Page 60 of Forbidden Fruit
I swallow hard.
That one sentence hits harder than anything else so far. There’s no mockery in his voice, no ridicule. Just an order laced with the kind of dominance that makes my pulse spike.
I start crawling toward him.
The air feels thicker here, as if the space between us has turned into something I have to push through, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat. My palms meet the floor, my knees follow, and the world narrows until all that exists is the quiet sound of my movement and him—him—standing there, watching.
It should feel like degradation, but it feels like worship. Like peeling away everything I pretend to be until what’s left is only truth, bare and trembling and wanting. I don’t move slowly out of fear but because I’m learning how to feel each inch of surrender. How to mean it.
And then it happens.
A sound comes from him. Not a word, or command, but something deeper, pulled from the center of him.
It’s something holier than lust or approval. It’srecognition.
And God help me, the sound makes me proud that I could pull that from him. That I couldbethat for him. My heart thrums in my throat, my pulse echoing in the hush between us, and I keep moving, slower now, because I never want that sound to stop.
When I finally reach him, I stop and kneel at his feet, my hands still on the floor, head bowed in offering.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He only watches, and somehow that’s worse. His stillness makes me aware of everything: the press of my knees, the heat that’s climbed up the back of my neck, the way my hair falls into my eyes; I don’t dare brush it away. I want to be seen like this. Messy, unsure, buttrying.
That sound comes again, softer this time, but no less consuming. It curls around me like smoke, settles under my skin. It’s a sound of ownership. As if he’s seeing something sacred.
It fills me up in ways I didn’t think were possible. There’s no shame here, only the dizzying ache of beingknown.
He cups my chin, tilting my face upward until my breath stumbles. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, a gesture so careful it feels almost ceremonial.
“You are…” A beat. “…Perfect.”
The words strike deeper than they should. It isn’t the compliment itself that undoes me, but the quiet conviction in his voice.
For a heartbeat, the air between us hums. He doesn’t have to touch me again for me to feel it, the pull, the gravity, the impossible awareness of being on the edge of something that can’t be taken back.
“Good girl.”
It’s barely a whisper, but it shatters through the quiet. My lungs forget how to work. I can’t look away from him.
He studies me, the way my breath falters, the way I can’t seem to stop trembling; he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Stand up,” he says, almost coaxingly.
I rise slowly, unsteady but unwilling to break eye contact. When I’m upright, he lifts his hand again, brushing against my throat, just the barest touch. His thumb lingers at the place where my pulse leaps under my skin.
“Your pulse’s racing,” he murmurs, gaze locked on mine. “You liked that. Being good for me.”
My lips part, but no sound comes out. I don’t need to say anything; he already knows.
He kisses me then.
It’s full. Intimate. Possessive in the way only Calvin can be… claiming without ever needing to raise his voice.
When he pulls back, his lips hover just over mine.
“You obeyed me like you were made to,” he says, his voice thick with heat and something that almost sounds like awe.
And God help me, I think he might be right.
He then turns me around and bends me over the black bench, positioning me exactly where he wants me. His movements are quick and efficient as he secures the leather cuffs around my wrists, the soft leather tight against my skin. I can hear him moving behind me, feel his presence, the anticipation building as he hikes my legs up onto the knee rests. He cuffs my ankles too, spreading my legs so far apart that I feel the stretch in my thighs. He doesn’t stop until I hear the metallic click of the locks, securing me in a position that’s both humiliating and exhilarating.
