She still didn’t look at his face, focusing instead on his expensive black shoes, the precision cuffs of his dark charcoal pants. Her eyes then tracked up his body, noting the crisp white shirt and thin, blood red tie he wore. It was loosened beneath the undone top button of his dress shirt. She had the sudden urge to crawl into his lap and trail kisses down his neck and taste him.
“Raise your eyes,” the voice demanded.
Sophie drew a deep breath, letting air fill her, making her almost light-headed. And then she looked up.
Her heart leapt into her throat and her brain short-circuited.
Emery Lockwood, the object of her darkest fantasies, the ones she’d buried deep in her heart in the hours just before dawn, was looking down at her, predatory curiosity gleaming in his gaze. He trapped her with a magnetic pull, an air of mystery. She was caught in invisible strands of a spell woven around her body and soul.
The boy’s soft angelic features were there, hidden beneath the surface of the man before her. He was the most devastatingly, sensual man she’d ever seen. His high cheekbones, full lips, and aquiline nose were all parts of the face of a man in his early thirties. But his eyes—the color of nutmeg and framed with long dark lashes any woman would kill to have—were the same as those of the wounded eight-year-old boy in her photo. Although she could see that they’d hardened with two decades of grief.
He was masculine perfection, except for the thin, almost invisible scar that ran the length of his sharp jaw line. Even after twenty-five years, he still bore the marks of his suffering. She ached with every cell in her body to press her mouth to his, to steal fevered kisses from his lips. Her fingertips tingled with the need to stroke over the scar on his face, to smooth away the hurt he must have endured.
“Do you know the rules of our game?” Emery asked. As he spoke, his gaze still held her in place, like a butterfly caught beneath a pin and encased in glass. Hands trembling, she pursed her lips and tried to remain calm and collected. It was nearly impossible. The heat of his intense regard only increased as the corners of his mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile. Oh, the man knew just how he affected her!
Emery leaned forward, caught her chin in his palm, and tilted her face up to look at him. Her skin burned deliciously where his palm touched her. He pulled her, like the moon calling to the tides, demanding devotion and obedience with the promise of something great, something she couldn’t understand. Her senses hummed with eagerness, ready to explore his touch, his taste. Like a minnow caught in a vast current, she was pulled out to deeper waters, helpless to resist. In any other situation, she wouldn’t have been so off balance, and wouldn’t be letting herself get sucked into this strange game she sensed she was about to play. But here in this dark fantasy of the Gilded Cuff, she didn’t want to look away from him.
“The rules are as follows: I give you a command, you obey. I have to make you come in less than two minutes. I cannot do more than stroke any part of your body covered by cloth—no touching between your legs and no touching of your bare breasts. You are to look into my eyes and do whatever I say so long as my commands are within the rules. If you come, I win; if you don’t, Royce wins.”
Sophie struggled to think clearly. There was no way she would have agreed to this anywhere else, but in the club, this was the sort of game the doms played… the sort of game Emery played, and he wanted to play with her. A shiver of desire shot through her, making her clit pulse. How could she refuse?
“Uh… permission to speak?”
“You will call me Sir, or Master Emery.”
“Sir,” Sophie corrected. She wanted to kick herself. She had read enough about this lifestyle that she should have remembered to address him formally, but in all honesty the way he was looking at her—like something he wanted to eat—she couldn’t remain entirely rational.
“Permission to speak granted.” Emery’s voice dropped into a softer tone, approval warming his hazel eyes.
“What happens to me, Sir? Only one of you can win.”
Royce shared a glance with Emery.
“She’s a smart one, this little sub. Well, Emery? What do you think?”
Both men focused their intense gazes on her. It took everything in her not to look away.
“Punishment by the one who loses. But what form? Flogging?” Royce suggested.
Sophie flinched.
“No whips,” Emery seemed to conclude, his eyes reading her tiniest reaction.
Emery ran a palm over his jaw, which was shadowed with night stubble. The look gave him a rugged edge, reminding her of the men back home in Kansas.
The tension in the crowd seemed to heighten as the subject of punishment continued. Emery continued to stare at her, his eyes seemingly unlocking the puzzle she presented. “She’s new. Why not a spanking?” he murmured softly.
That caught her attention. Her clit thrummed to life, pulsing in a faint beat along with her heart. The twinge of uncomfortable pain in her knees was temporarily abated by this new distraction. Her eyes immediately settled on Emery’s large, capable hands. She could practically feel the width of his palm striking her bottom…. Trouble. She was in so much trouble.
“Definitely spanking.” Emery smiled.
