"Get on your knees"
The last time I heard that was nineteen years ago. Close to two decades. Over the legal age. And here I am, hearing it and doing so because I couldn't tame my mouth.
I move slowly, sliding off the chair and onto the hardwood. The floor is cold through my jeans, and within seconds, my knees starts to ache.
Banks doesn't move a muscle. He doesn't look away.
He remain perfectly still, watching me. I expect to feel sham, rage. A desperate need to call bullshit and storm out. But I feel none of that.
Instead, a hum of sheer anticipation buzz through my veins. It's a hunger I can't explain. A desire for his touch, for the next order. I'm terrified I might actually drip onto his floor right then and there.
"Eyes on me." Damn
I snap my gaze to his. The warm ambient light
