Forbidden Collection
She stopped behind me, gathered my long auburn hair in one fist, and tugged my head back until I was looking up at her.
“Safe word is ‘crimson’,” she told me. “Say it and everything stops. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
My pulse slammed. “Yes, Mistress.”
She released my hair. “Good girl.”
The praise hit like a drug.
She walked to my bedroom, returned with the silk scarf I kept draped over the mirror. She blindfolded me with it—tight, darkness swallowing everything except the sound of her breathing and the storm.
“Hands behind your back.”