Throne of Sin

Heated Dreams

Evelyn

That night I dream.

I'm in a chamber I don't recognize—stone walls, torchlight casting shadows that move like living things. The air is warm despite the stone. My wrists are bound above my head with rope, thick and rough against my skin, tied to an iron ring set into the wall. My feet touch the ground but barely. I'm stretched, exposed, wearing nothing but firelight.

I should be afraid.

I'm not.

Damien stands before me, still fully clothed in dark leather and fine wool, and there's something about that—him dressed while I'm bare and bound—that makes heat pool low in my belly.

"Do you trust me?" he asks.

His voice is different here. Lower. Weighted with authority that wasn't there in the market but feels like it's always been there, just waiting.

"Yes, Sir."

The words leave my mouth without thought, like they've been living in my throat my whole life waiting for someone to call them forth.

He smiles. Not the almost-smile from the wall. This one is darker, knowing, pleased.

"Good girl."

Two words and my body responds like he's touched me. My breath catches. My thighs press together.

He moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, and his hand comes up to cup my jaw. His thumb traces my lower lip.

"You're going to do exactly as I say," he tells me. "Aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And if I tell you not to move, not to speak, not to come until I give you permission—you'll obey me."

It's not a question but I answer anyway. "Yes, Sir."

"Because you're mine now." His hand slides down—throat, collarbone, between my breasts. "Every part of you. Mine to command. Mine to pleasure. Mine to control with your given permission."

"Yours," I whisper.

His hand keeps moving. Down my stomach, over my hip, and when his fingers finally slide between my legs and find how wet I already am, he makes a low sound of approval that goes straight through me.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "Already dripping for me and I've barely touched you."

I whimper. Try to press into his hand. He pulls back immediately and my body cries out at the loss.

"Did I say you could move?"

"No, Sir."

"Then be still."

I force myself motionless. Every muscle trembling with the effort of it, with the need to chase his touch, but I hold still because he told me to.

"Better." His hand returns, fingers sliding through my wetness, circling but not entering. "You're going to learn to take what I give you. Nothing more. Nothing less. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

He slides two fingers inside me without warning and I gasp, my body clenching around the intrusion. He doesn't move them. Just holds them there, filling me, making me feel every inch while I hang from the rope and shake.

"This is mine," he says quietly. "Your pleasure. Your body. Every sound you make. All of it belongs to me now."

"Yes, Sir."

He starts to move his fingers then—slow, deep, deliberate. His other hand comes up to my breast, thumb circling my n****e until it's hard and aching. The dual sensation makes my head fall back against the stone.

"Eyes on me," he commands.

I force my eyes open. Meet his gaze. Dark and burning and absolutely in control.

"You don't look away," he says. "I want to see everything you feel. Every moment I take you apart."

His fingers curl inside me, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind my eyes, and I cry out.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you."

He f***s me with his hand—steady, relentless, his thumb finding my c**t and circling with just enough pressure to make me desperate. The pleasure builds fast and sharp, coiling tight in my core, and I'm pulling against the ropes without meaning to, my hips trying to move with his rhythm.

"Please," I gasp. "Please, Sir, I need—"

"I know what you need." His voice is rough now, strained. "But you don't come until I tell you to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Say it."

"I don't come until you tell me to."

"Good girl."

He adds a third finger and I nearly sob with it, stretched and full and so close to breaking. His thumb presses harder on my c**t and the pleasure spikes, sharp and overwhelming, right at the edge of too much.

"Look at you," he says, almost reverent. "So beautiful like this. Bound and desperate and completely mine."

"Yours," I manage. "Please, Sir, please—"

"Not yet."

I whimper. My whole body is shaking, pulled taut between the rope and his hand and the pleasure building like a storm. I don't know how much longer I can hold it.

His mouth comes to my ear. "You're going to come for me now," he murmurs. "Hard. And you're going to keep your eyes on mine while you do it."

"Yes, Sir."

"Come."

The orgasm hits me like lightning. I shatter, crying out, my body convulsing around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. I keep my eyes locked on his the whole time, watching him watch me break apart, and the intensity of it—being seen like this, being owned like this—makes it last longer, deeper, until I'm sobbing with it.

When it finally subsides he withdraws his hand slowly. Brings his fingers to my mouth.

"Open."

I do. He slides them between my lips and I taste myself on his skin, salt and musk, and he watches me with those dark burning eyes like I'm the most precious thing he's ever held.

"Perfect," he murmurs. "My perfect, obedient girl."

I wake gasping.

My room is dark and cold and I'm alone in my narrow bed with my hand between my legs and my body still trembling. My shift is soaked with sweat. My thighs are slick.

It was a dream.

Just a dream.

But I can still feel the ghost of rope around my wrists, the weight of his gaze, the way my body responded to his commands like it had been waiting its whole life to obey him.

I press my hands to my face. My skin is burning.

I've never had a dream like that. Never even imagined—

The dreams I had about Marcus were soft things. Gentle. Kissing in moonlight, his hands careful on my skin. Nothing like this. Nothing that made me feel like I was being claimed, possessed, taken apart and remade into something that belonged to someone else.

Tomorrow I'm supposed to meet him at the market. The real him. The man who sat on a wall and talked about broken fountains and looked at me like I was worth noticing.

The man I just dreamed about binding me and commanding my pleasure and calling me his.

I roll onto my side and pull the blanket up to my chin. My heart is still racing. My body is still aching for something I don't have words for.

Some part of me—some deep, hungry, previously silent part of me—wants it to be real.

I close my eyes and try very hard not to think about what that means.