I sat quietly in Adrian’s car, the engine humming low beneath us.

My hands were folded in my lap, clutching the edges of my coat like it could shield me from the tension thickening the air between us. Beneath the fabric, my skin was already flushed.

Red lace pressed tight against my body—a set Cleo had picked out with way too much enthusiasm.

“Red?” she’d grinned in Victoria’s Secret, holding up the barely-there two-piece like she was choosing armor. “You’re basically gift-wrapping your pussy for him. Mystery Daddy’s gonna lose his mind.”

“I hate you,” I’d muttered, even as I let her toss it into our shopping bag.

Now, 24 hours later, that same lace kissed my thighs with every tiny shift. Adrian hadn’t spoken since I stepped into the car, but his hand was tight on the steering wheel, jaw sharp, eyes flicking toward me like he could see through the coat.

Maybe he could.

When he parked, he got out first and opened my door. Always a gentleman. Always a storm beneath the surface.

“Would you like something to drink?” His voice was smooth, low.

“No, thank you.” I shook my head, stepping out onto the gravel driveway.

He nodded, his hand finding the small of my back as he guided me toward the house.

His estate stood like something out of a modern gothic dream—stone and glass, moody and cold and somehow alive. Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet. My pulse throbbed in my ears.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, the pads of his fingers brushing against my spine.

“Fine,” I whispered, my voice thinner than I meant.

He turned to me in the hallway, tilting my chin up with two fingers. “You’re allowed to say ‘nervous’.”

I swallowed. “Maybe a little.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “That’s okay.”

He led me down the stairs slowly, deliberately, each step echoing through the silence like a countdown. My bare feet hit the marble, cool and smooth, the contrast to my burning skin making me shiver. The hallway was dim, but the moment he opened that door, everything inside me tightened.

The red room.

“Kneel.” His voice cut through the space like a blade. “Coat off.”

Obeying instantly, the coat slipped from my shoulders, pooling at my feet like silk.

I sank to my knees in the center of the room, naked beneath except for the deep wine-red lingerie he’d told me to wear. My body was tense, trembling, needy.

The air kissed every inch of exposed skin, but it was his gaze that made me burn.

Adrian circled me slowly, silently, a storm coiled in human form. Every step he took made my breath hitch. His eyes roamed me like a man memorizing his most prized possession.

“You look fucking perfect in that,” he murmured, his fingers sliding under the thin strap of my bra. “But you know what I really want to see, don’t you, princess?”

“Yes, sir,” I breathed.

I unclasped my bra with one flick, letting it fall away, baring my breasts completely. My nipples pebbled instantly under his stare—his eyes were heat and fire and promise.

He didn’t speak. Just dragged a finger slowly, so slowly, down the center of my chest, across my belly, and down my spine. I shivered like it was cold—but it wasn’t.

It was him. It was too much.

“Good girl,” he growled low in his throat. “On your hands, arch that back. Let me see what’s mine.”

I obeyed without hesitation, lifting my hips, spreading my thighs, presenting myself for him—exactly how he’d want me to.

He walked to the wall, fingers trailing over the implements hanging there like tools of worship.

Adrian selected a flogger—long leather tails, soft at the ends but punishing in motion. He tested the weight with a flick of his wrist, then turned to me with a look that made my core clench.

“You’ll count for me, Sophie,” he said, voice sharp and commanding. “And you will thank me.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered.

The first strike landed across my ass—crack—a burst of sting that made me jerk.

“One,” I gasped, breath catching. “Thank you, sir.”

The second strike followed, and I counted again, thanked again, my voice steady despite the pain.

Adrian continued, the whip landing in a rhythmic pattern, each strike leaving a red mark on my skin. Each strike hotter than the last, each one dragging a moan from my throat.

My arousal dripped down my leg, and I didn’t care. All that mattered was his voice. His pace. His approval.

He knelt behind me, and I felt the heat of his body before I felt his fingers. They slid between my thighs, gathering my wetness like proof of how much I loved it.

I whimpered at the contrast—rough marks and soft fingertips, heat and cool breath. Then his mouth followed, kissing the marks he’d left, tongue flicking over the tender skin with a reverence that only made it dirtier.

It was too much. It was perfect.

“You feel that?” he rasped. “Feel how deep this is going? It’s stretching you open for me.”

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