Page 60 of The Vixen

And still… I've never seen him so afraid.

Once the laces are free, I lay each over my palm. Suddenly, it’s hard to meet Sawyer’s eyes, so I stare past his ear.

“Remove your shirt, Dre—... Slave.”

My pulse jumps as I force myself to look at him. I expect more fear, maybe disgust, but instead his eyes dance curiously. His mouth opens then obediently closes.

If I looked, would he be aroused?

No.

But I don’t chance a peek.

Somehow, Sawyer’s rejection is harder to take than Thorne’s.

His lack of… bloodflow feels like a contradiction. He spent weeks professing things Thorne has never dared speak—painting images of some fictitious goddess, my body a custom gift, a forbidden fruit.

Sawyer was always hard for me. He always wanted me.

Of coursethings were unthinkably different then, but having experienced that level of desire…

The mind knows what the body refuses to believe.

Sawyer sits up and slips his shirt over his head. He tosses it to the floor while I survey his naked torso with what I hope is an impassive expression. Famished, bruised, and scarred, he’s still the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Lay back down,” I command, my voice low, weighed down by desire.

A beat passes before Sawyer lies on his back. His hands thread through two bars of the headboard.

I walk to him, shoestrings in my grasp, and gently take his wrist to bring it to the bedpost. I’m met with no resistance norhesitation and am grateful for it. Even when I knot his wrist so tight it makes an angry white strip along his skin, I silently thank him for his compliance.

Did he feel the same when he tied me up? That spiked surge of power, oflustsweeping like a current through his skin as he stripped me naked. As I cowered beneath his gaze and pulled on my binds. As I moaned while he fucked me, even when I swore that time would be different.

Is it sick that a part of me hopes he did?

I walk around the bed to tie the other side, and when I’m finished, I step back to survey him once again, steering clear of his eyes.

Nastythoughts swirl in my mind until movement pulls me from them. The bed creaks as Sawyer’s weight shifts, the first and only sign of discomfort. We stare at each other for several seconds in a silent stand-off.

I dare you, he says with his eyes.

Or not. We see what we want to see.

My fingers curl around the hem of my sweater as I lift it over my head. I toss it to the floor and kick off my shoes while my hands pop the button on my pants. I peel them off and kick them to the side before finally stepping out of my panties and bunching them in my fist.

The mattress dips as I climb onto it, but Sawyer stays perfectly still. Even when I throw my leg over his chest and inch my knees to his shoulders, tender lips gently spreading directly above his chin.

The temperature of Sawyer’s room registers: cool and thick and already smelling of sex—smelling ofme. Air licks between my legs, chilling slickened flesh.

I shouldn’t look down.

But I do.

My lungs halt halfway through my breath when I see where Sawyer stares. Not at my face, but between my legs, and not with the disgust I fear.

He’s too desperate to chance my anger or even my disappointment. But the way he parts his lips and forces his eyes to darken is so convincing, my body would forgive any lie he told it.

My thighs twitch as blood flows into my clit.