(What's the harm in tasting fire… when you promise not to burn?)
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Janelle didn't sleep well.
She woke up tangled in warm sheets… and Naya's scent all over her skin.
She didn't remember falling asleep in her arms.
But she remembered the look in her eyes before sleep came.
Hungry.
Gentle.
Dangerous.
The next day, things were worse.
Naya didn't flirt.
She provoked.
She wore silk the color of spilled wine. Tight, sleeveless. No bra.
She leaned too close, licked her spoon too slow, moaned a little too loud while sipping tea.
And Janelle watched.
Silent. Restless.
Hands under the table… thighs pressed tight.
"You okay?" Naya whispered.
"No."
Naya smiled. "Good."
Later that evening, Naya set a little box in Janelle's lap while they watched a movie in low light.
Wrapped in black satin ribbon.
"What is this?"
"A game," Naya said, voice barely above a whisper. "Wanna play?"
Inside: a velvet blindfold… and a vibrating bullet.
Janelle's breath hitched.
"I shouldn't."
"Don't say that," Naya cut in. "You want to. I can see it every time your thighs shift."
"Naya."
"I won't touch you," she promised. "Just wear the blindfold. Let me control it. Let's see if you can keep still."
Janelle bit her lip.
Her heart? Slamming.
But the second she put on the blindfold, she felt the bullet buzz softly against her panties, warm and barely there.
Her breath caught.
And Naya? She sat beside her like nothing was happening. Watching. Holding the remote in one hand, wine in the other.
"You look beautiful like this," she whispered. "So helpless."
She increased the setting. Just a little.
Janelle arched.
The movie played on.
So did Naya.
She teased her through every scene. Every sip of wine. Every stolen breath Janelle tried to hide.
And when it was all over, Janelle couldn't speak.
Couldn't move.
She'd come without Naya even touching her.
And Naya? She leaned down… lips brushing her ear.
"You broke the rule," she said softly. "You came."
"I "
"Next time," she whispered. "I will touch you."
Then she left.
And Janelle sat there.
Sweaty.
Ashamed.
Addicted.
While in another city, Mirabel stared at the same camera feed.
She'd seen it all.
The blindfold.
The shaking thighs.
The bite of guilt.
She didn't cry.
Didn't rage.
She just picked up her phone.
And texted:
"You've been such a bad little kitten. Daddy's watching."
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To be continued