“Please, sir. Don’t stop now,” she implored.
It struck him that, in the heat of the moment, she remembered to say sir.
Very fleetingly, because he needed to know with certainty that she was ready to go beyond the limits they’d set. “You’re sure,” he asked, voice rough from the thin hold on his control.
“Never more so.”
She cried out softly the next instant when he filled her—warm, snug, wetness surrounding him. He could have come then and there, but that wasn’t the kind of dom he was, taking without giving. He pumped into her with as much restraint as he could muster, but the chains above took up a rhythmicchink, chink, chink, audible despite the music and Gaby’s breathy cries. It wasn’t long, thank Christ, before she shuddered with pleasure. Rhys quickly followed, taking play and exploration to climax and utter gratification after having thought constantly about being embedded inside her once again.
When the buzz in his ears finally faded and the tension drained from his body into the deep, boneless relaxation that always followed release, reality rushed back in all at once.
The hum of the room swelled around them. Murmurs, the soft creak of leather, the rhythmic pulse of music, cut through the moment, jarring and unwelcome.
Rhys opened his eyes.
And there she was.
Gaby, still bound at the center of it all, chest rising too quickly, skin flushed and luminous beneath the lights. Hair loose, lips parted, eyes half-lidded in that hazy, open state that came from deep responsiveness.
The sight of her stole his breath.
Not just her beauty, though that alone was enough, but the way she had moved for him. Followed him. How instinctivelyher body had answered his commands, how readily she had leaned into sensation, trusted his hands, his voice, his control.
As if she had been made for this. For him.
The thought struck with a force that startled him. Not possession. Recognition.
She was everything he wanted in a woman and everything he never believed he’d find again in a submissive. Responsive without fragility. Open without surrendering herself. Strong enough to choose, soft enough to yield.
Perfect.
And then her eyes opened fully. Warm brown, a little dazed, not lost.
Something twisted in his chest.
Because suddenly it wasn’t just a scene anymore. It wasn’t just a body in his hands. It was a woman who trusted him. Who had proven herself repeatedly—in danger, under pressure, in the field, and here, beneath his dominance.
The questions rose, uninvited.Why can’t I let go of this? Why am I still measuring her against a betrayal that isn’t hers?
The answer was ugly in its simplicity. Because part of him was still holding on to the bitterness of being deceived and using it as armor, long after the wound itself should have healed.
He exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling where moments before had been heat and pleasure. That was when he moved into aftercare. Not because the scene required it but because, suddenly, he needed the distance.
Rhys forced his breathing into something steady, something neutral, and stepped back into the role he knew how to wear without risk. Without exposure.
He zipped himself and slung her dress over his shoulder. Once he released her, his hands would be busy with her. He unhooked her ankle first, then her wrists, supporting her weightas her arms dropped. With an arm around her waist, he guided her down from the platform. Someone tossed him a blanket.
“Easy,” he murmured this time more for himself as he wrapped it around her.
He could have swept her up and carried her easily, but he couldn’t risk a chink in his armor. Instead, he tucked her securely under his arm and exited the playroom, moving down the hall to the indoor lounge that would be more private. In fact, it was practically empty with everyone outside waiting for the fireworks to begin. That suited him perfectly.
He led her to one of the couches. After she sat, he pressed a bottle of water from a nearby cooler into her hand.
“Drink,” he urged.
She obeyed, taking small, careful sips.
To anyone looking on, it would appear efficient, responsible, as it should be. But as the moment stretched, Rhys became acutely aware of what was missing. Connection. There was no holding, no talking, no softness. It all seemed… procedural. Some doms liked that, but it wasn’t him.
