Whoever they were, whatever ghosts had done this to her, I wanted them gone.
She’d fallen asleep in my arms, body still warm and trembling, skin slick with the remnants of what we’d shared. I’d cleaned her as best I could without waking her, every touch gentle and respectful.
Now she slept soundly, the blanket drawn high, the faintest smile curving her lips. Her curls fanned across the pillow like ink on silk.
“I love you,” I whispered into the dark.
A truth. A confession.
One she wasn’t ready to hear.
Allowing herself to love me—to believe she could—would take time. Especially after tonight. After the way she’d stripped herself bare, body and soul. The rawness that hung between us now would change everything that came next.
Because she would wake up tomorrow drowning in emotions she wouldn’t know how to name. Guilt. Confusion. Fear. All born from my carelessness.
I replayed every moment—not out of desire, but out of analysis. Where had I missed it?
The shift in her rhythm?
The tremor in her words?
The way her body had gone from trembling with pleasure to relaxed and supple in my arms.
I dragged a hand through my hair, exhaling as I slid closer, my chest molding to the gentle curve of her back. She sighed in her sleep, shifting closer, instinct guiding her even in rest.
Her subdrop had hit hard—too hard. She must have been carrying so much already, all that pressure and loneliness building for years, waiting for a crack to escape through.
I pressed my lips to her shoulder. “I should’ve seen it coming.” The words pressed into her skin.
Next time, I would.
Next time, I’d prepare her.
Protect her.
Her scent curled around me—vanilla and something sweet and the faint trace of salt. I inhaled her, let it sink into the fibers of my DNA.
And somewhere between guilt and devotion, I made a silent promise:Never again.
The possibility of what was waiting for us in the future. Her submission.
A choice she’d wear beautifully, I thought, the idea sliding unbidden into my mind. Last night had confirmed it. She neededthis as much as I did. She needed to be loved unconditionally, guided not with a cane but with care, supported as she excelled.
My imagination traced the line of her throat, where the collar would rest—simple, elegant, hers. A symbol that she belonged, that she was mine and I was hers.
I’d ordered it hours before, sometime after she’d fallen asleep. Rush delivery, because patience was a virtue I no longer possessed. It wasn’t a thick band of leather or cold steel—it was gold, delicate, understated. Something that would blend seamlessly with the jewelry she already wore. Something she could wear into a boardroom without anyone ever knowing its meaning.
My hand slid over the curve of her hip, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there. I let myself memorize the feel of her—the steady rise of her breath, the faint hum of life beneath her skin.
She felt like home.
And of all people, I had my damn mother to thank.
Her relentless persistence had driven me to it—the dating profile I’d created ages ago and promptly forgotten. Until one night, when loneliness had carved too deep, and I’d opened it again.
And there she was.
Blurred. Anonymous. But her.
