull the blindfold to my forehead, witnessing his expression through the mirror.

Connor rubs his lips as though to hide a grin, but it’s overtaking his face, consuming his features and escalating with each second. I wear simple boy-short black panties but the ass says: I LOVE CONNOR COBALT!

There’s even a lipstick print beside his name.

It’s the biggest ego stroke. “Stop smiling,” I say, out of instinct. I huff. “I mean…smile, laugh, make fun—” He

suddenly tightens the tie around my mouth until I’m biting it.

His lips skim my cheek. “Do you see me making fun of you?”

I shake my head, and I feel his hand cup my ass. Oh God. His fingers snake across my panties, right between my legs. My feet try and fail to constrict in my rigid heels.

“Step out of your dress,” he commands, his gaze planted on my ass. His growing desire stirs mine even more. He squeezes the right part of me before spanking again. “Move, Rose.”

I choke on a breath before I step out of the fabric. He doesn’t just chuck the gown aside. He picks it up as if it’s another one of my limbs (it might as well be) and he carefully sets it on a nearby chair. Then he bends down and removes both of my heels, which brace my feet a certain way. My orgasms are always more heightened without them.

And then he handcuffs my wrists together. “You want to see how fucking hard I am, Rose?” he asks. Yes. My chest collapses and lifts aggressively. He removes his black pants and his boxer-briefs, his cock so rigid that I can practically feel the fullness before he even pushes in.

I’m so wet that his fingers stroke my clit beneath my panties for one minute, and I already clench over and over. His name and my cries are muffled through the tie. While my head spins, he pulls me back by the hips. My forearms hit the wood, more bent over, and he spreads my legs open so my ass is in his possession, the typeface on my panties in his view.

He leans his body forward while tugging back at the belt. The leather digs into my windpipe, causing my eyes to flutter. His erection presses against me, and I ache for him to thrust inside.

His warm breath hits my ear. “I’m going to fuck my name on your ass.” He plans to keep my panties on as much as possible. He brushes aside the fabric, just enough on the bottom to where he can slip in…and he does. Slowly. So slowly that the pressure mounts like a spark eating a fuse line.

I moan and may accidentally say the word God more than once, but it comes out garbled with the tie. Connor. I catch the arousal in his face from the mirror, his focus on my ass, and his arms clutching me with this neediness that I desire in bed. I want to be wanted, and this man completely, utterly wants me.