The sound of her knees hitting the cold wood echoed faintly in the silence of the room.
Samantha had never knelt for anyone in her life—not her bosses, not her professors, not even the men she'd loved, or thought she had. But here, stripped bare in front of Victor Blackwell's penetrating gaze, obedience didn't feel like weakness.
It felt inevitable.
She knelt between his legs, the curve of her spine rigid from nerves, the weight of his gaze pulling her deeper into something she wasn't sure she could escape from. Her heart pounded so hard it was difficult to breathe, and yet a strange calm clung to her bones.
Victor sat back on the velvet couch, legs spread slightly, his black silk shirt still half-buttoned, collar open like a man who already knew he'd won. One arm draped lazily along the backrest. The other reached out and threaded through her hair with deliberate gentleness.
"Look at me."
She obeyed, lifting her gaze to meet his. His eyes were ice, smoke, and hunger all at once.
"There's something intoxicating about watching someone so… defiant," he murmured, letting a strand of her hair glide between his fingers, "learn to kneel."
"I'm not weak," she whispered.
Victor's smile was lazy, knowing. "No, Samantha. You're dangerous. That's why I chose you."
She flushed. Her body trembled, not with fear, but with the weight of being seen. Understood. Owned.
He leaned forward, cupping her chin. "You're going to worship me tonight," he said softly.
"But not with your mouth yet."
Her lips parted, confused.
His hand moved from her face to her chest, dragging a single finger down between her bre@sts, circling one tight, aching n!pple—never quite touching it. Just skimming. Teasing.
"You think submission is about s*x," he continued.
"But it starts here."
He tapped her temple.
"And here." His hand moved lower, just grazing her sternum.
"And especially… here." His fingers drifted to the inside of her thigh, stopping just shy of where she throbbed for contact.
Her breath caught.
Victor's voice darkened. "I won't f*ck you tonight, Samantha. That would be too easy. Too soon. You'd feel good. You'd beg. You'd come."
His hand retreated, leaving her skin colder, emptier.
"But you wouldn't understand what it means to belong to me."
Samantha swallowed hard, her body wound tight with frustration, with heat. "Then teach me."
Victor's eyes flared at her words. For a second, she saw something slip — not control, but desire. Pure, hungry, dangerous.
"Good girl."
The words wrapped around her like velvet and barbed wire.
He stood, towering over her again. "Crawl."
Her fingers tensed against the floor.
"Where?"
"Anywhere I tell you."
Her breath hitched, but she obeyed, crawling as he walked slowly toward the bedroom.
She followed the click of his heels, each step echoing in the expensive silence of his penthouse. When they reached the threshold, he stepped aside, letting her crawl across the thick black rug at the foot of the bed.
"Stop."
She froze on all fours, waiting.
"Now sit up. Hands on your thighs. Back straight."
She shifted, folding her legs beneath her, lifting her chin.
He circled her once more, shirt now discarded entirely, revealing the firm lines of his chest, the faint trail of hair leading down his sculpted stomach. She stared straight ahead, as if looking at him would crack her resolve.
"Do you know what I see when I look at you like this?" he asked.
She didn't respond.
"I see a woman who doesn't know whether she's being destroyed or remade."
Samantha bit her lip, heat rising in her chest.
"Maybe both."
Victor smiled — slow, dark, approving.
He stepped forward and dragged a silk tie from the nightstand. "Color system," he said, holding it in front of her eyes. "Green for yes. Yellow for slow down. Red for stop. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
He tied the silk gently over her eyes, plunging her into darkness.
The moment her vision disappeared, the world shifted.
Every sound was louder. Every movement from him felt closer, sharper.
She heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of glass. She imagined him watching her, admiring her restraint—or testing her patience.
Then his fingers touched her jaw. Slid down her throat. Traced the valley between her bre@sts.
"Hands behind your back," he whispered.
She obeyed, breath catching as she felt something smooth slip around her wrists — leather cuffs, cool and firm, but not cruel.
He tightened them just enough to remind her of her place.
Then nothing.
Silence.
For a long moment, she knelt in the dark, exposed, bound, breathing shallow and fast as arousal pulsed between her legs. Her skin tingled. Her mind screamed for contact.
