“The view improves.” Gabe hands me a glass of red wine, his eyes holding mine rather than looking at the skyline.
He’s made coq au vin, the chicken falling off the bone in a rich, wine-darkened sauce. The table is set with simple elegance—heavy silverware, crystal glasses, a single dark red rose in a slim vase. Everything in his space is intentional, I realize, just like his touch.
Throughout dinner, Gabe watches me eat, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes when I close mine to savor a particularly good bite. His questions are precise, excavating details about my childhood and artistic process that I rarely share. Each response seems to please him, like he’s collecting parts of me.
Our conversation flows easily, yet neither of us acknowledges the sexual tension building between us. When his fingers brush mine passing the bread, when my foot accidentally touches his under the table, when he reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear—each contact charges the air further.
After I take the last sip of wine, Gabe stands and extends his hand. “Dinner’s over.” His voice drops lower. “Now I want to play with you, Amelia.”
The hunger in his eyes has nothing to do with food.
His fingers interlace with mine as he leads me to the bedroom. The space is minimal, like the rest of his penthouse—an oversized platform bed with dark sheets, no headboard, and few personal items. Only a large abstract painting with swirls of midnight blue and crimson breaks the monochrome palette.
Gabe releases my hand and moves to a sleek black cabinet. He removes a leather bag and places it on the bed, then turns to me with an expression I haven’t seen before—serious, almost clinical.
“Before we go further tonight, I want to show yousomething.” He unzips the bag. “I have some toys I’d like to use with you.”
My breath catches as he begins removing items one by one, arranging them carefully on the dark sheets: a supple leather collar with silver hardware, delicate chain nipple clamps, a slender violet wand, and various implements for impact play—a leather flogger, a riding crop, and something that looks like a short paddle.
“What is that one?” My voice comes out smaller than intended, pointing to a glass-like object with spiral ridges.
“Temperature play. It can be heated or cooled.” His eyes never leave my face as he explains each item’s purpose, how it feels, and what sensations it creates. He holds the violet wand against his palm, showing how the electric current creates a purple spark that makes my skin tingle just to watch.
My body is caught between fear and a rush of arousal I can’t deny.
“We’re going to establish some rules,” he says, setting aside a leather cuff. “Safe words. Hard limits. I need to know what you can handle and what you can’t.”
What follows is hours of the most intimate conversation I’ve ever had—not through physical touch but through words. Gabe asks about previous experiences, what I enjoy, and what frightens me. He reminds me of the traffic like system—green for continue, yellow for slow down, red for stop immediately. He insists I verbalize my boundaries.
“Nothing that would stop me from working.”
He nods, pleased. “Good. What else?”
I surprise myself with my honesty, admitting curiosities I’ve never voiced aloud. Each admission makes me nervous, yet I find myself wanting to explore these edges with him.
“You’re braver than you realize,” he says, his eyesreflecting something like admiration. “Most people wouldn’t be this honest their first time negotiating.”
Gabe rises from the bed, moving to a tall dresser across the room. His movements are unhurried, deliberate—a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. When he turns back toward me, he’s holding something in his hands.
“There’s one more thing,” he says, his voice dropping to that low register that makes my stomach flip. “Something I rarely share.”
He’s holding a black leather mask with metal accents. Designed to cover the lower half of the face, wicked black spikes jut from its cheekbones and jaw. It should look ridiculous, theatrical. Instead, it’s terrifying and arousing in equal measure.
My breath catches. The spikes remind me of ancient armor, designed to wound anything that comes too close. It’s beautiful in its danger—like the darkest parts of my paintings that critics callunsettling.
He holds it between us, a question in his eyes. “I wear this sometimes. During play. It helps me access certain... aspects of myself.”
I swallow hard, imagining his face partially hidden behind those spikes, his eyes watching me from above them. The contrast between the controlled Gabe I’ve come to know and this primal extension sends heat rushing through my body.
“Would you like to try?” he asks carefully. “Playing with this on?”
The question hangs between us. I understand he’s offering something intimate, a glimpse behind another curtain. This isn’t just about sex anymore—it’s about witnessing raw and hidden parts of him.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “God, yes.”
His eyes light up with something like relief.
Gabe secures the mask over his face, and the transformation steals my breath. The spikes frame his eyes, now darker and more intense windows to his soul. He’s no longer just Gabe. He’s become something else entirely—a dark deity of pleasure and pain.
