We moved a bunch of times when I was younger. Every time Dad climbed another rung on the political ladder, we’d “upgrade”: a duplex in a working-class neighborhood became a split-level ranch in a great school district, then an even bigger house with a pool near a country club.
Then Mom died, and any pretense of keeping things normal and even-keeled for two or three years at a time went out the window. I moved five more times between the ages of nine and sixteen. Finally, Dad settled on the ludicrously enormous, gilded mansion in the suburbs of DC, and I moved into the residence at the school attached to the Washington Ballet Company, near the National Mall.
We never lived together after that. He had politics, I had dance. Since moving to New York four years ago, I’ve been in the same cruddy apartment, and I really thought I was done moving, at least for the next five to ten years. But you know what they say about the best laid plans…
My mouth is a tight line as the elevator doors glide open. Instantly, even I have a hard time keeping my expression blank when I see Nico’s SoHo loft.
Ho. Lee. CRAP.
I half-expected some neon-accented, motorcycle-in-the-living-room, ultra masculine bachelor pad. Rock band stage, hot tub, maybe a stripper pole, panties from various “conquests” nailed to the wall.
But nope. Nico’s place is stunning.
It’s also enormous: a soaring, double-height space with a balcony walkway running around the perimeter, with doors leading who knows where.
I step out with my one bag of clothes slung over my shoulder and stare in awe at my surroundings, my spine locked tight.
I mean, yeah, as my dad climbed the political ranks, we lived in some seriously nice places. This, however? Next freaking level.
That said, for all its grandeur, luxury, and size, Nico’s penthouse is…cold.
Not in temperature, but in energy. It’s all sharp edges and clean lines. Steel and black marble. Perfect leather furniture I’ll bet no one ever relaxes on. Floor-to-ceiling windows with the city spread out beneath like a threat instead of a view.
There’s no warmth. No personal touches. Not one single piece of clutter.
Just sheer dominance, embodied in architecture.
“This way.” Nico directs me up a sweeping modern staircase to the second floor, then down a long hallway lined with recessed lights that glow like fire trapped under glass.
I follow. My heartbeat stays surprisingly steady. I tell myself that’s good. It means I’m still in control.
Such a lie.
He stops outside a door, then pushes it open.
Woah.
The bedroom is massive, done in the same minimalist aesthetic as the rest of the house. A king-size bed dressed in deep gray linens. Black walls with silver accents. A closet with its doors standing open, revealing empty hangers and perfectly aligned drawers. A leather bench at the foot of the bed.
It’s beautiful.
It’s also terrifying.
“This is your room,” he says.
I glance around the space, which is very clearly a primary suite, not a guest room.
“You mean your room,” I reply.
He turns to me slowly, lips curving with that same feral, dangerous amusement that always makes my stomach clench.
“Our room.”
My core tightens.
“I…what? I’m not staying in the same room as you.”
“Well, we can agree to disagree, but you are.”
“Nico—“
“The purpose of bringing you here, Naomi,” he murmurs quietly, “is access.”
I swallow, my face heating as his eyes sweep over me.
“You were right: staying at your place and wasting time traveling to my office—time that could better be spent on your knees or bent over the nearest stationary object for me—makes no sense. Ergo, I moved you here.”
I simmer as I shift on my heels. “Yeah, but—”
“And while you’re here—seven months, was it, that we decided on?”
I shoot him a cold look. “Six.”
Nico smiles darkly. “Well, for those six months, you’ll sleep right here.”
“Why,” I say.
He shrugs. “Because if I wake up in the middle of the night and decide I want those pretty lips wrapped around my cock, or if I’m in the mood to fuck you into the mattress, it would be annoying…and, again, a waste of time…to have to go find you.” He shrugs as I stare at him in shock. “This way, you’re just…available.”
“And they say romance is dead,” I mutter dryly.
“Oh, no one’s promising you romance, Naomi,” he says, a glint in his eye. “But I am promising that you’ll be my pretty little fuck toy for the next six months.”
My pulse blares in my ears as heat spreads through my body.
He watches me as I walk to the bed, drop my bag beside it, and stare at the linens like they might bite.
“You’ll still go to the theater,” he says. “I won’t keep you from that.”
How generous.
“But when you’re not at work, you’ll be here.”
I nod once. My throat feels too dry to speak.
“You’ll wear what I give you,” he continues.
“And what might that be?” I ask dryly.
“Lingerie, sometimes. Or nothing, depending on my mood.”
I bristle, but keep my expression neutral. At least, I think I do.
He carries on, voice calm, almost clinical.
“You’ll sleep in my bed. Every night.”
I let that sink in, feeling it shivering over my skin as silence descends upon us.
“I did get you a welcome gift.”
I chew on my bottom lip as Nico goes to one of the recessed shelves, pulls out a drawer, and retrieves a matte black box tied with a white silk ribbon.
It’s not at all lost on me that this is the same type of white silk ribbon that he tied my wrists with that day in his office.
I look at it doubtfully as he hands it to me.
“It’s not a bomb, Naomi.”
I swallow as I sit on the edge of the bed, set the box on my lap, and untie the ribbon. I pull the lid off, then frown, trying to make sense of the two things inside.
When it hits me, I feel my eyes glaze over as my jaw drops and my face throbs.
Holy. Shit.
For half a second, I thought the first thing I was looking at was a necklace—a somewhat thicker, chunkier necklace than I might normally wear, but still a necklace.
No. It’s not a necklace at all.
…It’s a collar.
My pulse skyrockets, and my mouth goes dry.
An actual, literal collar. A polished silver, gleaming loop with a catch on the back and a delicate, almost-hidden hinge across it.
Then my eyes slide to the second thing in the box, and my face turns to pure fire.
