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"Responsibility," I whisper. "Being careful. Having to make every decision. I wanted someone who could take control."

"And your body?" he asks, his voice dropping into that deep register that vibrates through my ribs. "What did you want for your body?"

I look down. "I wanted... to be wanted. Without having to hide."

Silence.

Then Vanguard takes a single step forward, eliminating the remaining space between us. He's so close I can feel the rhythm of his breathing.

"Look at me," he commands softly.

I lift my chin, my brown eyes meeting his behind our masks.

"I need to know what you want from me tonight," he says, each word deliberate. "Not what you think I expect. What you actually want."

I take a breath, steadying myself. "I want clear directions. I want you to take the lead. I want praise—not cruelty or humiliation. I want slow attention. No pain."

"And if something doesn't feel right?"

"I'll use Yellow if I need you to adjust," I say, my voice stronger now. "Red if I want everything to stop."

"Good." His approval is quiet but unmistakable. "What do you want more of? What makes you feel safe?"

"Being told what to do," I admit, heat flooding my cheeks. "Being praised. Knowing you're paying attention to me."

"I am paying attention," he says, his voice dropping lower. "What's off-limits?"

"Anything that makes me feel ashamed of my body. Anything that feels dismissive."

"Understood." He pauses. "Do you want me to take the lead tonight, Ivy? Completely?"

"Yes," I whisper.

"Then there is something you need to understand," he says, his tone carrying absolute conviction. "There is nothing on you to hide. You are built like a dream, Ivy. Soft in every place a woman should be soft, heavy in every place a man wants to hold. If anyone has ever made you feel otherwise, they were a fool."

A wave of intense heat sweeps through my entire body. The sheer conviction in his voice dismantles my defenses faster than any touch could have.

I feel a damp warmth pooling between my thighs, my nipples tightening against the silk.

"May I touch your face?" he asks quietly.

I swallow, my heart hammering, and nod. "Yes."

He raises his right hand. His fingers are long, strong, and impeccably kept. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing the soft curve of my cheekbone just below the edge of my mask.

The instant his skin makes contact with mine, I gasp.

His touch is warm, slightly calloused, and utterly confident. He slides his hand down the curve of my jawline, his thumb coming to rest beneath my lower lip, tilting my face upward.

The familiarity strikes me again—a phantom echo of authority and strength that makes my scalp tingle. But the way he touches me feels different from the careful distance Brock always maintains. This is deliberate. Possessive.

He leans down, bringing his lips inches from my ear. His warm breath ghosts across the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a violent shiver down my spine.

"Tell me what you've been thinking about," he murmurs, his voice a low, dark promise against my skin. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."

Chapter Four

BROCK