Alina woke to sunlight spilling across her tiny bedroom, dust motes dancing lazily in the golden glow. For a moment she lay perfectly still, the memories of last night flooding through her in dizzying flashes.
Damian's voice — dark honey, curling around her thoughts.
His hand on her lower back, the possessive pressure that had made her shiver.
His eyes, cool steel, promising things that shouldn't make her ache the way they did.
She rolled over, clutching her pillow to her chest. God, she was acting ridiculous. So what if he was impossibly attractive, rich, and seemed to have plucked her out of obscurity with a flick of his fingers? That didn't mean she had to be one of those women — starry-eyed and willing to lose themselves just because a man decided to pay attention.
Except… part of her wanted to be. That was the most dangerous thought of all.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, jolting her out of her spiraling mind. A text blinked on the screen, elegant and precise.
> Unknown Number:
9:00 a.m.
Good morning, Alina. I trust you slept well. My driver will pick you up at 11.
Wear something that makes you feel beautiful.
D
Her stomach swooped. Wear something that makes you feel beautiful. Not comfortable, not professional. Beautiful. As if he already knew she'd be trembling in front of her closet, second-guessing every choice.
She tapped out a quick reply with shaking fingers.
> All right. Where are we going?
The response came almost instantly.
> To start what we discussed. Trust me.
That was it. No location, no agenda. Just a demand — and the insidious thrill that curled through her veins told her exactly why she wasn't demanding more details. She liked that he didn't explain himself. That he simply expected her to obey.
"God, I need therapy," she muttered, but her lips quirked upward anyway.
---
By the time the sleek black car pulled up at her curb, Alina had changed outfits three times. She finally settled on a flowing burgundy dress that cinched at the waist and flared over her hips. It was soft, feminine, the kind of thing she normally reserved for gallery openings. She added delicate gold hoops and a spritz of jasmine perfume, hoping it made her look effortlessly composed rather than desperately eager.
The driver greeted her by name with a polite nod, holding the door open. Alina slid inside, heart racing, her fingers twisting together in her lap. The car hummed through the city streets, bypassing familiar landmarks until they entered an older district lined with ivy-clad brick buildings and wrought-iron balconies.
When they finally stopped, she blinked in surprise. It wasn't a high-rise office or posh restaurant. Instead, it was an elegant townhouse, pale stone with tall windows and a discreet black door. There was no sign, no hint of its purpose.
The driver opened her door. "Mr. Thorne is waiting inside, Ms. Rivers."
She stepped out, legs shaky, and mounted the steps. Before she could knock, the door swung open.
Damian stood there, dressed in a dark slate shirt with the sleeves rolled back to reveal powerful forearms. His eyes swept over her in a slow, deliberate caress that made her skin prickle.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
The single word struck her like a kiss. Her lips parted, but he was already reaching for her hand, pulling her inside.
---
The interior was surprisingly warm — all dark wood, plush rugs, and bookshelves that stretched toward a high ceiling. A faint fire crackled in a hearth despite the mild weather. Damian led her through a sitting room, past a grand piano, and into a smaller, sunlit space that took her breath away.
It was a studio. An artist's studio — but unlike any she'd ever seen. Massive canvases leaned against the walls, sketches littered long tables, vases of fresh lilies scented the air. Large windows let in golden light that spilled across the polished floorboards.
A camera stood mounted on a sleek black tripod, its lens already trained toward a simple velvet chaise. Nearby, rolls of backdrop fabric were stacked, and an array of delicate chains, silk scarves, and — her throat bobbed — leather cuffs lay neatly arranged on a side table.
Her breath stuttered. "Damian… what is this?"
"A private commission." He walked past her, fingers brushing her hip as he did. He adjusted the angle of the camera slightly, then turned to face her fully. "I want to capture you."
Her stomach swooped again. "Capture… me? Like a—"
"Portraits. But not the sort you're used to," Damian said, his voice rich and low. He prowled closer, each step eating the space between them. When he stopped in front of her, he cupped her chin, tilting her face up. "I want to see you as you are. Vulnerable. Desiring. Bound, perhaps, to show how beautiful surrender can be."
Her knees nearly buckled. "You want… photographs of me? Like—like—"
"Exactly like that," he finished, thumb stroking her lower lip. "Not for the public. Just for me."
Alina's heart thundered. Her first instinct was to pull back, to protest. But the look in his eyes — dark, consuming — made her body betray her. Heat unfurled low in her belly, her thighs pressing together. The idea of standing there, exposed and helpless before his lens, thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.
"You're blushing," Damian said, sounding amused. "That's even more exquisite than I imagined."
She tried to pull away, embarrassed, but he caught her wrist. Not roughly — just firmly, a clear reminder that he could hold her still if he chose. His grip alone made her shiver.
