I nod slowly, still watching her. “You liked the structure. The surrender.”
“Yes,” she admits, exhaling. “It was freeing… letting you take control.”
Her voice trembles with honesty, and I feel the weight of what she’s giving me, her vulnerability, her curiosity, her trust.
I hold her gaze. “I want you to understand something,Blair,” I say. “Submission isn’t passive. It’s a choice. It’s about trust even more than sex. It’s about surrendering power because you want to, not because you think it’s what I need.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but I continue, needing her to hear this.
“I need you to know that just because I’m a dom doesn’t mean I need the dynamic every time we’re intimate. What I need… is honesty. Intentionality. And consent. Always.”
Her lips part slightly, and her breath hitches, but she doesn’t look away.
“I know,” she whispers. “I’ve been reading. Thinking. I want to know what it really means to give up control. Not just in bed, but”—she pauses, gathering herself—“to really try it. The dynamic. The rules. I want to see if it fits me.”
The truth in her voice, in her eyes, is so raw it almost knocks the air from my lungs.
I nod slowly, stepping into the role I know she’s asking me to take, anchored, calm, firm.
“Alright,” I say after a long moment, my voice dropping into something lower. More commanding. “Then we’ll start slow. First, we talk about limits. Expectations. I’ll draw up a contract. You’ll review it before you agree to anything.”
She blinks. “A contract?”
“Yes.” My tone leaves no room for debate. “Consent isn’t just verbal in this lifestyle, it’s structured. Clear. It protects you. It protects me. And it gives us both a foundation to stand on.”
She swallows hard, but then… she smiles.
And damn if that doesn’t make something deep in my chest throb.
“Please tell me you’re not cooped up in the house by yourself,” Abby’s voice filters through the phone, filled with concern. “Go out or something.”
I sigh, lying back on Calvin’s bed. “Abby,” I groan. Calvin’s downstairs, making himself scarce since Abby called, leaving me alone with my guilt.
“What? I’m just saying, go on a date. Do something fun, it’ll make me feel less guilty for leaving you all alone. I’m really sorry again for ditching you, but I’ll be back soon, I promise.” How do I tell her that I went on a date… with her fiancé? Though, was it really a date? I know Calvin only came with me to the movies to pacify me. He’s not interested in dating me, and I shouldn’t be interested in dating him either.
This is so fucked up.
“Abby, I’m fine, really,” I say, swallowing the wave of guilt. “You don’t need to worry about me. What about you? Are you okay? Doyou need anything?”
Calvin walks back into the room, carrying a tray of breakfast from his personal chef. His muscular body is on full display, only wearing pajama pants that hang low on his hips. He sets the tray on the nightstand, leans down to kiss the top of my head, and mouths,Eat. I roll my eyes because ever since our first night together, he’s been obsessively making sure I never skip a meal. I glance at the spread: croissants, eggs, sausage, fruit, and a glass of orange juice, and reluctantly pop a grape into my mouth.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Abby replies, oblivious to what’s happening on my side. “I just feel so bad. I promise I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” As I listen to her, Calvin walks to his closet.
“It’s really fine, Abby.”
“You’re too sweet. You know, I have a friend who’s single—” she starts, but I cut her off.
“Abby, no. Look, I have to go,”
“Okay, okay! But hey, do me a favor, if you see Calvin, tell him to call me back. I’ve been trying to reach him.”
“Sure, I’ll let him know when I see him,” I say, catching sight of the man in question as he steps out of the closet. He’s back in his usual armor: navy slacks, a crisp white dress shirt, fingers working the buttons before he straightens his tie with practiced ease. No jacket, just rolled-up sleeves and that composed, effortless confidence that shouldn’t look as good as it does. I swallow hard, forcing my gaze away before it lingers too long.
“Have you gone shopping for a dress yet? The masquerade ball is in less than two weeks, Blair,” she says, and I roll my eyes.
“I already told you, Abby, I’m fine skipping it, really it’s not ness—” I’m cut off by the sound of a man’s voice on the other end.
“Is mango-flavored ice cream still your favorite?” an unfamiliar voice asks, making me pause, but I quickly take my phone off speaker, so her fiancé doesn’t catch on.
