My feet moved without permission, carrying me forward until I stood between his spread knees. This close, I could smell him—gun oil and soap and that darker scent that was just him, just male, just everything my body had been craving for seventy-two hours of careful structure and measured distance.
"You broke my trust tonight."
The words landed like a physical blow. Not because they were harsh—his tone was quiet, controlled—but because disappointment laced through every syllable. That was worse than anger would have been. Anger I could have fought against. Disappointment made something in my chest crack open.
"I didn't mean—" I started, but he held up one hand and I fell silent immediately.
"You did mean to," he corrected, still in that devastatingly calm voice. "You made a choice. You lay in that bed, you thought about the rules, and you decided your need to work was more important than your promise to me."
I wanted to protest, to explain about the connection I'd found, the web of corruption that went so much deeper than we'd known. But the words died in my throat because he was right. I had made a choice. A deliberate, conscious choice.
"I told you to rest," he continued, and now his hand lifted, finger tracing along my jaw with a touch so light I might have imagined it. "Not because I enjoy giving orders. Not because I need to control you. Because your body needs it."
His thumb found the hollow beneath my ear, pressed gently, and my knees went weak. Three days of waiting had turned me into something desperate and shameless, ready to beg for whatever he'd give me.
"Because I need to know you'll take care of yourself when I can't watch."
The finger under my jaw tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. The intensity there made my stomach clench, heat pooling low and urgent between my thighs.
"When you break the rules, you're not just disobeying me," he said, thumb now tracing my lower lip with devastating precision. "You're telling me you don't trust me to know what you need. You're saying your impulses matter more than my care."
"That's not—" The words came out strangled. "I do trust you."
"Then prove it." His hand dropped from my face, and I immediately missed the contact. "This isn't about punishment for punishment's sake, Maya. It's about teaching you that the rules exist because I care about you."
Something in his voice shifted on those last words—deeper, rougher, like the admission cost him something.
"And when you break them," he continued, "there are consequences that help you remember."
My skin felt too tight, too hot, every nerve ending screaming for contact. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, see the controlled rise and fall of his chest, notice the way his hands flexed slightly like he was stopping himself from reaching for me.
"Do you understand why this is happening?" he asked.
"Yes," I whispered.
"Tell me."
I swallowed hard, throat dry, pulse hammering so hard I was sure he could see it jumping at my throat. "Because I broke your trust. Because I need to learn that taking care of myself matters. Because the rules are there to protect me, not control me."
"Good girl."
Those words. Those tiny little words. They hit me hard, making me squeeze my thighs together hard enough to hurt.The movement didn't escape his notice—nothing ever did—and something dark and satisfied flickered in his eyes.
He patted his lap once.
Just once.
A firm, decisive gesture that made my knees buckle.
The journey from standing to draped across his thighs happened in fragments—his hands guiding me down, the shocking warmth of his body beneath mine, the hard muscle of his thighs pressing into my stomach. I could feel everything through his pants—the heat of him, the solid strength, and underneath my hip, unmistakable evidence that this was affecting him too.
His hand came to rest on my lower back, warm and heavy, holding me steady. The position left me completely vulnerable—ass raised, legs slightly spread for balance, face turned toward the bedspread. The t-shirt had ridden up, barely covering me, and I knew he could see everything. The thought should have been embarrassing.
Instead, it made me wetter.
I was already soaked—had been since morning, since the dream that had left me aching and empty. Three days of anticipation, of "good girl" and gentle commands and structured care had wound me so tight that just being across his lap, just feeling his hand on my back, had me trembling on the edge of something enormous.
"We're going to take this slow," he said, and his voice had gone deeper, rougher around the edges. "You're going to count them. You're going to thank me for each one. And you're going to remember that this is happening because I care about you too much to let you hurt yourself."
