I kiss him back just as fiercely, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. The burns and bruises don't seem to matter now.
He backs me toward the bed, breaks the kiss long enough to say, "Tell me to stop."
"Don't you dare."
His eyes darken, control fraying at the edges, hunger he's been leashing for days finally slipping free. "Then understand what you're agreeing to. I'm not going to be gentle. Not this first time."
"I don't want gentle."
"What do you want?"
The question demands honesty. I let him see exactly how much I've been holding back. "You. All of you. The way you are when control is the only thing keeping you from coming apart."
He kisses me again, harder this time, walking me backward until my legs hit the bed. The dress that he took such care to zip gets unzipped with far less ceremony, silk pooling at my feet in a whisper of expensive fabric hitting hardwood.
I'm left in borrowed underwear, heels I haven't removed, standing in his bedroom while he looks at me like I'm something he's been starving for. The weight of it moves over my skin like a physical thing—starting at my face, dropping to my throat, lower. My nipples tighten against the thin fabric of my bra. Heat blooms low in my belly.
Every instinct I have says to cover myself, to deflect, to make a joke that breaks the tension. I don't move. I let him look, and the act of holding still under that gaze feels like the first surrender.
There's a giddy feeling to it, as if I'm having my first taste of a really good wine. I examine the feeling with what's left of my functioning brain—this surrender feels like power.
"Beautiful," he says, voice rough. "But I need you to understand something."
"Tell me."
"This doesn't change anything. You're still under my protection, still my priority. But in here, right now, you're mine in a different way." His hand trails down my throat, between my breasts, lower—a slow, deliberate inventory that leaves heat in its wake. "Say you understand."
"I understand."
"Say it properly."
The command drops through me like a stone through still water. We're already falling into the rhythm of what we discussed last night, moving by instinct rather than words.
"I'm yours," I say clearly. "Right now, in this moment, I'm yours."
"Better."
His approval does something to me I wasn't prepared for—loosens something I've been holding wound tight since Prague, maybe longer. Like permission I didn't know I needed.
He guides me onto the bed, follows me down, cages me with his body. "Remember what we discussed last night. But I need to know if you've ever done this before."
"Sex? Obviously."
"Not sex." His hand slides up my inner thigh, deliberate and achingly slow, stopping just short of where I want him. "Power exchange. Real submission. Trusting someone to take you apart and put you back together."
I've had lovers. Relationships that were pleasant, competent, forgettable within a season. None of them ever made me feel like I was standing at the edge of something vast.
"No," I admit. "But I trust you to show me."
"Then we start here." He unhooks my bra with one hand, draws it away, and looks at me the way men look at things they intend to keep. "You tell me if something's wrong. You tell me if you need to stop. But otherwise, you let me lead. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
The addition catches me for half a second. I know the conventions even if I've never practiced them. "Yes, Sir."
"Better."
