“Oh good,” she says as she opens the door. “I’ll get two bags then.”

She hops out of the car. When she’s at the entrance, she turns and winks at me over her shoulder before she disappears inside.

My cock aches and I drag a hand down my face. I put all my effort into tearing my thoughts away from Lark, but it doesn’t work.

She takes her time in the shop. And just like she promised, she comes out with two bags of ice and a magnetic, shit-eating grin, one that stays pinned on me as she saunters past the passenger door to put them both in the trunk. Lark slips back into the car looking quite pleased with herself, and it only makes my erection that much harder. Just like she probably planned.

“Quite the smirk you have there, duchess. Think you got away with something, do ya?”

Lark laughs and turns toward me to look out the back window as she reverses. The harness tightens across her breasts with the twist of her body. “Oh I know I didn’t, but it still brings me joy.”

“Won’t be so feckin’ funny when you’re gagging on my cock.”

A giggle escapes her lips as she throws the car into first gear but keeps her foot on the brake. She pins me with her crystalline gaze, and though she might be teasing me, I know what my words have done to her. It’s in the slow pass of her tongue over her lips. The dark expanse of her pupils. The way her nipples harden to firm peaks beneath the delicate fabric of her dress.

I lean closer and her breath hitches. My eyes fuse to her mouth as a smile sneaks across my lips.

“You like that, don’t you? You want me filling your throat. You want to swallow every drop of cum like my good fucking whore. Don’t worry, you will. And then you’re going to beg me for more, won’t you?” I chuckle as her lips part and the sweet scent of her breath floods my senses. She nods. “That’s what I thought.”

I lean a little closer, just enough for my lips to graze Lark’s as I whisper, “Drive.”

I sit back in my seat with a satisfied grin. My cock is so painfully hard that I’m convinced my entire body is as furious about the near kiss as she is. Finally, she takes her foot off the brake. The tires squeal against the asphalt as we pull out of the parking lot.

The moment she parks, I’m out of the car. Lark’s barely gotten a foot on the garage floor before I haul her out of the vehicle and throw her over my shoulder to the sound of her shocked laugh. I grab the ice from the trunk, and a moment later I’m striding up the stairs with her body still hanging off my back. Her half-hearted protests echo across the factory floor. It’s not until we’re in the apartment and I’ve put the ice in the chest freezer that I set her down, but it’s only long enough to capture her lips in a brutal kiss.

Lark melts into me. Her moan vibrates in my mouth as her tongue sweeps across mine. She fists my shirt and tugs me along with her, not breaking the kiss as she stumbles into a side table and the dog and the couch as she leads me toward the bedrooms.

The moment we’re in her room, I pick her up and toss her on the bed. Lark is panting, kneeling on the crumpled covers, her eyes hooded. Her expression is ravenous as I reach over my head and pull my shirt off.

I take a step back toward the armchair in the corner of the room. “I meant what I said.”

“I’m counting on it,” she breathes. Her eyes rake over my body, coasting over scars hidden beneath ink. She drinks in every inch of my skin, the fabric of her dress balled in tight fists as she leans back onto her heels, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. “I want to touch you.”

With a final step backward, I sink into the chair. I lean back and regard her for a long moment, reveling in the desperation painted across her face. “Then you’d better show me how much you want it, duchess.”

A shiver wracks through Lark’s body before she starts to climb off the bed.

“No.”

Lark stops immediately. She waits for instruction, but there’s frustration in her eyes. My blood turns to fire, possibilities and fantasies racing through my mind. Just like the time I spoke to Lark on the balcony, she ignites a spark in the dark. But I don’t know if I’ve ever been the hunter with Lark, or if I’m the one who’s been ensnared.

Either way, there’s no stopping it now. I wouldn’t want to if I could. Not when Lark is right there, nearly within reach, so desperate for friction that she’s nearly squirming on the bed.

“Take that dress off, but leave the harness on,” I say.

Lark pauses as though the words take a moment to cut through the haze of lust that’s descended between us. Then she guides one of the thin straps off her shoulder, slipping it beneath the leather that loops toward her back. She does the same on the other side. With balletic flexibility, she pulls each arm free, careful not to tear the delicate fabric. Then she holds my eyes to drink in my reaction as she slowly pulls the layers down beneath the harness, exposing her breasts and pebbled nipples, the smooth expanse of skin around her navel, the narrow strip of hair leading to her pussy. She drags the dress down her legs and holds it up before she lets it drift to the floor.

Every breath she takes is unsteady as I take my time to just look. The black leather lines and tiny stars. The way they trace the contours of her breasts, the ridges of her ribs. My art embracing her flesh.

It takes everything in me to stay in the chair.

We exchange a silent conversation with no more than a glance, and I know Lark understands that she can say whatever she wants. Whatever she feels. She can be whoever she wants to be. I will take her in any version of herself she’s willing to give.

My voice is as dispassionate as I can manage when I ask, “What are you?”

“Your whore.”

“Then get down on your hands and knees.”

Lark slides off the bed, gets down on her hands and knees, and waits. And waits. And waits.

I take the blade from my pocket and unhook my stropping belt. As I slide the sharp edge across the leather, I watch her tremble with the chill of anticipation. When she can’t take it any longer, when I think I’m about to give in to my desires, she finally whispers a single word. Please.

I close the blade and flip it over in my hand. “You’re not my wife,” I say, and there’s a flash of panic and hurt in her eyes. “You’re just mine. Now crawl.”

Relief flickers in Lark’s face.

One hand and one knee after the other, Lark crawls toward me. Her eyes never stray from my face. When she stops at my feet, she doesn’t touch me. Instead, she waits for my next command. There’s not a single thing in this world that’s more intoxicating than seeing her kneel before me but knowing that she’s still the one in control. It’s so clear in her willing gaze, the way she folds her hands in her lap and pushes her breasts together against the leather straps, encouraging our little game. She wants to be ordered. To be used. To be filled and denied and degraded. To be rewarded when she’s ready. She’s in control. And I will give her anything she wants and more.

“Belt,” I say, and I let go of the strip of leather so she can free the buckle and open it wide. “Zipper.” She pulls it down. “Now take my cock out.”

I lift my hips so Lark can lower my pants and briefs, freeing my erection. It’s painfully hard, ready to plunge into the heat of her mouth, a bead of pre-cum gathered at the head. Lark stares at it with ravenous desire. She bites her lip and wraps her hand around the base.

“Spit on it and stroke it.”

Lark does as I ask without hesitation, spitting on the head before she starts languid passes of her hand from the base to the tip. The pace is slow, her grip strong. A moan rumbles in my chest as I sink farther back and resist the urge to close my eyes so I can watch her lavish my cock with her attention. I’ve dreamed of her touching me like this so many times, and it’s a thousand times better than I imagined.