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I assemble a light breakfast for Annie. Fresh fruit, a couple pieces of French toast, a glass of orange juice, and some water. I move slowly, my thoughts drifting to last night.
I can still see the way Annie had looked at me, her eyes wide and vulnerable yet filled with curiosity and lust.
The way her voice trembled when she whispered my name, cried out. Begged and pleaded for release. The way she clung to me, her body soft and pliant under my hands one second, then tense and writhing the next.
It wasn’t just the physical connection that’s stuck with me—it’s everything. The way she stood up to me in the office, eyes fierce and angry, though I could tell she was scared.
The way she cares for Robbie, with patience and kindness that I knowI don’t deserve but he does.
Balancing the tray in one hand, I walk out of the kitchen to head upstairs.
She deserves better than what I’ve given her so far. Last night, I’d pushed her, demanded things from her, but I hadn’t done enough afterward to make sure she was okay. That’s on me.
The duality of my nature has always been something I’ve struggled with. I’m a controlling man, in and out of the bedroom. It’s who I am, and it’s not something I can change. But with that control comes responsibility—responsibility to be gentle, to make sure my partner feels safe, especially someone as inexperienced as Annie.
I am dominant, though I wouldn’t call myselfaDominant in the way that some might define it. I’m not part of that world—though I have had my experiences in it.
For me, it’s not about roles or labels. It’s about control—knowing exactly how far to push someone, how to read her needs, how to push her to her limits, bring her back to safety, and then push her again.
I need it, I crave it. To know that the woman with me is blind and deaf to anything but my voice, my touch, the sensations I invoke in her.
But control is nothing without responsibility, and, boy, is it a responsibility. And so very humbling.
Many people think that control is about taking. It’s not. It’s about a woman trusting enough to let go and hand it to me.
Balancing control and gentleness has always been a challenge for me. The intensity of what I want, what I crave—it doesn’t leave much room for hesitation.
But with Annie, hesitation wasn’t the issue. It was trust. Her trust in me. That wide-eyed innocence mixed with unflinching bravery—it’s rare. It’s dangerous. And it’s utterly intoxicating.
She’s inexperienced, unguarded in a way that’s both refreshing and terrifying. Being with her requires something more—gentleness, patience, guidance. Last night, I felt that duality more acutely than ever. Demanding one moment, careful the next.
As careful with her as I could’ve been. Not in the way that one is with a virgin, but she didn’t want that. She wanted more, so I gave her what she wanted—what she and I both craved—I was demanding, pushing her in ways that were probably overwhelming at first.
She’d responded beautifully—eager, open, and utterly uninhibited by the kind of hesitation I might have expected from someone so inexperienced.
She’d given me everything last night. Her body, her trust, her vulnerability. And while I’d taken it, reveled in it, I hadn’t done enough to show her what it meant to me.
Afterward is just as important as anything that happens before or during. Especially for someone like Annie. She needed to be cared for, reassured, made to feel secure. And while I’d held her asshe slept, I know it wasn’t enough.
Last night, I’d let myself fail her in that just because I didn’t want to disturb her. I’d let her fall asleep without grounding her, without making sure she felt cared for after what we’d shared. That was my mistake.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
As I climb the stairs with the tray, I tell myself this is my chance to do better—and explain everything to her.
It had been so sudden last night that we hadn’t been able to really talk about what it means to relinquish control and all the things that go with the territory.
I’m not sure how she’ll react, though, now that passion and lust aren’t clouding her mind.
It’s easy to get lost in the physical—her soft gasps, the way her body arched into mine, the way she begged for more with her trembling voice. But what stood out the most was the look in her eyes.
The raw, unguarded trust. It’s a look I’ve seen before, but never quite like that. Never with so much vulnerability wrapped in courage.
That’s the part that sticks with me, that lingers even now as I move through the house. She gave me something precious last night, something I didn’t entirely deserve.
I reach her door and pause for a moment, balancing the tray as I shift it to one hand. My knuckles hover over the wood, unsure if she’s even awake. I hesitate, and in the end, I decide not to knock and just walk in.
Chapter Twenty