Page 112 of Reckless Royalty

“Comfortable?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

He presses a kiss to my temple, lingering for a beat longer than necessary. Then he grabs a blindfold—matching black silk—and holds it up.

“This too?” he asks softly, waiting for my consent.

I nod, my voice steady. “Yes.”

The world goes dark as the blindfold slips over my eyes, shutting out the light, the room, everything. The absence of sight heightens everything else—the whisper of his footsteps on the floor, the faint rustle of fabric as he moves.

I’m hyper-aware of my breathing, of the way my chest rises and falls faster than usual. Even the scent of his cologne seems stronger now.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his fingers grazing my jaw as he places soft, fleeting kisses along my neck. “I’ve got you.”

The bed dips as he moves, and I hear the rustle of something near the nightstand. There’s a moment of quiet, then the sensation of cool metal slipping over my ears. Headphones. I hear a faint click, and then his voice fills my ears.

“Can you hear me, baby?” His voice surrounds me, intimate and commanding, as if he’s speaking directly into my soul.

“Yes,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Good girl,” he says, and I can’t help the way my body responds to those words. “If you need me to stop, if it’s overwhelming, you just say ‘red.’ Got it?”

“Got it,” I reply, the words trembling on my lips.

The first touch is light, like a feather brushing against my forearm. I flinch at the sensation, my breath catching, and I hear him chuckle softly through the headphones.

“Easy,” he says. “Feel it, don’t fight it.”

I exhale slowly, trying to let go of the tension coiled in my muscles. The feather glides up my arm, across my collarbone, and down the other arm. It’s such a simple thing, but it feels like my skin is on fire, every nerve ending heightened by the lack of sight and sound.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, the feather now trailing along my collarbone. “Every inch of you.”

I squirm slightly at his words, my cheeks heating. “Mihai…”

“Shh,” he soothes, his voice a melody of command and care. “Let me take care of you. Just feel.”

The feather disappears, and I feel him move. Then, something warm touches my skin—wax? No, not wax, some type of oil? I gasp as it drips onto my stomach and slips down, the heat sharp for a moment before it cools. The scent of strawberries fill the room after.

“You’re doing so well, baby, don’t overthink,” he praises, his tone dripping with pride. “So fucking perfect.”

The sensation lingers, warm and soothing, and then I feel the heat of his breath against my skin. I shiver as his lips press softly to the spot where the wax—or oil—had dripped, his tongue following in a slow, deliberate stroke.

“Delicious,” he hums and I let out a shaky breath, my cheeks burning at his words.

“You don’t have to talk like that,” I say, but my voice wavers, betraying how much his praise affects me.

“Oh, but I do. Look how well you’re handling this,” he purrs and I just know my entire body is red by now.

I can feel him everywhere. His lips press against my collarbone, and the scrape of his teeth makes me gasp. My body arches toward him, desperate for more, and I hear his soft chuckle, smug and possessive.

“You’re the sweetest kind of torture, pet.”

Heat floods my cheeks at his words, and I bite my bottom lip to keep from squirming. His praise is doing things to me, making me feel seen in a way I never have before.

He moves back and the air feels cool against my heated skin. I feel him moving again, and my heart pounds at the anticipation.

The next sensation is a soft, firm pressure gliding along my forearm, smooth and deliberate. It’s a roller of some sort, cool and soothing against the remnants of the oil.

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