Chapter Four: The Collar Ceremony

Rayna had been on edge all day.

Ever since Roman left her breathless in his closet, she hadn’t been able to think straight. Every step she took reminded her of the sting on her ass. Every brush of her clothes made her remember his fingers, his voice, his damn presence.

But he hadn’t spoken to her since.

Until now.

A text. Simple.

Come to my room. Now.

Her heart stopped. Then pounded.

She climbed the stairs with shaky legs, unsure if she was walking to punishment or something worse—something far more addictive.

His door was already open. That should’ve scared her. It didn’t.

She stepped in.

He stood in the center of the room, dressed in black slacks and a fitted shirt, sleeves rolled just past his elbows. His arms were folded, his expression unreadable. But his eyes?

They were already undressing her.

She swallowed hard. “Roman—”

“Close the door.”

His voice was calm. Controlled.

Rayna obeyed, closing it softly behind her.

“On your knees.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I won’t repeat myself.”

She hesitated… and then dropped.

The plush carpet cushioned her knees, but her pride? That was raw. And wet. Soaked in anticipation.

Roman circled her slowly, like a predator assessing his prey.

“You opened a drawer labeled ‘Discipline.’ You touched what isn’t yours. You saw the collar.”

He stopped behind her. “And you wanted it.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

His fingers slid into her hair, pulling her head back gently. “Say it.”

She gasped. “I wanted it.”

He leaned in, breath brushing her ear. “Say what you wanted.”

“I wanted the collar…”

His grip tightened. “And?”

Her throat was dry. “I wanted you to put it on me.”

Roman moved away, walked to the bed—and picked it up. The same collar. Black leather, silver tag.

Daddy’s Girl.

He let it dangle from one finger.

“If I put this on you,” he said, voice low, “you stop being the mouthy little brat who talks back and sneaks into rooms. You become mine. Understood?”

Rayna’s lips parted. “Yes, Daddy.”

He smiled.

“Good girl.”

He stepped in front of her, the collar now in both hands. Slowly, deliberately, he knelt—leveling their eyes. Then, with practiced hands, he fastened the collar around her neck.

It wasn’t tight. But it felt like a claim.

Like a brand.

Like surrender.

Roman’s thumb brushed over the tag.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“From now on, when I say kneel… you kneel. When I say beg… you beg. When I say come… you ask for permission first.”

Her body trembled.

“Yes, Daddy.”

He leaned in. His lips brushed hers. Once. Twice. Not a kiss—a promise.

Then his mouth crashed into hers, hot and bruising. His tongue demanded entry, and she gave it without hesitation. She moaned as his hands gripped her hips, pulling her up and into him.

He stood, lifting her with ease, and walked to the bed.

He didn’t throw her.

He laid her down like something precious.

Then he tore her open.

Her blouse was unbuttoned with expert speed. Her skirt pushed up. Panties pulled aside—not off—because Roman didn’t remove things when he was in a mood. He claimed them.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he growled.

Rayna nodded, pupils blown wide.

He didn’t go for her lips again.

He knelt between her thighs, gripping them apart with both hands.

Then he licked her.

One slow, commanding stroke of his tongue, from entrance to clit, tasting her. Marking her.

She cried out, hands tangling in the sheets.

He didn’t speak.

He devoured.

Again. And again.

His tongue was both cruel and soft—circling, pressing, flicking—until she was trembling, choking on moans, begging without shame.

“Daddy, please… please—”

He pulled away, lips wet.

“No.”

Rayna sobbed. “Please—!”

“I told you,” he growled. “You don’t come until I say.”

She thrashed beneath him, too far gone to care about pride or punishment. She needed him.

Roman stood, undid his belt, unzipped—

And released himself.

Rayna’s mouth opened, eyes wide. Her tongue darted out on instinct.

“Not yet, baby,” he smirked. “Tonight’s about me claiming this first.”

He slid into her in one, long, thick thrust.

She screamed.

There was no prep, no soft buildup. Just him. Filling her. Stretching her. Owning her.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. He just took.

And she gave.

Every thrust rocked her to her soul. Her collar jangled. Her breath caught. Her fingers clawed at his back.

“Mine,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yours!” she gasped.

“Say it again.”

“Yours, Daddy!”

He grunted, slammed deeper. Sweat dripped. Skin slapped. She sobbed with every stroke—of pleasure, of punishment, of being ruined perfectly.

When he finally let her come, it was with his hand at her throat and his voice in her ear.

“Now, baby. Scream for me.”

And she did.