Page 35 of Forbidden Fruit
The room feels smaller now. More intimate, or maybe just more dangerous. My skin prickles, heat gathering in places I can’t control, pooling where I need him most.
He is your sister’s fiancé.
I shift, placing the champagne glass on the table as I cross my legs the other way and tug my hem down, though the silky dress defies me, sliding right back up my thigh like modesty was never part of the plan tonight.
“Right on cue,” he murmurs, eyes locked on my flushed cheeks.
I slap a hand to my face, already knowing I’m proving him right.
His grin turns feral. “Makes me want to say the filthiestthings I can think of just to see how deep I can make you blush.”
“Calvin, I…” I start, but the words fall apart in my throat, because what do I even say to that?
Nothing. There’s nothing I can say. Not when he’s looking at me like he already knows every dirty thought I’m trying to bury.
Thankfully the lights in the room dim before I can say anything, casting a sultry glow around us. When I look back at the window, I notice that a crowd has gathered. People are seated, some standing, as if waiting for some kind of show.
A man steps into the center of the room, shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of unbuttoned jeans that hang low on his hips, his chest rising and falling with calm control. The mood in the club shifts and attention narrows.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice carries easily, calm and assertive, “I’d like to introduce you to my pet. Come here, pet.”
From across the room, a woman crawls forward on all fours, completely nude. Her movements are fluid, practiced, like submission is muscle memory. Her body is bare and unapologetically on display, breasts swaying, back arched, the soft curve of her hips and thighs leading to the glistening heat between her legs. Every inch of her is exposed, but not vulnerable; she exudes strength.
I don’t remember walking back to the window, but I’m there, barely breathing.
“Good girl,” the man praises, circling her slowly, his hand trailing along her back with calculated affection. “Now, I want nothing more than to take you and fuck you until you forget your own name. Is that going to happen tonight?”
“No, Master,” she answers, her voice low, almost reverent.
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ve been a bad girl,” she replies without hesitation, remaining motionless, awaiting his judgment.
He stops behind her, looming like a shadow. “And what happens to bad girls?”
“They get punished.”
I swallow hard, heat flooding my cheeks, my pulse pounding. Calvin’s presence presses in behind me, his chest flush with my back, his hand sliding up to cradle the nape of my neck. His other hand rests low on my waist, fingers curling slightly against the fabric of my dress. I feel his arousal, hard, insistent, through the layers between us.
In the playroom below, the man guides the woman toward a Saint Andrew’s Cross, fastening her wrists and ankles with practiced ease. The room is hushed except for the soft clink of leather straps and the rhythmic sound of her breath.
Calvin’s fingers gently press the base of my neck, grounding me even as my body threatens to float away in sensory overload.
“Calvin,” I whisper, unsure what I’m asking for. I shift, trying to turn toward him, but his grip tightens slightly.
“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against my skin. “Let me feel your pulse.”
I freeze, allowing it. He’s not just talking about my heartbeat. He’s reading every unspoken reaction, the quickened breath, the tension in my thighs, the way I lean back into him without meaning to.
Down below, the man holds up a leather flogger. “She disobeyed me three times today,” he says to the audience. “So, she will receive five lashes for each offense.”
The first strike is loud, sharp, but what follows isn’t a scream. It’s a raw, guttural moan. A sound of surrender. She’s not broken by it. She’s claimed.
I bite my lip, trying to process the fire licking at the edges of my restraint. I shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not like this. But I don’t move.
Calvin’s grip loosens slightly, and I take it as permission to turn. He’s so close I can taste him, heat radiating from his body, his sheer size eclipsing mine completely.
“On a scale from zero to ten,” he murmurs, breath teasing my lips, “with zero being not at all… how much is this turning you on?”
