Chapter 8

Seraphina's POV

Punishment.

The word echoed in the darkness behind my blindfold.

What kind of punishment? Spanking? Something worse? The possibilities spiraled through my mind, each one more shameful than the last.

I couldn't see anything. Could only hear.

The click of his shoes against the marble floor. The soft sound of a drawer opening. Objects shifting. Metal against metal.

What is he getting?

My imagination ran wild. I'd seen the room before he'd blindfolded me—the leather straps on the walls, the riding crop he'd already used, the mysterious implements I couldn't even name. What else was hidden in those cabinets? What tools did a man like him use to discipline disobedient girls?

My face burned with shame.

And yet—

The orgasm he'd pulled from me was still pulsing through my veins. Aftershocks of pleasure rippled between my thighs every time I shifted against the silk sheets. I'd never felt anything like it. Never known my body could respond that way.

Is this what I've been missing?

All those years of being proper. Being good. The Ashfords had raised me to be modest, to keep my legs crossed and my desires buried. Good girls didn't touch themselves. Good girls didn't think about sex. Good girls certainly didn't writhe on a stranger's bed, begging to be touched.

But I wasn't being good anymore.

And it felt incredible.

The shame and the pleasure tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. My clit still throbbed from his touch, swollen and sensitive. The wetness between my thighs had soaked into the sheets beneath me.

I wanted more.

The realization shocked me. Even after everything—the humiliation, the tears, the way he'd made me lose control—I wanted him to keep going. Wanted to know what else he could make me feel.

I tried to press my thighs together, desperate for some friction, some relief from the ache building again in my core.

The restraints held firm.

My ankles were still bound to the bedposts, legs spread wide, everything exposed. I couldn't close them. Couldn't hide. Could only lie there, open and waiting, while he decided what to do with me.

"Eager, aren't you?"

His voice came from somewhere to my left. Closer than I'd expected.

I flinched. "I wasn't—"

"You were trying to squeeze those pretty thighs together. Trying to get yourself off again without my permission. Haven't you learned anything?"

"I'm sorry—"

"You will be."

Something cold and smooth pressed against my ankle. I gasped. It trailed slowly up my calf, over my knee, along my inner thigh.

What is that?

Leather, maybe. Or metal. I couldn't tell. Without sight, every sensation was magnified tenfold. The anticipation was almost worse than any punishment could be.

"Do you know what this is?"

"N-no."

"That's half the fun."

The object traced higher. Closer to my center. I held my breath, every muscle in my body tensed.

"You came without permission. Twice. Do you understand why that's unacceptable?"

"Because... because you didn't say I could?"

"Because your pleasure belongs to me now." The object pressed against my inner thigh, cold and unforgiving. "Every moan. Every shiver. Every drop of wetness dripping down these pretty thighs—it's all mine. You don't get to take what isn't given."

Heat flooded between my legs at his words.

What is wrong with me?

He was threatening me. Treating me like property. And my body responded like it was the most erotic thing anyone had ever said.

"You're getting wet again. Does being scolded turn you on, little one?"

"No," I lied.

"Liar."

His finger swiped through my folds without warning. I cried out, my hips jerking against the restraints.

"Soaked." He made a sound of dark satisfaction. "You're dripping for me, and I've barely touched you."

"Please—"

"Please what? Please stop? Please continue?" He circled my clit with devastating slowness. "You need to be more specific."

I didn't know. I didn't know what I wanted anymore. His fingers between my legs, the mysterious object still pressed against my thigh.

"I think," he murmured, "you need to learn patience. You need to learn that your body answers to me. And the only way to teach you that—"

A phone rang.

The sharp electronic tone shattered everything.

His hand withdrew. I heard him curse under his breath.

"Don't move."

As if I had a choice.

-

Lorenzo's POV

I glanced at the screen. Vivienne.

Of course.

I stepped away from the bed, putting distance between myself and the temptation spread across those silk sheets.

"Vivienne." I kept my voice neutral. "It's late."

"Daddy!" Her voice was bright. Too bright for midnight. "I was just thinking about you. How's your evening?"

"Fine. Why are you calling?"

"Can't a daughter check on her father?" She laughed, but there was something beneath it. "Are you at the club tonight?"

My eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason." A pause. "I just heard there was some... excitement there. Some kind of scandal?"

How does she know about that?

"Where did you hear this?"

"People talk. Apparently some businessman's daughter showed up. Made quite a scene."

"And?"

"And nothing. I just thought you should know. They say she's a total slut. Showed up in a torn dress, throwing herself at anyone who'd look at her. Desperate. Pathetic."

I frowned. The cruelty in her tone was jarring.

"She's probably still there," Vivienne continued. "If you see her—if she tries to talk to you—don't be nice to her, Daddy. She deserves to be humiliated. Make her cry. Make her regret ever stepping foot in your club."

"Vivienne." My voice sharpened. "What is this about? Why are you speaking this way about a classmate?"

"She's not my classmate. She's trash." The words dripped with contempt. "Besides, she deserves it. She's been trying to steal the guy I like. Following him around like a lost puppy, acting all innocent when she's really just a scheming little—"

"Enough."

Silence.

"I don't remember teaching you to speak this way," I said coldly. "This language. This cruelty. Where is this coming from?"

"Daddy—"

"No. This is unacceptable. I don't care what this girl did or didn't do. You do not talk about people like this. Not in my presence. Not ever."

Her voice turned petulant. "You don't understand. She's been horrible to me—"

"Then you handle it with dignity. Not by calling your father in the middle of the night to demand I humiliate a stranger on your behalf."

"Fine." The word was clipped. Wounded. "Forget I said anything."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.

What is happening to her?

Her father was the kindest man I ever knew. Why is she so...

I couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't let myself go down that road.

She was struggling. That was all. Growing pains. The pressures of young love and petty rivalries. She needed guidance. Patience.

She needed me.

I turned back to the bed.

The girl lay exactly as I'd left her—bound, blindfolded, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. The wetness glistening between her spread thighs caught the low light.

Beautiful.

The word surfaced unbidden.

But Vivienne's voice still echoed in my skull.

I walked to the bedside. Untied the blindfold with efficient hands.

She blinked up at me, those amber eyes wide and confused. Vulnerable. Her lips parted as if to speak.

"Someone will bring you clothes," I said flatly. "Get dressed. Leave."

"What?"

"This is over." I was already shrugging into my jacket. "Nico will release you and arrange a car."