Page 54 of Dance of Ruin

Again, my pulse flutters at the words. Again, ridiculous, horrible warmth floods my belly. I hate that I like hearing that. That Icraveit.

He reaches down, removes the glass from my back, and sets it on the desk.

Then he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a white silk ribbon.

“Hands behind your back.”

I obey, a stretch tugging across my shoulders as I lace my fingers at the small of my back.

Nico reaches down and loops the ribbon around my wrists, binding them tight together, but not painfully so.

Then he places the whiskey glass back on the small of my back.

“No spilling, or there’ll be punishment.”

Something ragged zaps through my core.

Are you fucking serious?

He straightens, clearing his throat and pulling his chair back to the desk. Then he opens his laptop.

I swallow, my pulse thudding.

“H—how long am I?—”

“You’re a side table today,” he says without looking at me. “Tables don’t talk.”

I’m kneeling. Naked. Bound.Plugged. Holding a drink on my back.

And yet somehow, the little voice deep inside me isn’t screaming in rage.

It’s fuckingpurring.

The position is difficult to hold. My thighs are shaking. My back starts to ache.

Nico makes a call on his cell, immediately switching to Italian which I didn’t realize he spoke. His tone grows more forceful, his eyes locked on his laptop screen. At one point, he reaches down and plucks the glass from my back, taking a slow sip before setting it back down, making my skin turn to gooseflesh.

My legs start to cramp and shake. I’ve been kneeling in one position for almost five minutes. My core ripples.

Then, without warning, a spasm shudders through me.

Oh, shit.

Momentarily, the glass wobbles.

And spills over the lip a little.

Whiskey runs over my skin in a cold trail. I gasp, going rigid.

Nico turns his head, looks at me, then at the whiskey dripping onto the floor, then back to me.

“I’ll call you back.”

He sets the phone down on his desk, taking a slow, deep inhalation as he reaches up and strokes his jawline.

His smile is slow and cold.

“Well then,” he murmurs. “Punishment it is.”

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