Page 20 of Bad Girl Dilemma

“This isn’t about you giving up control,” he says. “It’s about learning where it feels best to let go. You fight everything. Everyone. But I know you, Little Dahlia. I know what you need.”

My breath hitches. “You don’t know shit.”

He smiles again, and it’sdangerous.

“Rule number two,” he says. “You will speak when spoken to. Ask permission to come. And always tell me the truth.”

Fat chance.But my jaw clenches, halts my protest. He hasn’t given me permission yet.

He reaches out—slowly—and runs his knuckle down the center of my chest. Not quite touching my nipple. Just close enough to make me ache. To make me move towards him. Make me hate him a little for it.

“Do you understand?”

My mouth is dry. It shouldn’t be able to form the word. Yet… “Yes.”

He leans in, lips grazing my ear.

“Good girl. Rule three. You belong to me during your training. Your pussy. Your clit. Your pleasure. The air you breathe. All mine. And I’ll use it or deny it as I see fit.”

My thighs clench involuntarily. “I haven’t agreed to anything,” I whisper.

“No,” he says. “But your body has.”

His hand slides between my thighs—barely a brush—and I flinch. “Already wet for me,” he croons. “And I haven’t even touched your pretty little clit.”

His fingers hover. So close. So maddening. Then—one perfect stroke.

My head falls back. A moan tears out of me before I can stop it. But just as fast, his hand disappears. I choke on a protest.

He leans down, lips brushing my jaw. “That’s your first lesson. Remember, you don’t come unless I let you.”

I’m kneeling. Naked. Breathless.Furious.

And desperate for more.

“Up,” he says as he stands, adjusting his cuff. A tiny flex of sophistication totally undermined by the savage hunger pulsing from him. By the fat steel rod pushing against his fly.

I obey before I can stop myself.

He takes something from his pocket. Slim. Leather. Expensive. Gold clasp.

A collar.

“No,” I breathe, pulse leaping. “Fuck no.”

“This isn’t a leash,” he says patiently. Far too fucking patiently. “It’s a promise.”

He holds it up, one inch from my nose. For an eternity. Then, whatever he sees in my face, he nods and steps behind me. “Say the words, Dahlia.”

A promise.Of what? Why does every cell in my body want to know? Why is the three-letter word shivering to be on my tongue, crowding, crowding, crowding,desperateto get out?

Thirty days… well, twenty-nine now.

I sincerely doubt Dante intends to let me out of this penthouse. He planned this meticulously, knew no one would miss me publicly because my laptop is my office. Dad will lose track of time until I contact him, remind him I exist.

I lick my lips. Rationalize.

If no one sees me in it, then surely it’s fine, right? This breaking and wanting and surrendering and collaring will only be between us. Our little filthy secret.

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