All Chapters of All Yours (An Erotica Collection): Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The conference hotel was a sleek, modern tower in downtown Chicago—glass walls, marble lobby, the kind of place where academics pretended they weren’t thrilled by the luxury.Eliza had never traveled with Lucian before.The invitation had come two days after their night in his study: a professional email to the department list about the Victorian Literature symposium, followed by a private text.‘You will accompany me as my research assistant. Shared suite. Pack appropriately’Appropriately, she’d learned, meant whatever he decided.They’d arrived Friday afternoon. He’d checked them in while she waited with the luggage, hyper-aware of the discreet black leather collar hidden beneath her silk scarf—a thin band with a small silver O-ring that could pass as a choker to the untrained eye.And the plug.He’d inserted it himself that morning, in his bedroom, bending her over the edge of the bed efficiently. “Hold still,” he’d murmured, slicking the medium-sized steel plug before easing it

Graduation day dawned bright and unseasonably warm for May.Eliza stood in front of the full-length mirror in Lucian’s bedroom—now their bedroom—adjusting the black graduation gown over the outfit he’d chosen.Beneath the gown: a sheer black lace bodysuit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. No bra. No panties. Just delicate straps framing her breasts and crotch, the fabric whispering against her skin with every movement.And the collar.Not the discreet choker she’d worn before. This one was bolder—wide black leather with a silver ring at the throat, hidden for now beneath the gown’s high collar, but unmistakable up close.He’d fastened it himself that morning, after waking her slowly with his mouth and hands, bringing her to a shuddering orgasm without penetration.“Today,” he’d murmured against her throat as he buckled the collar, “everyone will see you receive your degree. But only I will know what you are truly wearing. Who you truly belong to.”Now he stood behind he

Ava woke to the soft click of her bedroom door opening. She’d barely slept—tossing in the luxurious sheets, collar a constant reminder around her throat, mind racing with what the morning would bring. Gray early light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. No curtains. Of course. Damian stood in the doorway, already dressed in a pristine white shirt and dark trousers, coffee mug in hand. He looked like he’d been awake for hours. “Up.” One word. She pushed back the covers and stood, naked except for the collar. The air was cool against her skin; goosebumps rose instantly. He sipped his coffee, eyes raking over her without hurry. “Come.” He turned and walked away. She followed, barefoot on the heated marble floors, through the living room to the kitchen—sleek, minimalist, everything stainless and black. He set his mug down and pointed to a spot on the floor beside the island. “Kneel.” She sank to her knees on the hard stone, hands resting palm-up on her thighs—the

Three months into the arrangement, Ava had learned to read Damian’s silences.The way his jaw tightened when a rule was broken. The subtle flare of his nostrils when he was pleased. The way his hand would settle possessively on her lower back in public—claiming without words.Tonight was her first true test in high society.The Voss Enterprises annual charity gala—black-tie, held in the grand ballroom of the Metropolitan Museum. Celebrities, politicians, old money, new money. Everyone who mattered in New York would be there.And she would be on his arm.He’d dressed her himself that afternoon.The gown was crimson silk—floor-length, off-the-shoulder, with a thigh-high slit that revealed a flash of leg with every step. Backless almost to the base of her spine. Elegant, but undeniably provocative.Beneath it: nothing but the collar, discreetly hidden beneath a matching crimson choker with a small silver clasp that could pass for jewelry.And the toy.He’d inserted the remote-controlled

Six months.Half the contract was fulfilled.Ava stared at her reflection in the penthouse bathroom mirror—collar snug around her throat, faint marks from last night’s ropes still visible on her wrists.She looked like his.She felt like his.And that was the problem.The isolation had crept up slowly.At first, the luxury cocoon had been intoxicating—private chef meals, designer wardrobe chosen by him, days structured around his schedule and her submission.No work. No friends. No outside world except when she was on his arm, perfectly behaved.Her old life—journalism contacts, brunches with girlfriends, even scrolling social media—had faded to nothing.He’d taken her phone the first week. Given her a new one with only his number and emergency contacts.“For your safety,” he’d said.She’d accepted it.But lately, the walls had started closing in.It hit hardest on a rainy Tuesday when he was in back-to-back meetings.She wandered the penthouse—spotless, silent, empty.Tried reading.