And he’s not wrong about this one.
That night, we’re back at the hotel, stretched out on the couch under a fuzzy blanket, Netflix playing something we’ve both already seen but don’t care about. Lex’s arm is around me, my legs tangled with his, my head tucked under his chin.
The city hums softly beyond the windows.
Nothing dramatic happens. No big declarations. No plans made.
Just warmth. Just quiet. Just us.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something to go wrong.
I close my eyes, fingers curling into his hoodie, the neon pink mask tucked safely in my bag nearby.
Some surprises are worth saving.
And I’m sure we both are going tolovethis one…
CHAPTER EIGHT
JAMIE
I’ve been lying here for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to Lex breathe.
Slow. Deep. Asleep.
My heart is racing anyway.
I’ve thought about this—aboutthis exact moment—more times than I’m willing to admit. Not because I want to take something from him. Not because I want to surprise him into something he doesn’t want.
But because weeks ago, tangled up in whispered confessions and late-night honesty, we talked about control. About trust. About what it would feel like if, just once, I took the lead.
Lex said he’d like that.
So now I’m here. Finally doing it.
My bare feet sank into the plush carpet as I stood at the foot of the bed, my pulse hammering in my throat. Lex lay sprawled across the mattress, his broad, tattooed back rising and falling with each slow, even breath.
The back ink swirled across his skin like living shadows – serpents coiling around his biceps, a dagger piercing through his shoulder blade, the names of dead saints etched along his ribs.
His buzz-cut hair was just long enough to catch the faint light, the dark strands glinting like polished obsidian.
The same body that pins me down so easily when he wants to.
The same hands that never shake when he’s in control.
Tonight, they won’t move.
The silk ropes were already looped around my wrists, the fibers smooth against my skin as I leaned over him. His arms were heavy with sleep, limp as I lifted his left wrist and secured it to the wooden bedspot, the knot tight enough to hold him, but not enough to bruise.
He murmured something incoherent, his face pressing deeper into the pillow, but didn’t wake.
A smirk pulled at my lips as I repeated the process with his right arm, stretching him out like an offering.
The muscles in his shoulders flexed instinctively, the tattoos shifting with the movement, but he stayed under.
When I finish, I sit back on my heels and look at him.
He’s still asleep.
