Sinful Obsession

Lesson Two

At 8:55 PM, I stood outside his bedroom door. I had chosen a white silk camisole, the same one from the night before, and a pair of black lace underwear that I had bought on impulse months ago and never worn. My feet were bare. My hair was down, falling in loose waves over my shoulders. My heart was a war drum in my chest.

I raised my hand to knock, but the door swung open before my knuckles made contact.

Marcus stood in the doorway, wearing only a pair of dark grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing the deep V of his Adonis belt. His chest was bare, a light dusting of dark hair trailing down from his navel. He had showered; his hair was damp, pushed back from his forehead, and the scent of cedar and soap clung to his skin.

He looked at me, his gaze traveling from my face, down my neck, over the silk camisole, to my bare feet and back up again. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned.

"Good," he said, one word, heavy with approval.

He stepped aside, and I entered his bedroom. The room was larger than mine, decorated in dark, masculine tones—navy walls, dark wood furniture, a king-sized bed with a black leather headboard. The only light came from a single bedside lamp, casting the room in a warm, amber glow. The air smelled of cedar and sandalwood, his scent, and beneath it, something else, something sharp and anticipatory.

The black velvet box sat on the nightstand, open. The collar lay beside it, the leather gleaming in the lamplight.

"Close the door," he said.

I turned and pushed the heavy door shut. The latch clicked, a sound that seemed to echo in the sudden, pressurized silence.

"Lock it."

My fingers found the brass deadbolt and turned it. The metallic thunk was louder this time, final, a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence I had been writing my entire life.

I turned back to face him. He was standing by the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, watching me with the patient, calculating expression of a man who had all the time in the world.

"Kneel," he said.

The command was soft, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of an avalanche. My knees hit the carpet before my mind could process the word. The rug was thick, a plush, dark grey pile that cushioned my fall. I knelt before him, my head bowed, my hair falling forward to curtain my face.

I heard him move, the soft pad of his bare feet on the carpet. He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could see the hem of his sweatpants, the top of his bare feet. The scent of cedar and soap was overwhelming now, mixed with the warm, masculine musk of his skin.

He reached down and lifted the collar from the nightstand. I heard the soft whisper of leather against his skin as he ran it through his fingers.

"Look at me," he said.

I raised my head. His dark eyes looked down at me, filled with a hunger that made my stomach flip. He held the collar in both hands, the D-ring catching the lamplight.

"This collar means you are mine," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "It means you obey. It means you don't speak unless spoken to. It means your body is mine to use, mine to discipline, mine to pleasure." He paused, letting the words sink in. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir," I said, the words tasting foreign and forbidden on my tongue.

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features from stern to almost tender. "Good girl."

He stepped behind me, and I felt the cool leather of the collar as he wrapped it around my throat. His fingers were deft as he fastened the buckle at the back, adjusting the fit until it sat perfectly against my skin. The D-ring rested in the hollow of my throat, a small silver circle that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat.

He returned to stand before me, looking down at his handiwork. His gaze lingered on the collar, then rose to meet my eyes.

"Stand up," he said.

I rose, my legs unsteady. The collar felt heavy, a constant, tangible reminder of my surrender. I stood before him, my hands at my sides, my eyes fixed on his chest.

He reached out and hooked a finger through the D-ring, tugging gently. The pull was slight, barely enough to move me, but the effect was electric. My body responded instantly, leaning toward him, my breath catching.

"Come here," he murmured.

He led me to the bed, his finger still hooked through the ring, guiding me like a pet on a leash. When we reached the edge, he released the ring and placed both hands on my shoulders, pressing down. I sank to my knees on the mattress, then lowered myself until I was sitting on my heels, my head bowed.

He sat on the edge of the bed beside me, his knee brushing against my shoulder. He reached out and tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Tonight," he said, his thumb tracing my lower lip, "I'm going to teach you what it means to belong to someone. Not just your body. All of you. Your mind. Your pleasure. Your fear." His thumb pressed against my lower lip, forcing my mouth open slightly. "Everything."

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against my ear. "And we're going to start with your mouth."

He stood, moving to stand directly in front of me. With one hand, he pushed the waistband of his sweatpants down, just enough to release his c**k. It sprang free, already half-hard, thick and heavy, the head flushed dark. A bead of pre-c*m glistened at the tip.

"Suck it," he commanded, his voice rough. "Show me how good you can be."