"I would never force you, Alina," he murmured. "If you say no, I'll respect it. But I think you want to explore this. I think you've been waiting for someone to give you permission to let go."
Her chest heaved. "This is insane. We've only just met—"
"Yes," Damian agreed smoothly. "And yet, here you are. Dressed beautifully, trembling for me. Don't pretend it isn't true."
She opened her mouth to deny it — but couldn't. Instead, she looked away, pulse thundering.
"Good girl," Damian purred, and the praise made her eyes flutter shut.
When she opened them again, his expression had softened. He stroked her cheek, his thumb brushing away a hair.
"Let me show you what I see when I look at you," he said. "If you hate it, it ends there."
After a long, trembling moment, she nodded.
---
Damian guided her to the chaise, his hand on her lower back. He positioned her just so, the velvet cool beneath her thighs. Then he lifted her hair off her shoulders, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of her neck.
"I want this to be honest," he said, his voice a command wrapped in silk. "You don't have to look coy or seductive. Just… feel. I'll tell you exactly what to do."
She nodded again, biting her lip.
The first shots were simple. Damian directed her to sit with her back straight, then to turn slightly, hands folded in her lap. The shutter clicked, each flash a delicate shiver along her skin. Slowly, he adjusted the lighting, moving closer, his breath warm on her cheek as he corrected her posture.
"Now look at me," he murmured.
She did. His eyes locked onto hers, pinning her with dark intent. The camera clicked again, but she barely noticed.
"That's it," Damian whispered. "You're letting me in. Don't hide. Don't think about how you look — think about how you feel. That's what I want."
His words burrowed into her, coaxing out something raw. Her shoulders loosened, her thighs fell slightly apart. Damian's approving hum sent heat racing through her veins.
Then he set the camera aside.
---
Without warning, Damian stepped between her parted knees, his hands bracing on either side of her shoulders. The sudden nearness made her breath catch.
"Still with me?" he asked.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good." His mouth brushed her ear. "Now we'll try something else."
He moved to the side table, lifting a length of dark silk. Her breath caught again.
Damian returned, holding it up. "May I?"
The question sent a sharp pulse of need through her. She nodded.
"Words, Alina."
"Yes. Please."
His smile was devastating. Carefully, he looped the silk around her wrists, tying them together — not tightly, but snug enough that she couldn't easily pull free. The sight of her own hands bound, resting on her lap, sent a molten ache through her core.
"Beautiful," Damian said softly, tracing a finger down the inside of her arm. Goosebumps followed his touch. "Look at you. So eager to surrender, even if you don't fully understand it yet."
He stepped back, picking up the camera again. The shutter clicked, over and over. Alina could barely hold still. Her skin felt too tight, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.
Then Damian lowered the camera and came to her again, fingers tilting her chin up.
"Do you want more?" he asked, voice dangerously gentle.
"Yes," she breathed. The admission tasted like sin.
"Then you'll do exactly as I say."
Her heart nearly burst. "Okay."
He untied her wrists slowly, almost teasing. Then he guided her to stand, turning her to face a tall mirror propped against the studio wall.
"Look at yourself," Damian commanded.
She did. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils blown wide. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the neckline of her dress trembling with each breath. She looked… wanton. Alive.
Damian stepped behind her, his hands sliding to her waist. He bent close, his mouth brushing her neck.
"Imagine how much more beautiful you'll look when you're truly mine," he whispered. "When I've explored every inch of you, every secret you're hiding here—" His hand drifted lower, pressing just above her mound. Alina gasped. "And here."
Her head fell back against his shoulder. "Damian…"
"That's it. Say my name when you're needy. Say it when you're aching. It pleases me."
His hand squeezed her hip, then released. When she opened her eyes again, he was stepping back, giving her room to breathe.
"That's enough for today," he said, though the ragged edge to his voice betrayed his own restraint. "I want you to go home and think about how you felt just now. About what it means to give someone power over you — and how much more I intend to take."
Her legs wobbled as he led her back to the sitting room. Damian pressed a soft kiss to her temple, a startling contrast to everything else.
"I'll call on you tomorrow," he murmured. "Wear something I can remove easily."
Then he was gone, leaving Alina trembling by the door, her body alight with sensations she didn't yet have words for.
---
That night, alone in her apartment, Alina lay sprawled across her bed, the cool sheets twisting beneath her sweaty back. Her fingers slipped lower, seeking the pulsing heat between her thighs as memories of Damian's hands, his mouth, his voice — do exactly as I say — consumed her.
She came with a strang
Alina woke to sunlight spilling across her tiny bedroom, dust motes dancing lazily in the golden glow. For a moment she lay perfectly still, the memories of last night flooding through her in dizzying flashes.
