Page 125 of Ruthless Daddy
“Pietro.”
“Yes.”
“Now.”
“Soon, baby.”
“Now.”
He laughed against my mouth. Soft. Wrecked.
He looked at me for a long second, the way he looked when he was about to do a thing we had written down and wanted me to be sure.
“The page we wrote tonight,” he said. “The line about tying.”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’m sure, Pietro.”
“Words, baby. Each step.”
“Words. Each step.”
He reached past me to the small drawer in the bedside table. Marco again, probably, or whoever Marco had paid—the drawer was not empty. He drew out a length of soft pale silk, long, loosely folded, the color of the linen on the bed. He laid it across my stomach so I could see it. He waited.
“Yes, Daddy,” I said.
“Your wrists. Together. In front. Loose enough to slip if you want out.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He took my left hand. He kissed the inside of my wrist—once, slowly, the way he had kissed my forehead at the door—and he laid it against the right. He wrapped the silk around them. Two passes. Not tight. He looped the end through itself and pulled it gentle, and then he held it up for me to see, and gave it the lightest tug.
The silk slid an inch and held.
“Slip it,” he said.
I slipped it. The loop came open. My wrists were free.
“Good,” he said. “Put them back.”
I put them back.
He retied. Two passes again. He laid my bound hands above my head against the linen and curled my fingers around a fold of the sheet so I had something to hold, the way he had taught me to hold something when my body needed an anchor.
He looked at the collar at my throat. The gold caught the firelight.
“Oh, Baby Girl,” he said. Low. “You are perfect. Mine.”
“Yours. Now. Please. Now.”
He lifted his head from my stomach and looked up the length of me. His eyes were dark. His mouth was wet.
“Ask properly.”
“Please, daddy.”
