"Why?"
"Because you haven’t expected me to be perfect. Some people demand a level of professionalism from me that is almost super human. You just expect me to be real. The last two days have felt like a year and a second at once. Our conversations have been refreshing and spending these hours getting to know each other has been remarkable. There’s been no pretense. No acting. You aren’t trying to get a promotion or ask me for a favor. You’ve acted like you’ve genuinely wanted to know me."
I take a step forward, closing the distance between us. "I have genuinely wanted to get to know you. The real you. Not the CEO that other people get to know, but the person you are beyond the suits and ties. I only do real, Justin." That’s why I haven’t dated men my own age, I think but don’t say. The drama and the immaturity. I need a leader in the relationship. Someone I can trust to make the right decisions for us. I’d never found that in any man I’d talked to before.
His hand comes up, cups my cheek. I lean into his gentle touch. "Even if it gets messy?"
"Especially then."
He exhales slowly, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "I need you to understand something. The dynamic you read about—what you want—it's not about control for control's sake."
"I know."
"It's about trust and communication. About creating a space where you can let go because you know someone's holding thereins. Where you don't have to be 'on' all the time. Where we can be our authentic selves with no fear of judgement."
My breath catches. "And you can do that?"
"I can. I have." His voice drops lower. "But I need to know your boundaries. What you want. What scares you."
I swallow hard. "I want... someone who sees when I'm struggling even when I'm smiling. Someone who'll tell me to slow down when I'm doing too much. Who'll?—"
"Take care of you," he finishes.
"Yes."
"And what scares you?" he asks.
"That I'll be too much. That you'll get tired of dealing with me. I talk a lot. I am a lot."
His eyes darken. "Holly. Look at me."
I do. I see the intensity staring back at me.
"You could never be too much for me. Do you understand?"
The words land like a promise. I nod, throat tight. I don’t know if he understands how much I can actually be. I’ve been told I’m too much most of my life.
"Say it." His eyes narrow. “Say you understand.”
"I understand."
"Good girl."
The praise sends heat spiraling through me, pooling low in my belly. I feel the blush rise across my cheeks. He notices. Of course he does, and his mouth curves slightly.
"You like that," he observes. “You like being praised.”
"Yes."
"Why?"
I hesitate, then decide honesty is worth the vulnerability. "Because it means I did something right. That I made you happy."
"You make me happy by being yourself. Not by performing."
"I don't know how to do that. To relax and be myself. I worry I’m overdoing it. I’m talking too much…"
"Then we'll figure it out together." He lets his hand fall from my face, steps back. "You know I’ll have rules for you."
