Page 31 of Power
"Don’t talk," the voice orders.
I’m being dragged out of my room. My heart races as panic sets in. What the hell is happening?
I try to break free and scream, but the hands are too strong. The mask stays firmly in place, and the world is nothing but darkness. My mind spins, and I can feel the cold air against my skin as I’m pulled down what feels like endless hallways, the echo of footsteps surrounding me.
Where are they taking me?
I want to fight, but I don’t know who I’m up against or where I am. All I can do is struggle, trying to pry the mask off, but it stays. My heart pounds harder and thumps in my ears. My mind races through every possible scenario—none of them good.
After what feels like forever, the hands stop. I’m shoved roughly into a room. The moment a hand lands on my shoulders again, I know who it is.
“Dario.”
He chuckles deeply and smooths his hand over my shoulders. I still have my blindfold on and can’t see a thing, but I can tell we aren’t anywhere near the main house.
“Are you going to take off the blindfold?”
It takes him a moment to respond, his voice gruff and deep. “I’ll take it off when I want to, and not a moment before. I control this place… this moment, baby. Remember that.”
I find myself nodding before I fully grasp what he means by those words. Dario draws out his next statement, an underlying threat woven into his tone. “Take off your clothes for me. I want to see those perfect little tits.”
I take off my oversized shirt, revealing my bra and panties, swallowing hard when he remains silent for a while. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” Dario takes my left hand, raises it, and cuffs me to what I think is a pole. He does the same with my right hand. Then he removes my blindfold, and my eyes struggle to adjust to theroom's lighting. Everything is red. The walls, the floor, the light coming from somewhere above—it’s eerie.
But I get a good look at his face under the lights and I forget all about it.
Was he always this striking? I must have known, must have noticed, but right now, under this red glow, he looks devastating. Sin incarnate. The sharp planes of his face, the way his hair falls longer, brushing just past his jaw. I wonder how it would feel to curl my fingers into it, to pull him down to me, to test if he’d let me have that much control.
My breath catches as he moves. The ink curling around his forearms shifts like it’s alive, dark against his olive skin. I want to trace the lines with my fingertips, map out every new design, learn what they mean.
The cuffs should be the only thing on my mind. The pole I’m bound to, the ominous lighting, the way my heart pounds too fast against my ribs. But all I can focus on is him. The way he moves. The way he looks at me, like he already knows exactly what’s running through my head.
He tucks the loose strands behind his ears, his fingers grazing the rough edge of his jaw before he leans forward to unclasp my bra. It falls away, leaving me exposed once more.
Even with my breasts on full display, my sharp, hard nipples begging for attention, the only thing I can focus on are his fingers—ringed and strong—brushing against my skin. I want those same hands gripping my thighs, pinning my wrists down, tilting my chin up until there’s nowhere left to look but at him.
I want those same hands around my throat, tight enough to nearly cut off my oxygen supply while he roughly fucks me, consumed by the anger of my very existence.
Where the hell did that thought come from? The things this man makes me think about...
“Do you know where you are right now?”
I look left and right, swallowing loudly. “I…I haven’t tried this before.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not what I asked.”
A slight tremor runs through my lips as I struggle to find the right words. What I come up with sounds uncertain: “I’m in your room built for pleasure. And I doubt you’re ever the one surrendering.”
Whether he thinks my answer sounds childish or not, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he nods, curling his fingers in my hair and yanking it. I yelp, or more accurately, I scream loud enough to make anyone else back down—but not Dario. He tightens his grip around my hair and yanks again. As my scalp burns and the terror of what’s to come fills my lungs, I shoot him a defiant look.
“You’re not going to see me break, Dario,” I shout, hoping to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “You can hurt me however you want, but this… you’re not going to break me.”
“I don’t want to break you.” He leans in, pressing soft, gentle kisses on my scalp, and I inhale his scent. Dario smells faintly of cinnamon and sandalwood, with something else spicy mixed in. It must be his aftershave, I think, since he’s not wearing his usual beard. He looks different yet the same—something I find uncanny. He appears dangerous in a measured way, his brown eyes more steely than warm, making me look away.
“Vittoria, if I wanted to break you completely, you’d already be broken. But I see it in your eyes… the ache to submit to this pleasure, the willingness to experience complete dominance like this.”
I shake my head fiercely. How can he read me so well? How does he know what my body secretly desires?
