Sophie’s POV
The Red Room feels different tonight. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's the desperation I sensed in Adrian when he followed me here, the way his hands trembled slightly as he opened the door.
He's already set up the predicament position—a small platform in the center of the room, barely wide enough for both feet. Posts on either side with cuffs hanging at shoulder height.
I know what this means before he explains: I'll have to stay on my toes, arms stretched wide, or face consequences.
"Strip," he says, and his voice has that edge I recognize.
Not quite Professor Lewis, not quite the man who jokes with my sisters over dinner. Something darker—the Dominant who needs control, who finds his center through mine.
I obey, sliding out of my clothes until I'm standing naked in the candlelight. Adrian circles me once, slowly, his gaze raking over every inch of exposed skin.
When he steps closer, his hand trails down my spine possessively before gripping my hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.
"On the platform."
I step up, and he guides me into position. The leather cuffs wrap around my wrists as he secures them, adjusting the chains until I'm stretched wide, vulnerable. The position forces me to rise on my toes immediately. Even a few seconds and my calves start to burn.
"The rules are simple," Adrian says, circling behind me. His fingers trail across my shoulders, down my ribs, making me shiver. "Stay on your toes. Every time your heels touch, you earn a strike."
He holds up the paddle where I can see it—leather, familiar, capable of leaving beautiful marks. "Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
He starts with the flogger, the soft leather tails kissing my back, my shoulders, warming my skin gradually. Each strike builds heat, makes me hyperaware of every nerve ending.
My body remembers this, craves it—the way pain transforms into pleasure when delivered by skilled hands.
Adrian's technique is perfect. Each strike lands exactly where he intends, building sensation in waves. The flogger traces down my spine, across my ass, the backs of my thighs.
My skin heats, blood rushing to the surface, and arousal begins pooling low in my belly despite the burn already building in my calves.
Then his intensity shifts.
The strikes become forceful, urgent. The flogger bites instead of caresses, each impact driving breath from my lungs. There's something desperate in the way he's working me now, like he's trying to brand himself into my skin, to prove something neither of us can articulate.
My calves scream with effort. Sweat beads between my breasts, slides down my spine. When my heels inevitably drop, seeking relief for even a second, the paddle connects across my ass with sharp precision.
The sting is immediate and bright, making me gasp and rise back onto my toes. My legs shake violently with the effort.
"Where's your mind, Sophie?" Adrian's voice comes from behind me, rough with need. "Are you present with me? Really here?"
"Yes, Sir," I manage, though my voice wavers.
He moves in front of me, and I see he's breathing hard, pupils blown wide with arousal. His hand slides up my inner thigh, fingers teasing but not quite touching where I'm already wet.
"Prove it. Tell me what you're feeling."
"My legs burning. The sting from the paddle. You touching me…" My words cut off as his fingers finally slide between my legs, finding me slick and ready despite the predicament.
"Fuck, you're soaked," he growls, fingers circling my clit with practiced precision. The pleasure combined with the burning muscles creates an almost unbearable contrast.
My hips try to press forward but the position won't allow it. I'm completely at his mercy.
He works me expertly, building sensation until I'm panting, trembling, so close to the edge. Then he withdraws his hand completely and I whimper at the loss.
"Not yet." He picks up the crop—lighter, sharper, more precise than the flogger.
The first strike lands across my thighs and I cry out, nearly losing my position.
The crop is cruel in his hands, targeting sensitive areas with deliberate calculation. Inner thighs. The curve of my breasts. The tender skin of my lower belly.
Each strike demands I stay focused, stay present, stay on my toes. My body is a contradiction—burning muscles, stinging skin, desperate arousal making me clench around nothing.
I'm whimpering with each strike, reduced to pure sensation.
But then my mind starts to drift.
Unbidden, unwanted, I think about Bellamy's hands. How they're steady, certain, never frantic or desperate.
How he looked at me in the bridal salon mirror—raw longing without possession, desire without demands. How during the symposium he believed in me without needing me to prove anything.
I hate myself for the thought. I'm here with Adrian, naked and bound and marked by the man I'm marrying. My body is responding—I'm dripping wet, nipples hard, every nerve ending on fire.
This is what we do. This is what works.
So why can't I keep Bellamy out of my head?
The crop strikes across my breasts and I lose my position completely. My heels hit the platform, legs giving out. The paddle comes down twice in quick succession—once on each ass cheek, hard enough that I'll absolutely feel it tomorrow.
"Stay up," Adrian commands, but there's desperation in his voice now.
I force myself back onto my toes even though my legs are shaking uncontrollably. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes—from exertion, from sting, from guilt.
"Please," I whisper.
Adrian drops the crop. In two steps he's releasing the cuffs. My legs give out and he catches me, lowering us to the floor. His hands run over my body, examining the red welts across my thighs, my ass, the faint marks on my breasts.
He's breathing hard, looking at me with an intensity that borders on painful. His fingers trace the marks he left with something like reverence. "You're so fucking beautiful like this. Mine. Fully, uncompromised mine. My future wife."
His hand slides between my legs again and I'm so sensitive, so desperate, that I come almost immediately when his fingers press inside me. The orgasm crashes through me, my body clenching around his fingers as I cry out his name.
"That's right," he murmurs against my neck. "Remember who makes you feel like this."
When my breathing slows, he pulls me against his chest, his arm wrapping possessively around my waist.
"Where does your mind go?" he asks quietly. "During these scenes. Where do you go?"
I should tell him the truth. Should admit that lately, even here in our sanctuary, part of me isn't fully present. That my body responds but my heart keeps wandering.
Instead I lie. "Nowhere. I'm completely present with you."
The words hang between us, and I see doubt flicker across Adrian's face. But he doesn't push. Just holds me tighter, more possessively.
After a while, his breathing evens into sleep, his arm heavy around me.
I stay awake, staring at the ceiling, my body aching pleasantly. The marks throb with each heartbeat. The physical connection is undeniable. I love him. I'm marrying him in three weeks.
So why does it feel like I'm trying to convince myself?
Why does my mind keep drifting to steady hands that never need to prove anything?
Three weeks until the wedding. Three weeks to stop thinking about the wrong man.