Chapter 4 Touch Without Touching

Sierra tried to avoid him.

It was a quiet rebellion one that lasted less than a day.

She skipped breakfast and stayed upstairs. She helped her mother organize old donations for the charity auction. She answered emails, kept earbuds in, and refused to glance toward the study.

But every quiet moment was a scream under her skin.

Her body burned. Her mind spun with memories of the way he circled her, the taste of his command in her mouth, the ache between her legs after kneeling so long without reward.

She was denying herself.

And he let her.

For two full days.

On the third morning, there was another note.

This one was pinned inside her bedroom door.

You've had enough silence.

Come to the garden. Noon.

Wear red.

She stared at the note for too long.

Part of her wanted to tear it down, pretend she never saw it.

But the other part the one that throbbed low in her belly and kept her awake at night moved automatically toward her closet.

She owned only one red dress.

It was strapless, dangerously short, and bought for a college party she never attended. She had once felt exposed in it. Now it felt like armor or a surrender flag.

At 11:56, she was barefoot on the patio, stepping into the garden.

The air was heavy with jasmine and the buzz of summer insects. The fountain in the center of the garden trickled softly, the sound masking her footsteps. Damien stood under the shade of the pergola, phone in hand, casual in a navy shirt and dark jeans. He didn't look up until she was close.

When he did, her knees nearly gave out.

His gaze was sharp. Measured. Possessive.

"On time," he said. "That's good."

Sierra didn't speak.

She couldn't.

He walked toward her, slow and deliberate, stopping inches away.

His fingers grazed the hem of her dress.

"Red suits you."

She swallowed. "Thank you, Sir."

He looked her up and down. "Have you learned your lesson?"

Her voice wavered. "I think so."

"No. You haven't. But you will."

He circled her once, then gestured to the wooden bench nearby.

"Sit. Legs apart."

Her pulse spiked. She hesitated but only for a second.

The bench was warm from the sun as she lowered herself onto it, her thighs spreading as instructed. The breeze caught her dress, lifting the hem just enough to make her ache with vulnerability.

Damien stood in front of her, arms crossed, head tilted.

"No touching," he said. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

He paced slowly.

"You'll stay like this for the next fifteen minutes. Your mother is in the house, upstairs. If she looks out the window, what do you think she'll see?"

Sierra's breath caught. "Me... waiting."

"For what?"

"You."

He smiled. "That's right. You wait for me. You ache for me. You obey me."

His voice was low, hypnotic.

"But you don't get to be touched. Not yet."

He stepped closer, so close her knees brushed his jeans. He leaned in not to kiss her, but to whisper against her temple.

"Keep your legs open, Sierra."

Then he turned and walked away.

The minutes crawled by.

The sun shifted, heating her skin. Her pulse stayed high, her breathing shallow. A butterfly landed on the fountain's edge. Somewhere far off, a car door slammed. She could hear the faint sound of her mother's laugh from the open upstairs window.

And all the while, her legs stayed apart.

Waiting.

Throbbing.

When Damien returned, he said nothing. He simply stood before her, silent, powerful.

His fingers traced the edge of her knee.

Slowly, deliberately, he pushed her dress a little higher.

She gasped.

But didn't close her legs.

"Good girl," he said softly.

His fingers brushed her inner thigh.

Then stopped.

"Stand."

She obeyed, shaky.

"Turn."

She turned.

He moved behind her, pressing in just enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her neck, but not his lips.

"You've learned something," he said.

"What's that?"

"To crave without asking. To ache without reward."

Sierra's head dropped forward.

She hated how much it excited her.

"I'll give you a choice," he whispered. "You can go upstairs, pretend nothing's happened, wait for another note... or..."

He slipped his hand between her thighs, barely grazing her folds. Her knees buckled.

"Or you can stay. And I'll keep you on edge for hours."

Tears pricked her eyes.

"Please... Sir..."

He stepped back, leaving her empty.

"You'll wait for my next instruction. Go now before you beg."

She returned to the house dazed, a ghost of herself. Her mother was in the kitchen, pouring wine, talking about redecorating the foyer. Sierra nodded, answered when necessary, but barely registered the words.

Her body was a machine of longing.

And Damien didn't touch her again that day.

That night, she found something waiting in her room.

Not a note.

But a black box.

Inside, nestled in red tissue paper, was a small steel plug, sleek and cold, with a jeweled base that sparkled crimson under the light.

A tag was tied to it.

If you're mine, you'll wear this to dinner.

You won't squirm.

You won't speak.

You'll look me in the eyes once.

Only once.

She stared at the box, heart hammering.

Was this it?

The moment she crossed a line she couldn't walk back from?

She took it to the bathroom, washed it with shaking hands, and stood in front of the mirror. Her face was flushed. Her body was vibrating.

She bent forward slowly and entered his world completely.

Dinner was torturous.

Every step down the stairs was electric. Every breath, calculated.

The plug inside her made her hyper aware of every muscle, every inch of her skin. Her dress clung too tightly. The air felt too warm. Her mother's laughter felt like thunder in her ears.

Damien sat across from her, cool and confident. He sipped his wine. He asked her about her job search. She answered through clenched teeth, barely moving.

He knew.

He knew what she was doing. What she was holding in.

And he never looked at her.

Not until dessert.

Then briefly he met her eyes.

Just once.

A flicker of green and heat and danger.

It was enough.

Sierra almost came from the look alone.

She excused herself early, claiming a headache.

She didn't hear him follow.

But she knew he would.

And when she closed her bedroom door behind her, he was already inside.

He locked it.

Said nothing.

Just pulled her hair gently and whispered in her ear:

"Now you can squirm."

And she did.