The change in Deacon was indubitable.

His usual calm remained, but a formidable energy rippled through him, his gaze no longer kind and gentle, but very much predatory. His face was painfully empty, the dark shadows that formed from the trembling flames of the many candles that lit the room dancing along his bare shoulders.

He watched me watch him; satisfaction anchored itself to his gaze. He liked me like this, bound and bared to him. He liked watching me gasp and squirm beneath his gaze and his touch.

And me?

I fucking hated how fucking turned on I was. The softness of the mattress caressed me, but the painful...