"Kiss me."

You can feel your sense of self slipping, your control melting away at his touch. You need to speak before it gets worse, before you ask for worse, ask him to do more than –

“Kiss… me…”

You hate yourself as soon as the words leave your mouth, hate how your breathy woman’s voice quivers as you say them, hate what they represent, the surrender, the need.

(Love the way he holds you, so firm, so strong, love the way he looms slowly closer, the scent of him, the caress of him --)

-- the easy almost evil smirk that spreads across his handsome face as he hears your whisper…

(No. He’s not a bad man.)

“Your wish is my command, Kitten.”

And then his lips are on yours. For a second time.

A man.

Is kissing you.

(Kissing your full, hungry lips.)

You’d hoped it would be easier. And it is, in a way.

(Easier to give in. Easier to admit how good it feels.)

But not in a way that makes you feel less shame… less humiliation…

(So hot…)

A man is kissing you.

You shut your eyes, try to shut out the sensation, the knowledge of what you’re giving him.

A man is kissing you.

His lips, rough on yours, yours –

(…soft… yielding… moving…)

His tongue darts inside and you gasp.

(A man… inside…)

“Mmmmmn-!”

A sound escapes you, and you can no longer deny what it is. A sound of pleasure. Of need.

A man is kissing you.

(Your man is kissing you.)

His tongue invading you. Claiming you. And you…

(You…)

You’re kissing him back.

Shamefully.

(Shamelessly.)

Tearfully.

(Passionately.)

You both come up for air at the same time, staring into each other’s eyes, breathing heavily, breathing each other’s scents.

Nick looks at you and there’s something frighteningly intense in his gaze. Its possessiveness… its triumph…

“You’re mine now, Mylie. All mine.”

And that’s when…