The memory of what I’d witnessed hadn’t faded — it had deepened, grown roots beneath my skin. Not just the image of surrender… but the truth of it.
That woman hadn’t been broken. She had been offering, gave herself—and there was no begging, no shame in it.
Only power wielded through stillness, trust, and the undeniable force of wanting.
And that terrified me. Not because it was humiliating… but because it wasn’t. Because it stirred something in me that whispered: You want that too.
And there was also a memory of Rios’s fingers that haunted every breath. It wasn’t just the act itself—though the way he touched me was nothing short of devastating.
It was the way he held me after, like I was something not conquered or broken, but claimed, awakened.
And gods, I had awakened.
I could still feel him, the echo of pressure and heat, the sensation of being opened by someone who didn’t demand… but drew.
My thighs ached from how they had trembled, and my skin flushed every time I remembered the way his mouth covered mine as I came apart in his hands.
Now I understood why Rios had made me watch. And why I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
By the time I entered his chamber the next morning, I was no longer pretending to be unaffected. My composure hung by threads—a brittle mask I knew he’d see through the moment he looked at me.
He was waiting behind his desk as always, but something in the air felt different, charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.
He didn't speak at first. Just gestured for me to sit and let the silence stretched between us like a bowstring pulled taut.
Rios studied me for a long moment—not like a man surveying a student, but like a wolf considering a spark in the dark.
When his eyes finally met mine, I felt stripped bare, even though he hadn’t touched me yet. And when he spoke, his voice was quieter than I expected. But no less commanding.
“You crossed a threshold last night,” he said. “The question is no longer whether you can surrender. You’ve already proven that.”
He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight catching on the silver in his eyes.
“The question is whether you’ll own it.”
I said nothing. I wasn’t sure I could. My throat was tight and my hands trembled faintly in my lap.
“You think you lost control,” he continued, “but what you did… what you felt…” His voice dropped lower. “That was the first moment you’ve ever taken it.”
Rios stepped out from behind his desk, silent and fluid like smoke given form, and came to stand before me.
The space between us buzzed with heat, though he hadn’t yet touched me.
He looked down at me, those silver-gray eyes as unreadable as ever, but there was something new in them now — something simmering beneath the surface.
He was close enough that I could smell him, that same dark, spiced scent that clung to my skin after he touched me. After he made me come.
I swallowed hard.
My body still remembered the way his mouth had found mine just as my body shattered.
I could still feel that pleasure in my bones, in the tension of my thighs, in the traitorous ache between my legs that hadn’t left me since. And I hated how much I wanted to feel it again.
“I asked you a question, Princess,” he said flatly, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts.
I blinked up at him. “What?”
His tone sharpened. “When I kissed you last night. Did you like it?”
I hesitated.
The truth was yes. The truth was that I had loved it, that I had felt something inside me come undone, something real, something terrifying.
But saying it aloud meant admitting how deeply he’d gotten under my skin—into the parts of me I had only just begun to understand.
Rios arched a brow at my silence. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”
Then, without ceremony, his tone shifted—clipped and clinical.
“And your technique?” he continued. “Embarrassing.”
My cheeks flamed. “Excuse me?”
“You kissed me like a girl kissing for the first time. Clumsy. Passive. You responded, yes, but the response is not seduction.”
He circled me slowly, and I could feel his words hitting deeper than they should.
“You need more than parted lips and eager breath. You want to give your partner no choice but to fall into your mouth before you even offer the rest of yourself.”
Shame burned down my spine and I clenched my fists at my sides. “Then teach me.”
He stopped behind me. “I intend to.”
His hand reached out—not to touch but to offer. Open. Waiting. I took it. Rios pulled me to my feet, then walked me backward until my thighs hit the edge of the chaise.
“Today,” he murmured, stepping close enough for me to feel the heat radiating off his body, “you’ll learn how to kiss someone so deeply, so deliberately, they’ll lose their mind
His hand grazed my jaw, urging me to turn and face him. I did.
“A kiss is not a question. It’s a promise,” he said. “A command. An art.”
I nodded, heart pounding, lips already tingling from anticipation.
“Kiss me. Try again,” he said softly but with a blank expression. “But slower. With purpose.”
I lifted onto my toes, tilted my chin up, and pressed my lips to his. Soft. Slow. I remembered what he had told me—not to devour, but to tease. To promise.
He didn’t kiss me back. Not at first. He was letting me try.
I parted my lips slightly, deepening the pressure, sliding my tongue out to taste his bottom lip.
“Feel what that does,” he said. “The waiting. The lack of permission. It builds tension.”
Then he finally responded, kissing me deeper now. His tongue barely flicked against mine and my breath caught.
“Let your lips part,” he murmured against my mouth. “Let them soften. Invite, don’t demand.”
I tried. He guided me. His hands found my hips, grounding me, while his mouth coaxed mine open.
“Use your tongue like it’s tasting honey,” he whispered, voice molten. “Not devouring. Teasing.”
I mirrored him, slowly sliding my tongue against his, learning the rhythm, the tension between retreat and pursuit. He groaned softly, one hand drifting up my back.
I kissed him again, this time slower, letting it build—the tension, the invitation.
His mouth moved with exquisite control—tongue teasing mine, teeth catching my lower lip. His hand wrapped around my waist and pulled me flush to him.
I gasped into the kiss, feeling the hard lines of his body, the restraint in the way he held me. But I didn’t pull back. Not this time.
I wanted to give him something that didn’t come from instruction. And I wanted to take something back.
So I broke the kiss, breathing hard, my lips swollen, and looked him in the eye—then shoved him gently by the chest.
He let me.
He stumbled backward into the chair behind him, landing with a controlled thud. His eyes flashed—surprised. Curious.
I didn’t let myself hesitate.
I climbed into his lap, straddling him boldly. My skirts bunched around my hips, baring my thighs as they pressed around his. I sank down until I was cradling him completely, my core fitted over the hard ridge pressing up beneath his robes.
His breath punched out of him in a low groan, and his hands clamped onto my waist—not pushing me off, not pulling me closer. Just holding.
And then I kissed him again. With heat, with hunger, with something messy and bold and entirely new. My hips rolled once—unintentionally—and I froze. Because I felt it.
The hard pressure beneath me. The size. The ache that radiated from where our bodies met, even through the fabric.
My face burned crimson.
I pulled back from the kiss, breathless and horrified by what I’d just done—what I was still doing.
I started to lift myself off him, but his hands gripped tighter, not letting me go. He stared at me, jaw tense, eyes impossibly dark.
“Feel that, Princess?” he said, voice rough and low, his lips brushing mine.
I nodded slowly, lips parted, stunned into silence.
“That’s my cock, Penelope.” My entire body flushed when he smirked—just slightly. “And that,” he murmured, “is going to be your next lesson.”