"I know."
"We're choosing this."
"Yeah."
He spins me against the shop door before I can ramble more, his body caging mine against the wood, and the solid weight of him makes every thought scatter. His hands frame my face, careful and steady, and he's looking at me like I'm something impossible and inevitable all at once.
"Tell me to stop."
"No."
"Scout—"
"No." I grab his shirt, pull him down to my height. "I'm done stopping. I'm done pretending I don't want this, don't want you, don't—but I need to tell you something first. About what I want. What I need from you."
His eyes search mine, patient and clear. "Anything."
"Inside first."
He gets the door open on the first try, and we climb the stairs steadily—his hand on the rail for balance, me right behind him, my fingers itching to touch but waiting, waiting. The second we're in the loft, the words tumble out of me in a rush.
"With Evan, he took. Control was about taking, about making me smaller, making me nothing, making me—god, I'm explaining this all wrong—" I'm pacing now, Holt standing perfectly still by the door, watching me with those ocean-dark eyes. "But that's not what real dominance is. Real dominance is—fuck, how do I even—it's trust, okay? It's me saying here, take this, I'm giving you this because I know—I trust that you'll keep me safe while you take me apart."
"Scout."
"I want you to take control. Not like him—never like him. But I want—I need—" I stop in front of him, have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "I want you to be in charge. To tell me what to do. To hold me down and make me feel safe while you—while we—" My face burns but I push through. "I trust you. I'm choosing this. Choosing you. I need you to understand the difference."
He's so still I wonder if he's stopped breathing. Then, slowly, his hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my bottom lip.
"You say stop, I stop. Immediately. No questions, no hesitation. You understand?"
"Yes."
"I need to hear you say it."
"I understand. Stop means stop."
"And if you can't speak?"
"Then—tap out? Three taps?"
"Good girl."
Those two words in that low, commanding voice flood heat through my entire body so fast my knees actually buckle. His thumb presses against my lip and I open for him instinctively, sucking it into my mouth, tasting salt and the faint echo of beer, watching his eyes go dark.
"Fuck." He pulls his hand away, steps back. "You're sure? We've been drinking—"
"We're tipsy at best." I hold his gaze, completely present in this moment. "My head's clear, Holt. I know exactly what I'm asking for. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."
I reach behind me for my zipper, fingers finding the pull, starting to drag it down—
"Don't." The command stops my hand mid-motion. "That's mine to do."
My breath catches. He circles me slowly, his gait slightly uneven but purposeful, predatory, and I've never felt more exposed fully dressed.
"You've been driving me insane for weeks," he says, still circling. "That mouth that never stops moving. These dresses that cling when you're sweating in the shop. The way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention." He stops behind me, his breath hot on my neck. "You want me in control?"
"Yes."
