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Then Nick moves. He pushes off the doorframe in a smooth, predatory glide, closing the distance between us in two quiet, deliberate steps. He says nothing at first, doesn't soften the moment or offer an explanation. His eyes are on mine, unwavering and ferociously calm.
He gives me a command. "On your knees," he says—not loud, not cruel. Just calm. The command doesn’t raise its voice because it never needs to.
My pulse skitters, breath catching halfway in my throat. That voice—it threads through me like a promise, like a chain. Even so, I hesitate. Not out of fear. Not even out of rebellion, but because I need to know what this is.
He doesn’t waver. Doesn’t explain. Just waits—quiet, dominant, radiating control like heat off a blade. Steady. Unflinching. Giving me space to choose while making it clear there is only one choice that will satisfy us both—and it’s the one that binds us tighter, not frees me.
My knees hit the floor—slow, deliberate, reverent. Not because I’m surrendering to the illusion, but because I’m embracing the truth. This isn't an act. This isn't a performance. This is power in its purest, most dangerous form—chosen, claimed, and willingly given.
The moment stretches between us, heat coiling like smoke beneath my skin. I feel the weight of his gaze, the gravity of what this means—not just for tonight, not just for the game we're playing, but for everything we are. This isn’t just about control. It’s about trust. It’s about seeing and being seen and when he steps in front of me, gaze molten with something possessive and raw, I hold my chin high, even as I kneel.
I’m not less. I’m not broken. I’m his, and I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
He watches me the whole time, and the look in his eyes doesn’t say obedient. It says equal. It says you belong here. It says I see you. And in that moment, I believe it.
The marble floor is cold beneath my knees, but I don’t flinch. I don’t break his gaze. My heart hammers in my chest, and something inside me settles—like I’ve finally remembered who I am. Who we are.
He doesn’t see a prop. He sees me... and he’s never letting go.
17
NICK
She's still on her knees when I close the distance between us, her breath shallow, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of anticipation. The collar gleams against her throat, the ruby-red silk dress abandoned at her feet. The air between us crackles with restraint. Not hers. Mine.
I circle her slowly, fingers brushing the top of her head as I move behind her. She doesn’t follow me with her gaze. Good girl.
"Naked."
She rises gracefully to her feet and obeys without hesitation. What little she has left on slips from her body like she’s shedding expectation itself. When she is naked and waiting, I press my hand to her lower back.
"To the bed."
I don’t raise my voice. I never need to. My control is threaded into every syllable, a leash she’s learned to follow without ever feeling bound. That’s the paradox of us. She kneels, but never from weakness. She submits because she’s stronger than anyone who ever tried to control her. And I see her.
That’s the damn problem.
When she stretches across the bed, I follow. Leather cuffs secured to the headboard wait in silence. I attach one to each of her wrists, then to each of her ankles. She doesn’t flinch. A blindfold slips into my hand.
"Do you trust me?"
She nods, voice low. "Yes."
"Say it."
"I trust you, Nick."
I slide the blindfold over her eyes. Then I wait. I let her feel the silence. The anticipation. I know what it does to her, what it does to that mind of hers. She’s already cataloging every sound, every brush of air, every shift of weight in the room. Her body arches at the whisper-soft touch, breath hitching.
"Still?"
"Yes," she breathes.
My palm smooths over her ribs, down her stomach. Then nothing. I don’t touch her again for a full minute. Two. Maybe more. She whimpers. The sound is fragile, craving.
Then she speaks. "Nick… please."
"You want release?"