“I just… I need to talk… I can’t—” My voice breaks. “I need you.”
“Okay, girl, I’m on my way.”
I sink into the couch. My head tips back against the cushion, eyes scanning the ceiling as if the answers might be carved into the plaster. The quiet hum of my house carries an unfamiliar weight as if he’s already here. Watching. Waiting.
Maybe he is.
How the fuck do I explain this? Rationalize it? Admit I just consented to being hunted like some kind of fucked-up fairytale?
I gulp down a mouthful of wine and grip the glass with shaking fingers.
How do I tell Brielle that I enjoyed it? That I liked the way he said I’d scream his name? That the thought of being spied on doesn’t scare me—it thrills me. That something dark and molten came alive in me when he whisperedobsessionlike it was a love language.
Our love language.
I take another gulp and start pacing again.
By the time Brielle arrives, my heartbeat is a drum, and I’m not sure if I want her to calm me down or tell me I’m not crazy for wanting this.
She doesn’t knock, just walks straight in. There’s no hesitation. No need for permission.
She’s in sweats and an oversized hoodie, hair scraped into a messy bun, eyes wide with concern.
“I brought chocolate truffles. All of your favorites,” she says, holding up a bag. “And I’m prepared to burn someone’s house down if you need me to.”
A shaky laugh escapes me. “Chocolate truffles and wine. Perfect.”
We’re curled up on the couch. The burner phone rests on the coffee table within reach, waiting for me to show it to her.
Brielle eyes it. “You gonna tell me what the hell is going on?”
I nod, throat dry. “But first, swear you won’t tell Eden or Marissa.”
Her brows lift. “Thatserious, huh?”
I shake my head. “Those two wouldn’t understand.”
She takes a slow sip of wine, grinning behind the glass. “Okay. Swear it.”
My chest loosens by a fraction, then I tell her everything. Every filthy word whispered in my ear on that dance floor. Every breathless threat disguised as a promise. Every word he said to me during our phone call.
All of it had me soaking through my panties and ready to bolt out of my skin.
“He’s only an initial to me. Just B. I don’t know what he looks like, or his name, or if he’s sane or some kind of criminal.”
I expect her to laugh. Or flinch. Or stare at me, eyes wide, as if I’ve lost my fucking mind.
But Brielle, just being Brielle, sits back and crosses her legs, wine in hand. “Okay. Keep talking, girl.”
And God help me, I do.
She shifts, tucking one leg under her, eyeing me. “Okay. I have to ask… have you ever been with a Dom?”
I blink at her. “No. Why?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Because I have. And some things you’re describing—the control, the threats, the mind games—it sounds a lot like D/s dynamics.”
I stare at her. “I didn’t know you were into Dom and sub stuff.”
