My partners at Haven were always organized through the club. Matching me with girls who wanted to be dominated and were happy to avoid having a deeper relationship. Part of my insane membership fee is a private room that I can use whenever and however I want. A perfect setting to bring women to and avoid ever having them in my home.
And then Grace came along.
Blurring all the boundaries.
I watch as the little caramel-haired siren cuts her chicken, each deliberate slice revealing the hunger she'd ignored. When I found her in her room, her fingers were still cramped around her pen, eyes bloodshot from staring at her laptop screen. The pages scattered around her desk, the empty coffee cup grown cold. All evidence of hours lost to whatever story had consumed her. I've never been close to a creative person before, never witnessed this strange ritual where inspiration demands everything else be sacrificed at its altar.
Something primal shifted in my chest upon realizing that I'm the source of her inspiration. Her words, her focus, her sudden burst of creativity were all because of what we'd done. Because of me.
I wanted to bend her over and fuck her thoroughly as a reward for being so goddamn perfect. But she barely ate all day and spent far too many hours hunched over her laptop. I need to take care of her before I use her again.
She'd given everything to those pages today. I needed to give something back before I took again.
"Tell me about your writing."
Grace blushes when I bring up her book again. I love the color on her. I love knowing she's such a sexual being but is somehow shy about it.
It makes me want to push her further. I want to enhance her pleasure, take her to heights she's never been. I wonder if she'll enjoy writing about them for me? I want to reward her for writing about them.
"It's early stages," she says between bites, her eyes avoiding mine. "I haven't written anything in a while, so I'm just really happy I was able to write so much today." Grace's words tumble out in that breathless way she gets when she's nervous. "Like, I know it's probably not good yet, but just getting words on the page feels?—"
"Why haven't you written in a while?" I interrupt her rambling, curious as to what's been keeping her from writing.
Her hand freezes halfway to her mouth. The flush that was coloring her cheeks drains away.
"It's... uhm… There was this thing that happened." She sets her fork down too, napkin twisting between her fingers. "So I haven't written in seven months."
Seven months. I've heard of writer's block, but I didn't think it was something that lasted so long.
"What thing?" I question. What stopped her enthusiasm for something she clearly loves so much?
"It's really not?—"
Her voice wavers, napkin shredding between her fingers. She's anxious and uncomfortable. If I push now, she'll retreat further. I see it in the way her shoulders curl inward, a barrier snapping up. No. Not tonight.
"I have an idea."
She exhales, sharp and relieved, but her eyes flicker with interest. Lifting my wineglass, swirl the deep red. Her inspiration today? That's the thread to pull.
Before Nolan started the club with Wren, he was a professor of psychology. Specifically, he studied BDSM and the way it impacted your brain. One of the stories he told me was about a couple that used their power exchange dynamic to help the sub complete tasks she normally had a hard time doing. While she couldn't do it for herself, she was happy to do them in order to make her Dominant happy.
"I want to help you keep this momentum," I tell her, setting down my glass.
She chews slowly, swallows. "How?"
"I want you to set a daily writing goal for yourself."
I watch her process, the way her lips part, hazel eyes narrowing in thought. She wipes her mouth with the napkin, composing herself.
"A goal like... a word count?"
"Sure." I nod once. "What feels right?"
She taps her fingers on the tablecloth, gaze drifting to the city lights beyond the window. Seconds tick. Finally, she meets my eyes again.
"Two thousand. That's solid. Achievable, but it pushes me."
Two thousand. I commit it to memory as a slow smile curve my lips. She notices and straightens a fraction.
