She revealed herself to me in that vulnerable, sacred space after domination. When most Doms retreat, she showed up. Unmasked herself. Sat in her power and shared it with me.
Calla Black. The brilliant, cold, untouchable CEO of BlackSphere Technologies.
The Black Dahlia. The sensual sadist who made me feel seen for the first time in my life.
And now I can’t look at either version of her without wanting both of them.
I don’t know if she regrets showing me. I don’t know what she sees when she looks at me now.
But I know what I see.
The only woman who’s ever held all of me, mind, body, soul.
And whether she invites me back into her world or slams the door behind her, she already owns me. She didn’t look at me like I was filthy, as if she were disgusted by what we’d done. She looked at me like she knew me, really knew me.
And it fucking wrecked me.
There was this softness in her gaze, not pity, not guilt, just something steady and unflinching, like she’d seen the most vulnerable parts of me, the ones I’d never dared to show anyone, and decided they were worth loving anyway.
That look… it made my chest tighten. My heart beat against my ribs so hard I could barely breathe. I wasn’t used to being seen like that. Not with warmth. Not with adoration. Not after being taken the way she took me.
She didn’t retreat. She didn’t vanish behind the mask and leave me with nothing but a memory. She stayed. Sat beside me. Bestowed the most gentle aftercare on my depleted body. Let me lie there in her lap like I belonged.
And maybe I did.
Because truth be told, out there? In Winston Hills? I’m the one who always holds the power. I sign off on infrastructure that keeps whole neighborhoods from crumbling. Contractors, architects, planners, they all look to me for the final say. The fix. The plan.
I’m the resident engineer. The one with the clipboard. The answers. The pressure.
But behind closed doors?
I don’t want the power.
I want to be stripped of it.
Mind. Body. Soul.
I want to surrender to someone who knows what to do with that trust. Someone who can handle the weight of my submission and never use it to break me, only to bring me back to myself.
And that someone… is Calla.
With her, I never felt small. I felt whole.
Every command from her lips was a gift. Every strike of her flogger was a reminder that I was still capable of feeling, not just performing. When she strapped me and filled me, her hands braced on my back, voice thick with need as she fucked me deep and rough… I felt wanted in a way I’d never known.
Not tolerated, not used, wanted.
And when her breathing shifted, when her moans grew ragged, I knew she was close, knew she wasn’t holdingback, wasn’t just giving me a performance. She was taking her own pleasure, from me, with me, and when she came, her hips grinding against mine, her fingers clawing into my skin, it was the most intimate thing I’ve ever witnessed.
Calla came with me. Not just physically. But emotionally. Spiritually. She let herself go. She let me in.
Which is why I can’t reconcile it with how she acted before.
At Maverick’s wedding, she barely tolerated me. Arms crossed, voice clipped, giving me that death stare like I was the most irritating man in the room.
Every time I showed up at CJ’s house for a cookout or a holiday, she’d make herself scarce. Sitting on the opposite side of the room, refusing even to meet my eyes unless she had to, and even then, it was quick and cold, like any attention I gave her was a problem she didn’t have time to fix.
And I tried. I tried to crack through that wall with a joke, a smile, hell, even small talk.
