Page 45

"Good." He squeezed my hand once more before letting go. "Now, we should probably talk about regular protocols. Schedules, routines, that kind of thing."

"My favorite," I said with zero enthusiasm, making him chuckle.

"Says the woman who just spent twenty minutes designing an elaborate code system."

"That was spy stuff! That's cool!" I protested. "Schedules are boring."

"And necessary," he countered. "Unless you want to survive on Lucky Charms and forget what sleep is?"

I glanced guiltily at the cereal box on my counter. "I feel attacked."

"You feel cared for," he corrected. "There's a difference."

And damn if he wasn't right.

Tysonfinishedwritingwitha flourish, three pages of neat handwriting covering everything from daily check-ins to aftercare requirements. The legal pad looked official despite the coffee ring staining one corner and my doodle of a unicorn I'd added while he wasn't looking.

"Want to read it over?" He slid the pages across the table, and I caught the slight nervousness in his voice.

I pulled the contract closer, scanning his careful handwriting. He'd captured everything—safe words, boundaries, public protocols, private dynamics. But it was the little details that made my throat tight. He'd included mandatory creative time as a daily requirement. A clause about my independence, stating clearly that submission didn't mean losing myself. A whole section on aftercare that went both ways.

"You included mandatory vegetable consumption," I noted, trying for outrage but landing somewhere closer to touched.

"Someone has to make sure you eat actual food." He watched me read, those brown eyes tracking every expression. "Is it too much? We can adjust—"

"It's perfect." I meant it. The contract was thorough but thoughtful, structure without suffocation, dominance without destruction. Everything we'd talked about laid out in clear terms.

"You sure? Because we can—"

"Tyson." I looked up, meeting his eyes. "It's perfect. You're perfect. Stop second-guessing."

Red crept up his neck. "I'm not—"

"You are." I grabbed a pen from the collection scattered across my table—purple, because of course—and signed with a flourish. Then, because I couldn't help myself, I added a little heart next to my name.

He stared at the heart for a long moment, something soft crossing his face. Then he took the pen and signed with military precision, each letter exact.

We sat there staring at our contract, signed and official. The weight of what we'd just done settled over me like a blanket.

"So," Tyson said, then stopped. Started again. "This is probably backwards, but . . ."

I watched him fidget with the pen, this dangerous man who'd faced down death suddenly nervous about whatever came next.

"Would you . . ." He cleared his throat. "Would you go on a date with me?"

I blinked. Processed. Then burst out laughing—not mocking, but genuinely delighted. "Are you asking me out after negotiating a kinky contract?"

"I'm doing this all wrong." He rubbed the back of his neck, and the gesture was so endearingly awkward I wanted to climb back in his lap. "We just spent hours discussing power exchange and safe words and I haven't even taken you to dinner."

"Most people don't negotiate BDSM contracts before the first date," I agreed, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

"But I want . . ." He struggled with words again, and I realized this mattered to him. Really mattered. "This isn't just about the dynamic. I want to know your favorite movie. Take you to dinner. Hold your hand in public, once we can."

My heart did something complicated in my chest, like it was trying to expand beyond what ribs could contain. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"I accept your date offer, silly!" I bounced in my seat, excitement bubbling over. "Where are we gonna go?"