Oliver nods. “Think of it as… stress relief.”
I let out a chuckle, and I don’t miss the faint smirk on his face.
“Stress relief?” His fingers slip down my abdomen to the edge of my waistband, his fingers deftly tracing lines along my belt.
“What do you know about stress, little Rabbit?” I breathe against his neck. The shiver that runs through him is tantalizing.
He’s so fucking responsive to just a simple touch, a simple breath…
God, I can only imagine the way he’d respond to the soft leather of my whip or the snap of my crop, the drip of hot wax. The chill of ice between my teeth.
I bet he would shine beautifully under my care.
“I know more than you think,” he says, his voice tinged in humor.
“Go to bed, Oliver. It’s late,” I tell him, my lips pulling up into a salacious grin.
Oliver’s gaze darkens, and his lips part as a small gasp leaves his throat.
In my experience, most people love the idea, the fantasy of being dominated. But most don’t understand that domination is not about the power. It’s not an act of violence or degradation. It’s not about the pain, either. It’s about consent and trust. It is about the power of choice—to submit is not to surrender oneself. It is a gift togiveyourself to someone in the most complete sense there is.The men who have served me never understood this, and part of me worries I am making a grave mistake. That there is no way Oliver will understand this, either.
But there is also a part of me, however small, that wants to teach him. To show him how much power he has. He only has to reach for it.
I grasp his throat, my fingers curling around his neck like they belong there. Comfortably. I don’t squeeze or choke him. I just rest my palm against his skin. I wait for his admission, his response. For him to choose which version of me he wants. In that one touch, I give Oliver the choice. Obey me, or defy me. The choice is his.
Should he defy me, I will not hesitate to walk away. I will put my wall up and keep Oliver at a distance; not just for my benefit, but his. I will separate myself. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again. He could still quit, and I would once again be out an assistant, and Chickadee would be pissed, and I would be alone, anyway. Rightfully so, too. I’d told Chickadee I’d keep my assistant for three months and I’ve only had him two fucking days, and that’s a record for me. Chickadee is a woman of her word. She always has been. At times, she was more of a rock for me than my own parents were. But if Oliver quits, she does, too.
It’s not ideal in the least. Yes, I could survive it, but it isn’t just about the job duties they take off my shoulders. No oneknowsme like Chickadee, and even though it’s only been two fucking days, I think Oliver knows me, too.
Better than he should, given current circumstances.
Two days. Two days, and he’s got me wrapped around his slender, perfect finger. Two days and I can not think straight.
Two days and Oliver Green has me losing control like a starving fox desperate to catch his prey.
If heobeysme though…
I stare at his verdant gaze, little flecks of gold catching the porchlight like a treasure desperate to be unearthed.
If he does what I ask, I’ll know. I’ll know exactly where I stand, and I will not hesitate. I will not sit idle and pretend that this—this kiss, this colliding force—does not exist.
I will take everything Oliver Green is willing to give me, and I will give him exactly what he wants. I will take care of him for aslong as he’ll let me inside the Veil and outside of it if that is what he chooses.
Oliver holds my gaze with a darkness I recognize all too well. He shifts his position, leaning into my grasp. His eyelashes flutter as his kiss-swollen lips part and he speaks.
“Yes, Sir," he says, his voice smooth like silk.
“Good Boy,” I say, giving his throat a soft squeeze. And then I let him go.
I take a small step back and take this moment to savor it.
Savor him—standing there against his door, blonde hair a bit mussed from our kiss, those pouty lips curling up into a smile that lights up his eyes.
“Be ready for me at six am," I say matter-of-factly.
Oliver’s eyebrows furrow, and he opens his mouth to speak, and I can’t help myself.
I lean in and kiss him, silencing his protest. It’s not a rush or a frenzy like before. It’s sweet. Playful, even.
