The hand that was against my elbow slowly moves up to the back of my neck. His thumb strokes down the pulsing vein in my throat. His eyes are running over my flushed face, my throat, the rise and fall of my chest as I struggle to appear calm. “Ready?” He asks.

“Um,” I shift under his hands.

“Say ‘Yes, Sir.” He coaches me. My brain spins and I almost forget where I am.

“Yes, Sir” I whimper just above a whisper and his head lowers. A soft clink catches my ears as his teeth grip the edge of the glass. Throwing his head back smoothly, I watch the vodka drain from the glass and his throat swallow. His hands slide off my body and he pulls the glass from his lips.

“Now, Thank me.” He says with that wicked smile of his.

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