Damian's voice — dark honey, curling around her thoughts.
His hand on her lower back, the possessive pressure that had made her shiver.
His eyes, cool steel, promising things that shouldn't make her ache the way they did.
She rolled over, clutching her pillow to her chest. God, she was acting ridiculous. So what if he was impossibly attractive, rich, and seemed to have plucked her out of obscurity with a flick of his fingers? That didn't mean she had to be one of those women — starry-eyed and willing to lose themselves just because a man decided to pay attention.
Except… part of her wanted to be. That was the most dangerous thought of all.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, jolting her out of her spiraling mind. A text blinked on the screen, elegant and precise.
> Unknown Number:
9:00 a.m.
Good morning, Alina. I trust you slept well. My driver will pick you up at 11.
Wear something that makes you feel beautiful.
D
Her stomach swooped. Wear something that makes you feel beautiful. Not comfortable, not professional. Beautiful. As if he already knew she'd be trembling in front of her closet, second-guessing every choice.
She tapped out a quick reply with shaking fingers.
> All right. Where are we going?
The response came almost instantly.
> To start what we discussed. Trust me.
That was it. No location, no agenda. Just a demand — and the insidious thrill that curled through her veins told her exactly why she wasn't demanding more details. She liked that he didn't explain himself. That he simply expected her to obey.
"God, I need therapy," she muttered, but her lips quirked upward anyway.
---
By the time the sleek black car pulled up at her curb, Alina had changed outfits three times. She finally settled on a flowing burgundy dress that cinched at the waist and flared over her hips. It was soft, feminine, the kind of thing she normally reserved for gallery openings. She added delicate gold hoops and a spritz of jasmine perfume, hoping it made her look effortlessly composed rather than desperately eager.
The driver greeted her by name with a polite nod, holding the door open. Alina slid inside, heart racing, her fingers twisting together in her lap. The car hummed through the city streets, bypassing familiar landmarks until they entered an older district lined with ivy-clad brick buildings and wrought-iron balconies.
When they finally stopped, she blinked in surprise. It wasn't a high-rise office or posh restaurant. Instead, it was an elegant townhouse, pale stone with tall windows and a discreet black door. There was no sign, no hint of its purpose.
The driver opened her door. "Mr. Thorne is waiting inside, Ms. Rivers."
She stepped out, legs shaky, and mounted the steps. Before she could knock, the door swung open.
Damian stood there, dressed in a dark slate shirt with the sleeves rolled back to reveal powerful forearms. His eyes swept over her in a slow, deliberate caress that made her skin prickle.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
The single word struck her like a kiss. Her lips parted, but he was already reaching for her hand, pulling her inside.
---
The interior was surprisingly warm — all dark wood, plush rugs, and bookshelves that stretched toward a high ceiling. A faint fire crackled in a hearth despite the mild weather. Damian led her through a sitting room, past a grand piano, and into a smaller, sunlit space that took her breath away.
It was a studio. An artist's studio — but unlike any she'd ever seen. Massive canvases leaned against the walls, sketches littered long tables, vases of fresh lilies scented the air. Large windows let in golden light that spilled across the polished floorboards.
A camera stood mounted on a sleek black tripod, its lens already trained toward a simple velvet chaise. Nearby, rolls of backdrop fabric were stacked, and an array of delicate chains, silk scarves, and — her throat bobbed — leather cuffs lay neatly arranged on a side table.
Her breath stuttered. "Damian… what is this?"
"A private commission." He walked past her, fingers brushing her hip as he did. He adjusted the angle of the camera slightly, then turned to face her fully. "I want to capture you."
Her stomach swooped again. "Capture… me? Like a—"
"Portraits. But not the sort you're used to," Damian said, his voice rich and low. He prowled closer, each step eating the space between them. When he stopped in front of her, he cupped her chin, tilting her face up. "I want to see you as you are. Vulnerable. Desiring. Bound, perhaps, to show how beautiful surrender can be."
Her knees nearly buckled. "You want… photographs of me? Like—like—"
"Exactly like that," he finished, thumb stroking her lower lip. "Not for the public. Just for me."
Alina's heart thundered. Her first instinct was to pull back, to protest. But the look in his eyes — dark, consuming — made her body betray her. Heat unfurled low in her belly, her thighs pressing together. The idea of standing there, exposed and helpless before his lens, thrilled and terrified her in equal measure.
"You're blushing," Damian said, sounding amused. "That's even more exquisite than I imagined."
She tried to pull away, embarrassed, but he caught her wrist. Not roughly — just firmly, a clear reminder that he could hold her still if he chose. His grip alone made her shiver.
"I would never force you, Alina," he murmured. "If you say no, I'll respect it. But I think you want to explore this. I think you've been waiting for someone to give you permission to let go."
