Page 28 of Royal Deception
CLARY
Just as I’m settling in for the night, the events of earlier replaying in my mind, my phone pings with a message from my boss.
I frown, picking it up. A late-night email from Rory isn’t unheard of, but something about this feels different.
Subject: Contract Negotiations.
My pulse kicks up. Confused, I open the email—and my eyes widen.
A BDSM contract.
My breath catches as I scan the document, reading over detailed terms, expectations, and an extensive list of limits. I swallow hard, my gaze flicking down the page, lingering on certain… intense suggestions. My cheeks heat as I briefly wonder if these are the kinds of things Rory is into—before I notice his own marks already filled in.
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. He’s given me a guide—his own boundaries, his preferences. A strange mix of relief and intrigue settles in my chest.
Some things are an easy no. Branding? Absolutely not. But others… My fingers hover over the screen as I consider them.Breath play. Sensory deprivation. Things I’d never given serious thought to before. Soft no, for now. But the fact that I’m even contemplating them? That surprises me.
I set my phone down, sinking back against my pillows, my mind spinning. Excitement thrums under my skin. I’d thought about everything from earlier more times than I cared to admit today, replaying it in my mind over and over.
And now that I know that Rory isn’t opposed to continuing our little game, I feel the familiar tingle of need between my thighs.
Glancing around, I realize that I’m way more awake than I’d been a few minutes ago, so I creep over to the door and lock it before returning to my bed and yanking my lacy, ruffled PJ shorts down, along with my underwear. My pussy is already slicking up as I recall the way Rory stood over me, raising the belt to bring it down with a sharpthwackagainst my bare flesh, the detached expression in his eyes, dispassionately punishing me for my behavior.
My fingers find my folds and I tease them inside, brushing a finger over my clit, letting out a tiny hiss. Oh, God, yes!
“Rory,” I call softly. “Oh, please, punish me, Sir.” Imagining him standing over me now has me whining low in my throat as I stare, watching his mouth move into a frown.
“Someone is being naughty,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “You’re touching yourself without my permission.”
“Please, I need to be punished,” I say back, mouthing the words as I imagine him reaching for his belt. “Punish me, sir!”
He unclips his belt and with a swift yank, holds it in his hand. “I’m going to spank your thighs,” he growls. My hand speeds up faster, and I swear I can almost feel the wind whistle across my skin and the sharp snap of the belt as it makes contact with my tender flesh.
My knees are bent toward my chest and I can almost feel the intense heat of the welt that rises with each smack. The pain would be exquisite, so sharp and yet stinging so good.
My fingers find my entrance and I plunge in two at once, needy for more. As the Imaginary Rory spanks me, I fuck myself roughly on my fingers, needing the relief more than anything.
Just as he lands the final blow in this imaginary scenario, I find myself flying over the edge, pleasure coursing through my veins as I come apart at the seams.
Once I’m done cleaning up, I climb back into bed, my body still thrumming with anticipation. I send my reply to Rory, eager, restless. My heart pounds as I stare at my phone, waiting for a response.
Nothing.
I fight to stay awake, checking my screen every few minutes, but exhaustion wins. Sleep claims me before I can hear back from him.
At work the next day, I’m restless, jumpy, half-convinced Rory will appear behind me at any second, fingers wrapping around my wrists, his voice like velvet against my ear.
"Are you ready to be my good girl?"
Heat licks at my skin at the thought, but reality is far less thrilling. Rory is all business, his focus locked on mitigating the fallout from yesterday. He doesn’t so much as glance my way beyond the usual work directives.
I throw myself into tasks, handling the quieter, necessary gestures in the wake of Danny’s death. A condolence card to his family, a donation check slipped inside. Arranging for flowers to be sent to the funeral home on behalf of the Brannagan family.
By lunch, my stomach is in knots from the gnawing silence. Rory still hasn’t acknowledged my reply.
Enough is enough.
I make my way to his office, coffee in hand. A peace offering. Or maybe an excuse.