When Victor finally spoke again, his voice was lower. Controlled. Dangerous.
"I'm going to teach you how to ache."
She didn't answer.
"Spread your knees."
Her body obeyed before her mind even processed the command.
Then—finally—his fingers returned. Not between her legs. Not where she needed. But on her neck. One palm cradled her throat gently as he leaned in.
"I want to make you beg," he whispered.
"I already am," she murmured, breathless.
Victor chuckled darkly. "Not yet, little girl."
His mouth found her neck, kissing lightly—then biting. She gasped, arching slightly, but he grabbed her hip with his other hand and kept her still.
"You don't move unless I say."
She nodded quickly. "Yes, Sir."
Then he moved lower.
His tongue traced the curve of her bre@st, circling her n!pple—hot breath making it ache. But he didn't take it in his mouth. Just circled. Teased. Denied.
She whimpered.
Still blindfolded, still bound, she felt her body flush deeper. Every nerve screamed. Her core clenched with every inhale. She was dripping—ready—but untouched.
Victor's mouth hovered over her n!pple, so close she could feel his lips against it. But still, he withheld.
Then, suddenly, his hand slipped between her thighs.
She jolted.
But instead of sliding inside, he pressed a single finger along the outer edge of her folds. Barely there. Featherlight.
Teasing.
She moaned.
He said nothing. Just explored her slowly—his touch maddening, never giving what she needed. She was soaked. He knew it. She knew he knew it.
Still, he didn't let her have it.
"Please," she finally whispered.
"Please… touch me." Samantha is confused her mind telling her to make him stop but something flaming inside her want her to beg for something more. She's drowning of pleasure she's feeling in the moment.
"I am touching you," he said coolly.
She whimpered again, hips twitching involuntarily.
"You want my fingers inside you?" he asked.
"Yes—yes, please—" Samantha said flustered and desperate.
"You want to come?"
"Yes," she breathed. "God, yes."
Victor leaned in and kissed her temple. "Too bad."
And he pulled away.
She trembled with frustration. Her chest heaved. Her thighs squeezed together instinctively, chasing friction.
"No," he said sharply. "You don't get to come on your own."
Samantha bit her lip so hard it nearly bled. She'd never been more aroused. Or more helpless.
He untied the blindfold. Her eyes blinked open, adjusting to the soft golden light.
Victor now stood, completely exposed.
Hard. Thick. Aroused.
"Do you want to worship me now?"
"Yes, Sir," she whispered.
"Kiss me."
She crawled forward and began at his thigh—slow, reverent kisses trailing up his skin. She kissed the curve of his hip, the base of his shaft, her tongue barely flicking across him.
Victor hissed softly. "Keep going."
She took him in her hand, guiding his length to her lips, letting her tongue trace his tip, swirling softly.
"Slow," he said. "Make me feel owned."
She licked, sucked, moaned around him. Her mouth worshipped him like a starving woman tasting salvation.
He didn't guide her. He didn't need to.
She found his rhythm. She learned his sounds. When he groaned, she took him deeper. When he growled, she slowed down.
She pleased him until his thighs tensed, his breath shuddered—and then she stopped.
Victor looked down at her, wild with restraint.
"You're learning," he said, voice rough.
She smiled. "Good."
He didn't come. He didn't allow it. He pulled back and lifted her chin.
"Do you feel powerful now?"
"No," she breathed. "I feel desperate."
"Exactly."
He kissed her, deep and rough, tasting himself on her tongue. Then he carried her to the bed, placed her on her stomach, and pulled the covers over her body.
He laid beside her—fully clothed again.
"You won't sleep from pleasure tonight," he said against her ear. "But you'll sleep in my bed. That's reward enough."
Samantha closed her eyes, her thighs still trembling, her need burning like fire through her body.
But she didn't ask for more.
She didn't beg again.
She just whispered, "Thank you, Sir."
Victor kissed the top of her head.
"Good girl."
And in the silence that followed, Samantha realized something dangerous.
She wasn't sure who she was anymore
And for the first time in years, that scared her more than being broke ever did.