One day had passed since the night on the jet, and she had not seen him since. He had sent messages, brief, commanding, achingly tender in their possessiveness, but he had not touched her. The absence was a physical pain, a hollow ache that had settled into her bones and made every hour feel like a week.

Now she knelt in the position he had taught her: knees spread wide, hands palm-up on her thighs, spine straight, eyes lowered. She wore nothing but a collar of black leather, soft as butter against her throat, and a plug of polished rose quartz nestled deep in her ass. He had left instructions for her preparation that morning, and Amber had carried them out with clinical precision, the warm oil enema, the careful stretching, the final insertion of the plug that made Amber gasp and grip the edges of the massage table.