The penthouse elevator opened directly into his private foyer, and Elena stepped out into the low amber light with her heart already racing. She had dressed exactly as instructed. The dress was a slip of champagne silk that hung from two thin straps, the fabric so fine it might as well have been water poured over her curves. Beneath it, nothing. No brassiere, no panties, no barrier between her bare cunt and the cool air of his domain. She was still slick from the morning, his seed long dried on her thighs but the memory of it a constant, pulsing presence.

Adrian was waiting in the center of the living room, standing beside a piece of furniture she had not seen before. It was a low bench, upholstered in black leather, with polished wooden legs and a series of brass rings set into its frame at deliberate intervals. Restraints coiled beneath it like sleeping serpents. The sight of it sent a bolt of pure, undiluted heat straight to her core.