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you will always find my wishes to be for your own pleasure, and for your own benefit. I will never hurt you. Never . I will not strike you. I will not bind you, or if I do, it will be your own compliance that keeps you bound.”  
    “Why?” I blinked behind the blindfold, squeezed my eyes shut, and felt a tear trickle down my cheek. “Why me? Why will I obey you?”
    Obey . I hated that word. I’d never been obedient. I didn’t always do what I was told—or at least not easily. Even as a little girl, my parents learned it was best to ask me nicely rather than command me. Forcing me into something with brutish commands would bring out the sharp side of my very short and very explosive temper. This man, unseen, unnamed, expected me to obey him. Felt that he owned me.  
    Now my tears were of helpless rage, because…I had a sinking feeling he was right.
    “Because you care. Because you have honor.” That same rough, yet tender, pad of his finger slid across my cheek, near the corner of my mouth, wiping away my tear. “You will obey me because you must. I do not, and never will, expect you to repay me monetarily —”
    “No,” I couldn’t help snapping, “you just expect me to fuck my way out of debt.”
    “Incorrect, Kyrie,” he responded. His voice was calm, but sharp as razors and cold as the vacuum of space. “Here is another promise I will make you: You and I will not engage in penetrative sexual intercourse unless you ask for it. And you will, Kyrie. That’s my promise, here. You will ask. You’ll beg me for it. But it won’t happen until, and unless, you ask me for it.”
    “You’re very sure of yourself,” I said, trying to sound stronger than I felt. In truth, the raw sincerity and utter surety in his voice shook me to the core. He believed what he said to be nothing but the unquestionable truth.
    “Yes, I am.” Now his voice was a mere breath of heat on the shell of my ear. “I will make sure you beg me for it.”
    Holy shit. What was I supposed to say to that? I could barely stand up. The potent mix of emotions this man engendered in me had me trembling, knees knocking. I was turned on, I had to admit. And that scared me. So badly. I didn’t want to want him. I didn’t want to be owned by him. But somehow, with nothing but a few words and touches, he had me aching in ways I’d never thought possible.  
    “See?” His fingertip traced the apple of my cheek, ran beneath the swell of my lower lip. “Already you begin to understand. You’re turned on, Kyrie. I can smell it on you. Your nostrils are flaring. You’re trembling and blushing. You hate it, though, don’t you?”
    I didn’t answer.
    “Don’t you? If I ask you a question, I expect an answer, Kyrie.”
    “Yes.”  
    “That’s okay. Hate it all you want. Fight it. Try as you might, you can’t help it. I own you, Kyrie St. Claire. And soon you’ll come to accept this.”
    “Never.”
    “Ah. Rebellion. There’s your spirit. That temper of yours, Kyrie. It’s gotten you in so much trouble, hasn’t it?” He sounded amused. “Mr. Edwards is still recovering, you know. You smashed his nose into smithereens.”
    I reeled. “You…you know about that?”
    “Of course I know about it. I know everything about you.” He stepped away, his voice slightly distant. I heard the tinkle of glass, of pouring liquid. He took my hand in his, pressed a tumbler into my palm, lifted it to my lips. “Drink.”
    I touched the liquid to my lips, tasted the fiery burn of expensive Scotch. “Eeew. No.”
    “Drink.” His voice was a whip. “I dislike repeating myself.”
    I drank. My esophagus was coated in lava, and then it hit my stomach like a hundredweight of bricks. My blood turned to fire, and my head spun. “God, that’s gross.” But, even as I said it, I felt my body going light, heated by the Scotch and lifted up as if I were a hot-air balloon. I drank again, and it wasn’t as bad.
    “Yet you drink again, of your own