The bed shifts again as he sits on his haunches, and then his hands are on my chest, knuckles skimming my ribs as he tears my pajama shirt from breast to navel. Buttons go flying. He lifts me long enough to remove the ruined top, and my nipples peak as if expecting the heat of his gaze.

The warmth of his mouth.

The pinch of his fingers.

His hands drift over the sensitive buds, and I can’t help but arch into his warm palms.

“Have you touched yourself without my permission, Novalee?”

I shake my head, moaning something close to a “no,” my body begging for more. Begging for what he’s refused to give me.

“If I make you come, I want something from you in return. Consider it a birthday request.”

“Anything.”

“For the next eleven months after you leave my house, I want your word that you won’t touch yourself when you’re alone.”

“What if I’m ordered to touch myself?”

“That’s out of your control. But what you do when you’re alone…” He braces himself above me and dips his head, mouth grazing my ear. “That’s up to you, and I want you to promise me your fingers won’t come in contact with your beautiful pussy.”

“You’ll make me come?”

“All night long, my sweet girl.”

I shudder in the circle of his arms. “What if I’m thinking of you when I touch myself?”

“Those are fighting words.” He groans, and then his mouth covers mine, the weight of his body pressing us into the mattress as he plunders my mouth. I thrust my fingers into his thick hair, pulling at the strands as I wrap my legs around his waist. The position brings us together in an explosive way, his hardness against my softness.

Tearing away with a painful groan, he crawls to the end of the bed and grabs my ankles. Next thing I know, I’m sliding down the mattress. He hefts me over his shoulder and carries me from my quarters to his. The door barely makes a sound as it shuts us away, alone, in the one place I’m not allowed.

The place where he sleeps.

The place he swore he wouldn’t have me until after we’re married.

He pushes his pajama pants down his legs and kicks the clothing free. I freeze, ogling his glorious naked body. Guided by moonlight, I take him in from the definition of his biceps to the muscular build of his thighs.

And everything in between.

Breaths shallow and thready, I dart my tongue out to wet my lips. His nostrils flare, and a low growl emanates from his throat. He’s at his most base self, raw and animalistic and struggling to hold himself in check.

“If it weren’t for the contract,” he says, fisting his hands at his sides, “I’d make you bleed for me. Only me, Novalee.”