I part my lips, taking his fingers into my mouth—tasting myself, and tasting him.

“Sit up,” he says, drawing his fingers back in slow motion.

I part my lips just enough to drag against his skin, leaving a wet, lingering sound as his fingers slips away.

I obey, facing him like an obedient penitent.

He unbuckles his belt and I hate that he’s doing it himself. Usually, I love being the one who undoes a man, piece by piece.

But here, apparently I don't call the shots.

I should hate that.

Instead I find myself settling into it, waiting for his next command.

He pulls the leather from his loops,...