Her chest heaved. "This is insane. We've only just met—"
"Yes," Damian agreed smoothly. "And yet, here you are. Dressed beautifully, trembling for me. Don't pretend it isn't true."
She opened her mouth to deny it — but couldn't. Instead, she looked away, pulse thundering.
"Good girl," Damian purred, and the praise made her eyes flutter shut.
When she opened them again, his expression had softened. He stroked her cheek, his thumb brushing away a hair.
"Let me show you what I see when I look at you," he said. "If you hate it, it ends there."
After a long, trembling moment, she nodded.
---
Damian guided her to the chaise, his hand on her lower back. He positioned her just so, the velvet cool beneath her thighs. Then he lifted her hair off her shoulders, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of her neck.
"I want this to be honest," he said, his voice a command wrapped in silk. "You don't have to look coy or seductive. Just… feel. I'll tell you exactly what to do."
She nodded again, biting her lip.
The first shots were simple. Damian directed her to sit with her back straight, then to turn slightly, hands folded in her lap. The shutter clicked, each flash a delicate shiver along her skin. Slowly, he adjusted the lighting, moving closer, his breath warm on her cheek as he corrected her posture.
"Now look at me," he murmured.
She did. His eyes locked onto hers, pinning her with dark intent. The camera clicked again, but she barely noticed.
"That's it," Damian whispered. "You're letting me in. Don't hide. Don't think about how you look — think about how you feel. That's what I want."
His words burrowed into her, coaxing out something raw. Her shoulders loosened, her thighs fell slightly apart. Damian's approving hum sent heat racing through her veins.
Then he set the camera aside.
---
Without warning, Damian stepped between her parted knees, his hands bracing on either side of her shoulders. The sudden nearness made her breath catch.
"Still with me?" he asked.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Good." His mouth brushed her ear. "Now we'll try something else."
He moved to the side table, lifting a length of dark silk. Her breath caught again.
Damian returned, holding it up. "May I?"
The question sent a sharp pulse of need through her. She nodded.
"Words, Alina."
"Yes. Please."
His smile was devastating. Carefully, he looped the silk around her wrists, tying them together — not tightly, but snug enough that she couldn't easily pull free. The sight of her own hands bound, resting on her lap, sent a molten ache through her core.
"Beautiful," Damian said softly, tracing a finger down the inside of her arm. Goosebumps followed his touch. "Look at you. So eager to surrender, even if you don't fully understand it yet."
He stepped back, picking up the camera again. The shutter clicked, over and over. Alina could barely hold still. Her skin felt too tight, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.
Then Damian lowered the camera and came to her again, fingers tilting her chin up.
"Do you want more?" he asked, voice dangerously gentle.
"Yes," she breathed. The admission tasted like sin.
"Then you'll do exactly as I say."
Her heart nearly burst. "Okay."
He untied her wrists slowly, almost teasing. Then he guided her to stand, turning her to face a tall mirror propped against the studio wall.
"Look at yourself," Damian commanded.
She did. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils blown wide. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the neckline of her dress trembling with each breath. She looked… wanton. Alive.
Damian stepped behind her, his hands sliding to her waist. He bent close, his mouth brushing her neck.
"Imagine how much more beautiful you'll look when you're truly mine," he whispered. "When I've explored every inch of you, every secret you're hiding here—" His hand drifted lower, pressing just above her mound. Alina gasped. "And here."
Her head fell back against his shoulder. "Damian…"
"That's it. Say my name when you're needy. Say it when you're aching. It pleases me."
His hand squeezed her hip, then released. When she opened her eyes again, he was stepping back, giving her room to breathe.
"That's enough for today," he said, though the ragged edge to his voice betrayed his own restraint. "I want you to go home and think about how you felt just now. About what it means to give someone power over you — and how much more I intend to take."
Her legs wobbled as he led her back to the sitting room. Damian pressed a soft kiss to her temple, a startling contrast to everything else.
"I'll call on you tomorrow," he murmured. "Wear something I can remove easily."
Then he was gone, leaving Alina trembling by the door, her body alight with sensations she didn't yet have words for.
---
That night, alone in her apartment, Alina lay sprawled across her bed, the cool sheets twisting beneath her sweaty back. Her fingers slipped lower, seeking the pulsing heat between her thighs as memories of Damian's hands, his mouth, his voice — do exactly as I say — consumed her.
She came with a strangled cry, Damian's name torn from her lips. And when the pleasure finally ebbed, she realized the truth in her trembling bones.
She was already his. Completely, recklessly, deliciously his.
led cry, Damian's name torn from her lips. And when the pleasure finally ebbed, she realized the truth in her trembling bones.
She was already his. Completely, recklessly, deliciously his.