If he truly means what he’s been saying, he’ll give me this, every second of it. He’ll bleed for it, beg for it, worship me until I believe it.
He shifts, carefully, as if moving might wake something feral in the room or in me, lowering his head until his forehead is touching the ground, and the sight of it—the surrender, the shame, the devotion—rips something open inside me.
For so long, I was the one forced to bow, to bend and break, to fit the mould, meet expectations, and, above all, keep a lowprofile. But now, it’s my turn to stand tall, proud, and make the world meet me. And seeing Matt bow for me? It stirs something deep inside, something I’ve kept buried for far too long.
“Lily,” he breathes. Hearing my name fall from his lips after all this time is torture. “I would die for you. I should have fought for you, I know that now. I have been a coward, but I swear I will never let anyone stand between us ever again. Name your price, and I’ll pay it, I swear.Please. Let me prove it to you.”
“You broke your promises before, how can I trust you won’t again?” I demand, because promises sound small unless you make someone earn them. I can see his hands, trembling, at his sides, waiting for permission, for instruction, as if the ground itself has been re-mapped and he needs my word to know where to stand.
He makes a sound I don’t know how to name—part apology, part pleading. “Anything,” he rasps. The single broken word sounds like it’s been ripped from the very centre of his being.Good.
I like the way his want has him so taut he looks fit to snap.
I love that he is willing to be small for me.
I want worship, not ceremony; truth, not theatre.
I need him humbled and holy at my feet.
“Be a good boy, and crawl to me,” I tell him, softer than a command and yet twice as sharp.
He hesitates only a breath longer before he obeys. He slides forward on his knees, palms pressing into the hardwood like a confession. He moves slowly, like someone crossing a minefield, until he reaches me. He stops an inch from my shoes before looking up at me with his heart on his sleeve, and my own need reflected back at me.
“Show me,” I breathe. “Make me believe you when you say nothing else matters.”
He presses his lips together so hard his jaw tightens. When he speaks, it’s nearly a whisper, but each word comes out like a vow wrapping around my ankles like vines.
“I’d spend the rest of my life at your feet if you’d let me, showing you, every day, just how perfect you are, how beautiful you are to me. If you want to run, I’ll run with you. If you want to face them head-on, I’ll be your weapon, your shield, and the fool who still doesn’t deserve to call you his. Whatever you need, whatever it takes, I’m yours.”
It’s grand and terrible and true enough to make my belly ache. I can feel the shift in the air—a tiny pivot where power is handing over and then being reclaimed.
Reaching down, I thread my fingers through his curls, tugging until he looks up at me. He reads the look in my eyes as the challenge it is. With slow, deliberate movements, he wraps his hands around my ankles, thumbs brushing over the sheer fabric of my thigh highs. Gently, he lifts my feet, pressing a kiss to the tops of my shoes before easing them out of my silver heels. My toes curl instinctively as his hands linger, warm and firm, the simple act of removing my shoes sending shivers up my spine.
Once my feet are free, he slides the stockings down, inch by inch, his fingers grazing my calves with each motion. I gasp softly as my bare skin is revealed beneath his touch, achingly aware of how exposed I am. For a moment, the sight of his tattooed knuckles against my calves leaves me dizzy, then his lips press a line of reverent, worshipful kisses along the soft skin of my feet. The act is tender, humiliating, and utterly consuming, and it makes me ache for more.
He trails those small, deliberate kisses up my ankles and along my calves, taking his time as if memorising every contour of me. Each touch is a claim, and my fingers dig into his hair as I struggle to keep my knees from trembling, every nerve alive with need.
His hands follow the path his mouth takes, but before he can travel any higher than my knee, I tighten my grip, pulling his head back half an inch. He falls back on his heels like a good boy, watching me with half-lidded eyes and a more than half-hard cock tenting his suit pants. Using my hold on him to steady me, I lift one foot and slowly drag it across his lap, over every hard ridge in his abdomen, before resting it on his shoulder. The movement causes my dress to ride up, leaving one thin layer of fabric between him and my core.
He tries to keep his eyes locked with mine, but soon loses that fight. With a curse, his eyes drop to my pussy, and the broken noise that falls from his lips has me clenching around nothing. Heat pools low in my belly at the hungry, wanton look in his eyes and the way his fingers twitch with the need to touch what isn’t his to touch.
“Seeing you like this, on your knees for me… it makes mesowet, Matt. Can you see what you’re doing to me, hmm?” I taunt him.
He licks his lips as he looks back down at my pussy, covered by the scraps of lace he sent me, mere inches from his face. So close that as he lets out a shaky exhale, I feel the warmth of it coat my skin.
“Do you want to see how wet you make me?” I ask, cocking my head to the side. “Do you want to taste me?”
“Fuck yes, please, baby.” His pupils are blown wide, the green swallowed by blackness, as he frantically nods. Fisting the hairat the crown of his head, he hisses in pain as he tears his eyes off my pussy and looks at me instead.
“Do you think you deserve that?”
“No, but you do.” His words are so earnest, said without a single ounce of hesitancy, it steals my breath.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” he answers without pause, leaning forward to press a kiss to my inner thigh.
“Good boy,” I reply as I guide his face down, closer to the heat growing between my thighs.
