"I need you to be sure."
"I'm sure."
"Because once I touch you —" He stopped. Swallowed. His eyes were black in the low light, fixed on me with an intensity that made my stomach flip. "I'm not going to be gentle."
"I don't want gentle."
The last of his control gave way. The professional distance — the careful, measured distance he'd been maintaining since the moment he walked into Morty's office — crumbled.
"Come here."
I moved toward him and he met me halfway, his mouth on mine before I'd finished the thought. Harder this time.Hungrier. His hands found my thighs, sliding up under the silk, and I shuddered under his mouth.
"I need to tell you something," he said between kisses, his mouth moving down my jaw, my neck. "If we do this — I need to be in control. That's how I'm wired. I need to be the one setting the pace. Calling the shots."
"Okay."
"Not okay until you understand what that means." He pulled back enough to look at me. Serious. Intense. "It means I'm going to tell you what to do. Where to put your hands. When you can move. And I need you to listen."
My heart was hammering. Not fear — anticipation. The feeling of standing on the edge of a high dive, that split second before you jump where your whole body hums with the knowledge that you're about to do something irreversible.
"But," he continued, and his hand came up to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone, "the second anything doesn't feel right — anything — you tell me. Red means stop. Everything stops, immediately, no questions. Yellow means slow down, check in. Green means keep going."
"Like a stoplight."
"Exactly like a stoplight." His thumb moved to my lower lip, pressing gently. "I need to hear you say it back to me."
"Red means stop. Yellow means slow down. Green means go."
"And you'll use them."
"I'll use them."
"Promise me, Charlie."
"I promise."
His eyes searched mine for another moment. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him, because his expression changed — softened and sharpened at the same time, like a predator who'd just been given permission to hunt.
"What's your color right now?"
"Green."
"Then put your hands above your head."
The command sent a shiver down my spine. Not cold — hot, liquid, pooling low in my stomach. I hesitated for half a second, my brain snagging on the unfamiliarity of it. I didn't take orders. I didn't follow someone else's lead. I was the one who planned, who improvised, who stayed three steps ahead of everyone else.
But the way he said it — calm, certain, like he already knew I'd listen — made me want to try.
I raised my arms and pressed my hands into the leather seat above my head.
He caught both wrists in one hand. His grip was firm — not painful, not bruising, but absolute. I couldn't have pulled free if I'd wanted to. Which I didn't.
"Keep them there," he said. "Don't move them unless I say so."
"And if I do?"
His mouth curved. Just barely. "Then I'll put them back."
