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Because I know the kind of sex I have. Have had. Pre-Gage. It was fine. Solidly three-and-a-half-stars on a good night. A little spanking if the moon was in the right phase. Definitely not the kind of sex that inspires someone to open an entire franchise around it.
Am I vanilla?
Oh god, I’m vanilla.
He’s out here collecting safe words and my idea of wild is letting someone see me from behind with the lights on.
My face is burning now. I feel like my brain is filing a missing person’s report on my dignity. I try to play it cool, but I’m positive my internal scream is leaking through my pores.
This man has probably got a Red Room somewhere. I’ve got a pink drawer with two vibrators, and one is dead.
And I haveso many questions.
What does he like? What does he want?What does he think I can give him?
I am not built for elite-level-kink. I’m built for Target lingerie and internally panicking mid-blowjob over whether I left the oven on.
“Okay.” I swallow, trying to shove my panic back down where it belongs. “So, real sex clubs? Like, where there’s dungeons and contracts and orgies, and someone hands you lube and a waiver at the welcome desk?”
He’s a mixture of amused and still watching me carefully.
“My clubs are the kind of place you go when you want to be watched, but not necessarily touched. We create a sensory atmosphere and curated experiences, not wild buffets of kink. It’s invite-only with an application process and background checks. NDAs required. No phones allowed. Full privacy. High-end luxury.”
“So, no kink?”
“Oh, there’s kink. But I think you’re picturing an underground horror show where someone hands you a whip and says, ‘Good luck.’ That’s not what this is.”
And yep. That’s exactly what I was picturing. A concrete basement with red lights, chains on the walls, and a trapdoor escape hatch. Maybe some yelling. Definitely emotional damage.
“Okay.”
I’m trying to find more words, but I think they’ve abandoned me in favor of processing the fact that this man, the one who touches me like I matter, holds space for every part of me, and might be ruining me for all other men, is into a whole other world of sex I never imagined for myself.
He built clubs. Branded the kink. Curated the orgasms. And then he looked at me,me, and decidedI’mthe perfect match for all that?
Gage moves in close and grips my waist. “Amelia. Talk to me. Ask me questions.”
I look up at him, andgoodness, the care he’s looking at me with is exactly what I need right now. It reminds me that every step of the way, Gage has met me where I am. He’s given me what I’ve needed to feel safe opening up to this relationship. Tohim.
Wanting the physical connection, I curve my hand over his forearm. “You’re into kink?”
His shoulders drop the slightest bit. Like my touch, or maybe just that I asked a question, told him I’m not running.
“I wouldn’t say I’minto kinkthe way most people mean it. I don’t walk into a bedroom with a checklist or a lifestyle label. What I am is curious. I like to learn what makes someone tick. What lights them up. What makes them feel wanted. Safe. Unhinged, if that’s what they need.” His thumb brushes against my waist, slow, absent, like he’s not even thinking about it. Like touching me is just instinct now.
“If a woman needs control taken from her, I’ll take it. If she wants to be worshipped, I’ll drop to my knees. If she likes pain, I’m not her guy. That’s a hard limit for me. I won’t hurt someone to turn them on. But if you ask me what does it forme? It’s watching. That’s always been my thing. Watching someone unravel because of what I’m doing to them, or what they’re doing for me. Knowing I’ve read them right, figured them out, or that I’m the only one who sees them that way...that’s the part that fucks with my head, in the best way.”
“Okay. So, you’ve explored. A lot.”
“Yes.”
“And been with a lot of women.”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes more than one at a time.”
He nods.