The collar was waiting on her pillow — black leather and heavy, with a silver ring that caught the light like a promise. Beneath it, Sloane's elegant script: Wear this. Nothing else. Come to my room.
Riley obeyed.
The leather felt like ownership against her throat — tight enough to remind, loose enough to breathe, the weight transforming her from person to possession.
She wore nothing else, her body bare and vulnerable as she walked through the house to Sloane's wing, the cool air kissing her n*****s into hardness, her arousal already coating her inner thighs.
The door stood open. Sloane waited inside, dressed in black — tight trousers, silk blouse, her dark hair swept back to expose the sharp planes of her face. She held the leash in one hand, leather dangling with casual menace.
"K
