“I don’t want to be a mistake,” I say.
“You won’t be.”
“And I don’t want to be one of many.”
“You’re not.”
There’s a pause in which he leans forward, sets his cup down, and reaches for my ankle. His warm fingers rest on my skin.
“I’m serious about you.”
My throat tightens. “Why?”
“Because you don’t play games. Because you listen. Because you give me that smart mouth and then follow orders like you were made for it.”
“That’s not love,” I say, too fast.
“I didn’t say it was.”
I open my mouth to say something else. I don’t know what. He leans in before I can.
“You’ll stay tonight.”
“I—”
“No more guessing. No more walking out the door without answers.”
I swallow hard. “You like control.”
“I like you,” he says. “Control just makes it easier.”
I look at him.
He leans in before I can finish the thought, his hand still wrapped around my ankle. The hold isn’t tight, but it’s firm enough that I don’t move. I stay there.
“I’m not asking for love, Lila,” he says. “I’m asking for you to see just how sexy you can be when you’re not doubting yourself. So, I propose setting up a contract. If you feel like that’s too much, you’re absolutely free to go. I’m not going to push you.”
My pulse stutters. “A contract?”
He raises an eyebrow, like he’s either amused or testing how fast I’ll run. “Have you ever done BDSM before?”
“I mean, I’ve seen Fifty Shades, if that counts,” I say, then immediately want to punch myself in the throat. This is not the time for casual pop culture references. This is the time for calm, rational maturity. Unfortunately, I’m short on all three.
He doesn’t flinch. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking if you know what it actually entails. The principles. The expectations. The responsibilities.”
My fingers tighten around the coffee mug. “I don’t. Not really.”
Ethan leans back slightly. “Consent is central. So is communication. Safe words, hard limits, soft limits, all clearly established. I don’t push. I don’t coerce. I lead, but never without your full agreement.”
It’s almost laughable, how different that is from what I knew. My ex thought consent was a formality that expired once I said yes the first time. If I changed my mind, it was drama. If I hesitated, it was rejection. I swallow, hard. “So you’re not looking for a relationship?”
He considers my question with a thoughtful crease between his brows, and it immediately makes him look like a man accustomed to dark libraries, inherited estates, and emotional complications best revealed during thunderstorms. The sunlight captures his jawline, and suddenly he is less “corporate executive in a tailored suit” and more Mr. Rochester striding across the moors, coat snapping behind him, prepared to declare something reckless and life altering before tea.
It’s deeply inconvenient.
There’s something about the way he goes still before he answers, as though my words deserve examination rather than dismissal. The pause feels almost gothic. I half expect a distant piano to begin playing on its own. He tilts his head, studying me as though I am either a puzzle or a woman about to faint attractively onto a chaise lounge. The crease deepens. My pulse misbehaves.
This is how scandals begin, I tell myself. It should be illegal for a man to look conflicted and competent at the same time.To my relief, he answers just then. “Not in the traditional sense. I’m looking for trust. Discipline. Obedience, yes, but that’s earnedand it comes with trust. And the pleasure is the outcome that is heightened by all of that.”
