Page 46 of The Toy Collector

As the hours drag by, as I suffer through an endless stream of meetings, I’m too impatient to give my full attention, I keep wondering if she’ll rise to the challenge.

Maria knows that if Piper asks her for directions, she’s allowed to give them. Only if my toy asks directly, though. Politics might thrive on the unsaid, on reading between the lines—but I don’t, not when it comes toher.

Anticipation builds in my blood with each tick of the clock. I know her, perhaps better than she knows herself. She won’t be able to resist the forbidden pull of seeing what lies behind the curtain, not even when I’m the one holding it open for her.

At precisely 4:30 p.m., I enter my office, the only sound is the measured click of my steps against polished wood. The air itself seems to part before me, charged with ozone, a storm building in my wake.

The faint scent of cedar and tobacco still lingers from this morning’s cigar—my one indulgence before the day began. A ritual. A reminder that power, like smoke, should never be wasted on the undeserving.

Only when I reach the desk do I allow myself to look down, to acknowledge her. Even with my tie over her eyes, she tracks my movements, her head tilting to follow the cadence of my steps.

I let her wait, let the anticipation curdle in her belly as I settle into my chair. I can smell her uncertainty, the acrid tang of nerves mixed with something headier—lust, perhaps, or fear. They are so often the same in the dark.

With deliberate ease, I lean back in the chair. The leather creaks beneath me as I cross one leg over the other. My hands rest on the curved arms of the chair, but my attention is wholly focused on the shape kneeling in the dark.

“You found it,” I say, voice low and smooth as silk. “Tell me, did you ask for directions, or did you figure it out yourself?” I ask, curious to find out.

She doesn’t answer right away, but I can see the twitch of her spine, the subtle shift of her weight, as if her body is responding to my words even when her mouth remains sealed.

I let the silence stretch.

Finally, she huffs. “I asked Maria Wilson for help. Her email signature says she’s the assistant to the CEO, and since you told me you’re the owner…” she trails off as though that’s enough of an explanation.

I smirk. “Not every owner is also the CEO,” I observe.

“True,” she relents. Then she smiles slyly. “But you strike me as too much of a control freak not to be both.”

“So you do pay attention,” I grin, grazing my knuckles against the crown of her head. The soft waves of her hair warm beneath my touch.

“Of course,” she quips as though there should never have been any doubt.

“And now you’re on your knees for me again,” I say slowly, each word carved in granite. “Blindfolded, again. Not knowing why I invited you. Is that trust, Toy? Or desperation?” Her breath catches, a small, involuntary intake of air that feeds my hunger.

I drag my thumb across the knot of silk at the back of her head, tightening it slightly. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who’s in charge. I move my hand to her nape, keeping it there.

She shifts again, just a little, her thighs tightening beneath her. Good girl. She wants to speak, maybe even challenge me—but she doesn’t. That’s what makes her mine. Not the submission, but the fight she hides behind it.

“Why do I have to be under the table?” she asks, her voice low but steady, threading through the stillness like a dare.

“Because this is where you belong,” I drawl. “Toys don’t sit at the table. They wait to be used.”

She exhales sharply through her nose, and she’s shaking slightly, but not from fear. No, this is something hotter. She wants to argue. I can feel the tension coil through her spine like a wire pulled too tight.

“I’m not a toy,” she whispers.

“No? Then why are you here? Following my every command like a good little possession?” I slide my hand to her throat, flexing my fingers. I feel the shudder pass through her. I savor it.

“I’m here for the meeting,” she says, voice clipped now, defensive. But the edge is dulled by the way she almost pants when I tighten my grip on her delicate throat.

“You’re here because I want you here,” I growl.

I slide my fingers up and down the slope of her neck, slow and proprietary, watching the way her pulse pounds just beneath her skin.

“Are you sure you’re ready for what happens next?” I ask. I let the question hang in the air for several moments before continuing. “Once the meeting starts, you don’t get to leave. You don’t get to run. You’re mine.”

She swallows. “You don’t scare me.”

I lean in closer until my mouth is just above her crown. “You should be terrified,” I rasp.

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