That would be a butt plug.
It’s the same polished silver as the collar, and, to be honest, gorgeous. It’s not that big, and it tapers to a thin part in the middle, then flares out to a base with…
I stiffen.
…Are those actual diamonds?
“I’ll take your silence as stunned excitement,” Nico says drily. “In addition to the rules about what you wear and where you sleep, whenever you enter this apartment—at any time—you’ll wear both of these.”
Something dark and needy claws up my spine, sending a sparking sensation through my core that I desperately try and stamp out.
“Any questions?” he growls quietly.
“Yeah—what happens if I break a rule?”
Nico smirks. “You’ll find out.”
I drag my eyes from the box on my lap and look up at him with trepidation. “So that’s it, then? I’m just your little captive, bound up and obedient?”
I gasp when he reaches down and cups my jaw, lifting my chin as his eyes lock with mine.
“Don’t think of it like that,” he grins. “Think of it as choreography.”
I shake my head, biting back a laugh that’s more bitter than amused. “You’re a sadist.”
He lifts a shoulder. “Not particularly. But I will be in control of you. Now, if you’re done pouting…” He smirks. “Time for you to try on your new presents.”
I shoot him a look. “I’m not pouting.”
“You are.”
“Not at all. I’m just figuring out which window I can jump out of.”
He leans in, his voice dropping to a purr. “They’re all bulletproof, ballerina.”
After dinner—which arrives via some exclusive Michelin-level delivery service I’ve never even heard of—Nico tells me it’s time for bed.
Not “you should get some rest”.
Not “if you’re tired”.
Just: “Time for bed.”
Confusingly, I don’t hate the command or the control in that line.
I follow him down the hallway, my bare feet quiet on the polished floors. I don’t know why I obey. Maybe because defiance feels exhausting tonight. Maybe because pretending I have a choice takes too much energy.
The metal of the collar warms against my throat.
I did end up putting my foot down about the plug—though Nico calmly explained that tomorrow, when I did wear it, it would come with a spanking to make up for tonight—but the collar seemed easy enough.
Simple, no big deal. Just like a choker.
But it feels like a lot more than “no big deal” now as I step into this man’s bedroom wearing it.
The lights are turned to a dim, warm glow as we walk in, the room smelling like him: masculine, clean, with hints of smoke and leather.
Nico goes to one of the bedside tables and opens the drawer. When he turns around, I freeze when I see the length of white silk ribbon in his hand.
He looks at me, calm. “Hands.”
I shake my head once.
His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t step closer.
Just waits.
And that’s worse.
Nico doesn’t need to demand. He just…exists. Like gravity. You can fight it for a while, but eventually you’ll succumb.
“Can I go to bed if I do this?”
“Another way might be that you can’t go to bed unless you do.”
Dick.
I move forward. Slowly. Hands extended.
He binds my wrists in front of me, then gently tugs me toward the bed.
I expect him to throw me down and fuck me. To finally just get it over with.
This is how I lose my virginity, I think to myself, something dark curling inside me.
But he doesn’t.
He pushes me back onto the mattress and eases me against the pillows, like I’m something fragile.
I watch, my eyes widening and my pulse skipping as Nico peels his t-shirt off his hard, chiseled body. I flush, sliding my gaze greedily over him.
It occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen him this unclothed before. And holy fuck, the man is shredded. Pure, lean muscle from head to toe, with more tattoos covering his skin than I’d ever imagined. My eyes slide from the ink swirling on his neck down to the huge bird—a crow, or a raven—emblazoned on his chest.
I shiver when he takes my bound wrists and lifts them over my head. My pulse thuds, my throat working under the collar as he slips another length of silk ribbon—this one black—from behind the headboard and loops it around the ribbon binding my wrists. He yanks it tight, pulling my arms above my head, and my body begins to tremble.
My nipples tighten under the button-up top of the pajama set he graciously permitted me to put on.
…And heat pools between my thighs.
He’s just in boxers, the front of them tented obscenely from his erection as he moves over me, straddling my midsection. I shiver, feeling the heavy pulse of his thick cock against my stomach through the fabric.
Nico reaches for the first button of my pajama top and deftly pops it.
“Are…” I tremble as he plucks open another one. “Are you going to fuck me?”
He slowly shakes his head.
“Again with that question. No, Naomi, I’m not going to fuck you.”
He undoes another button, letting the top begin to fall open across my breasts.
“I’m going to consume you,” he growls. “I’m going to fucking own you, inside and out.” I whimper when he yanks the final button free, exposing my breasts and tight, rosy nipples. He reaches down and I gasp sharply when he takes one tender peak between his thumb and forefinger and pinches as he rolls it.
Oh fuuuck.
“When I fuck you, ballerina,” he growls, “and I am going to fuck you, I’m going to ruin you for any other man.”
He pinches my nipple again, switches to the other, then goes back to the first, alternating between the two until I’m writhing shamefully under him, my thighs squirming together. My skin is electrified where I can feel his fat, swollen, pierced cock throbbing against my stomach through his boxers.
Nico slides down, my stomach caving as I feel the metal of his piercing slide over me. His fingers slip into the waistband of my pajama bottoms and my panties, and he starts to peel them all the way down.
Exposing me.
Revealing everything to his dark, hungry gaze.
When he’s got me completely undressed except for the unbuttoned pajama top caught on my arms, he reaches over and pulls open the bedside table drawer.
The butt plug glints in the low light as he slides it out, and my eyes bulge.
“Nico—”
“Rules are rules, Naomi,” he growls quietly, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “Now: are you going to get this wet with your slutty little mouth, or am I going to have to make your pussy drip so much that your ass opens right up for me?”
