Page 53 of Until I Own You

“You like to be called a good girl, don’t you?”

“Yes, Sir.” Her eyes are on the floor.

I chuckle to myself. “Kneel, pet.”

Bridget hurries to obey. So eager.

“If you like to be called good girl, you will continue to act like one. So, from this moment forward you will not speak unless I address you first.”

“Yes, Sir,” she says in such a simple, reflexive way, it takes her a second to realize she’s spoken out of turn.

Bridget smacks her hand across her mouth and looks at me. When our eyes meet, she realizes another rule has been broken and she claps her eyes closed.

“Now, now, Bridget.” I shake my head. “I know you know better than that. I guess you’re just too excited for your own good.”

I go over to her.

From her tense posture, I can tell she is bracing for punishment.

Running my hand through her ponytail again, I let the moment linger and tremble.

She will not know it’s coming, nor does she deserve it. But this is too good an opportunity to waste.

I wind her hair around my hand and pull back.

Bridget lets out a gasp that she tries to muffle by shutting her lips.

“I told you that you couldn’t speak. Not that you shouldn’t make a sound,” I say through clenched teeth.

Bridget breathes heavily. Cheeks flooding with color.

“Are you enjoying this?” I smile.

She nods.

“I asked you a direct question, pet. I need your words when that happens.”

“Yes, Sir. I am, Sir.” She keeps her eyes averted. Good girl.

But not what I need.

I pull her hair more, bending her back further. This time, she lets her sounds free, a loud cry. But it’s not pain. Shock and… arousal?

“Look me in the eye and say it again.”

Her green eyes blink open and meet mine.

I almost falter. Almost end the scene.

She is sixteen again, the pretty teenager who sat across from me at dinner as we met for the first time, the pretty, shy girl who couldn’t look me in the eye more than a second at a time.

My pretty little sub. From the beginning.

“Yes, Sir,” she says, throat straining.

I want to kiss her, want to bite her neck, want to plunge my hand into the bodice of her dress and feel her breasts. “Say you’re sorry,” I say, stone-faced.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

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