Page 47 of Her Cruel Empire
I watch her face pale, then blush.
“Robin. Take off your clothes.”
She hesitates—just a heartbeat—but it’s enough. I see the moment she remembers where we are. What this is. What I own.
Then she obeys.
She puts down her teacup and stands to undress with trembling fingers. I watch every motion with hunger, trying to feel powerful again. Trying to push down the intimacy that won’t leave. The truth that won’t leave.
But something’s wrong. My usual cold control feels out of reach. The sight of Robin’s gentle compliance isn’t making me feel dominant—it’s just making me feel more unsettled.
LikeI’mthe one who’s been stripped bare.
She stands before the low-burning fire in nothing but skin and shadows, waiting for my next order. Beautiful. Vulnerable.Mine.
But who really owns whom here?
“Good girl,” I murmur, but the words come out rougher than intended. Hungrier. More raw than commanding.
I rise from my chair slowly, every movement intended to project power. But inside, I’m falling apart. I circle her like she’s prey, but I’m the one who feels hunted.
My fingertips ghost along her shoulder as I move behind her, and I feel her shiver. The response shoots straight through me—not to my ego, but to something deeper. Something that craves her surrender not because it makes me powerful, but because it makes me feel…
Alive.
“Bend over the back of the sofa.” My voice is barely above a whisper, but there’s something desperate threading through the command. I want to forget everything but the sound she makes when I touch her.
But as she obeys, I realize with terrifying clarity that I’m not the one in control here anymore. Robin has done something to me that no enemy has ever managed.
She’s made me want to throw down my arms and surrender.
Chapter 17
Robin
Ilean forward over the back of the antique settee near the fire. The velvet is soft against my stomach, my breasts. I grip the cushion but then sink onto it firmly as I trust it will bear my weight, thinking about my body bared to her gaze.
“Open your legs,” she demands. “Wider. Spread your thighs.”
I do. The stretch makes me blush, makes my breath catch. I feel absurdly open. My pulse flutters in my throat, in my thighs, in places I want her to touch me.
My whole body is already begging.
She thinks this is about control. That she’s reclaiming her power with every command. But the way her voice cracked just a little—it told me the truth. She’s the one who’s breaking.
She steps behind me, and the silence stretches taut.
Then fingertips trail over the curve of my ass. A slow, deliberate glide, as if she’s savoring the sight of me.
Her palms cup me, both cheeks. And part me. I flinch—not from fear, but from how exposed I feel. How seen.
“Perfect,” she murmurs. “Don’t move.”
Her fingers slide lower to find my seam already slick, swollen, needy. She doesn’t tease. She inspects. Like she’s checking her favorite weapon before use.
She drags a single finger up the cleft of my ass, and I tremble. Her hands are steady, but I can feel the charge in the air—the tension coiled beneath the surface. She’s trying to stay composed. But everything in her touch feels like a scream she can’t let out.
And when she kneels down behind me and places her mouth on me, it’s not a kiss. It’s a claiming.
