Page 35 of Deliah

Pussy? Throbbing. Obviously. I lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling like it had answers, trying to calm my breathing like I hadn’t just woken up drenched in dreams about him.

The kiss. His hands. That maddening brush-off.

My thighs were clenched so tight I might as well have done a full leg day in my sleep.

I kicked the covers off with a groan and dragged myself into the en-suite like I wasn’t still vibrating with sexual frustration.

A splash of cold water. A brush through my hair.

I slicked it back into a messy bun—the kind that said I didn’t try while looking dangerously like I absolutely did.

Then came the robe. Black silk. Short. Barely qualified as clothing, to be honest. But technically still housewear.

Just… slutty housewear. I caught my reflection in the mirror and smirked.

Okay, bitch. Let’s cause some morning havoc . But first—Cherry.

I grabbed my phone and FaceTimed her, already biting back a grin as her blurry face filled the screen.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Why are you awake? It’s like…” she checked her phone, “…early o’clock.”

“Because,” I said dramatically, “I’m on a mission.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me everything. How was your first day with the mysterious money man?”

“Eventful,” I said, flopping back onto the bed.

Her eyes lit up. “No way. Did you spend all night fucking?”

I snorted. “Opposite.”

“What do you mean opposite?”

“I mean,” I said, raising a brow, “we went out for dinner, had the most intense kiss of my life, then he looked me dead in the eye and basically said ‘off you pop, bedtime’ like I was a toddler with too much sugar.”

Cherry sat up straight. “You have got to be fucking joking.”

“I’m not.”

“What’s he playing at?!”

“I don’t know!” I whisper-yelled. “But the more he doesn’t fuck me, the more I want him. It’s like reverse psychology for my vagina.”

Cherry howled. “You’re actually sick. So what are you gonna do about it?”

I stood up, tightening the robe around my waist with one dramatic tug. “I’m going downstairs.”

She raised a brow. “With that bun and that robe?”

“I’m just being polite,” I said sweetly. “Wouldn’t want to be a rude house guest.”

She cackled. “You are not well.”

“I haven’t slept. I’ve been in a state of permanent foreplay since 9 p.m. last night. I’m feral.”

“I can see that.”

I leaned into the camera. “This man kissed me like he wanted to ruin me… then sent me to bed like a nun. I need answers. Or an orgasm.”

“Preferably both,” she said, sipping her tea.

“Obviously.”

“Anyway,” she added, “we still going out later?”

“Hell yes. I need to dance it out or I’m going to combust.”

“Good. I need some drama. Anyway, go seduce your mysterious boyfriend and report back.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said automatically, then paused. “Yet.”

She smirked. “Go get him, bitch.”

I blew her a kiss and ended the call. Phone down. Robe adjusted. Lip balm on. Time to hunt.

The smell of fresh coffee hit me first. Rich. Bold. Way too calm for how chaotic I felt.

Then I heard it—soft, steady clicks. The low clack of a keyboard behind a partially open door.

He was in his office. I padded down the hall, mug in hand.

Black. No sugar. I wasn’t sweet today. I wasn’t soft.

I was wound up and starving. I didn’t knock.

I walked straight in. He looked up slowly, laptop open, a spreadsheet glowing on the screen, a muscle twitching in his jaw like I’d interrupted something important.

His gaze moved over me—bare legs, black silk robe tied just tight enough to tease.

Yeah. He noticed.

“Morning,” I said, leaning against the doorway like I didn’t want to climb onto his lap and ruin everything.

“Morning, trouble,” he replied, voice smooth and calm, his attention lingering. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did,” I lied. “Woke up early. Couldn’t stop thinking.”

He closed his laptop without looking away. “About what?”

I walked over, placed my mug on the edge of his desk, and leaned in just enough for him to notice. Then I said it. No games. No flirting. Just hunger. “What have I got to do to get some sex around here?”

The air shifted.

He sat back slowly. Measured. Let his eyes drag over me—face, neck, chest, legs—like he was memorising me for later. “Horny, are we?”

I blinked. “What gave it away? The robe or the unhinged energy?”

His lips twitched, the hint of a smirk curling. “Neither. It’s the way you walked in here like you were about to start a fight—or beg.”

I scoffed. “Oh, great. You’re going to psychoanalyse me again, aren’t you?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the armrests, hands clasped. His voice dropped—low, even, and surgical. “Only if you want the truth.”

I folded my arms, bracing. “Go on then. Enlighten me.”

He sat forward, eyes steady. Voice low. “You think you want to fuck me because it gives you control. Because sex has always been your power play—your way to flip the script before it flips you. You like it rough because it lets you feel something on your terms. And then, when it’s over, you can pull away before it gets too real. ”

His words hit hard. Too hard.

“Wow,” I said, tone brittle. “Do you invoice by the hour or just charge in trauma?”

He almost smiled. “You asked.”

“And you think you’d be different?”

“I know I would be.”

“Confident, aren’t we?”

“No,” he said. “Certain.”

I stepped back slightly. My pulse was spiking. “So what would be so different about fucking you?”

He stood, moved around the desk, and stopped in front of me. Close. Too close.

“I’d break your body,” he said quietly, “without breaking your mind. I’d give you everything you crave—pain, control, intensity—but without stripping parts of you away. I’d leave you whole, Deliah. Not hollow.”

I blinked. That… was not what I expected. “And how do you know I even want that?”

He didn’t flinch. “Because you’re here. In a robe. In my office. And you’re still testing me.”

“Testing you?”

“You want to know if I’ll fuck you just because you ask,” he said. “But that’s not what you really want.”

I crossed my arms, deflecting. “Maybe I just wanted a morning shag.”

He smiled softly. “You want to be owned. Not used.”

The silence was thick. My chest rose and fell as something inside me, a truth I hadn’t admitted to anyone, maybe not even myself, started to stir.

“I don’t even know what the fuck that means,” I whispered.

He stepped even closer, lowering his voice. “It means you trust me enough to let go. It means I lead, you follow. Not because you’re weak but because you choose to hand me the reins. Safely. Consensually. Completely.”

My breath caught. “Explain it to me,” I said, quieter now. “What you mean—the whole thing.”

His eyes searched mine. Then he nodded. “A dominant/submissive relationship,” he began, “it isn’t about who’s stronger.

It’s about who trusts whom to lead. It’s structure.

Agreement. Boundaries. It’s asking—what do you want, what do you not want, and what happens when things go too far.

Safe words. Aftercare. Communication.” He paused.

“It’s about control. Yes. But more than that—it’s about safety.

Freedom in surrender. You get to stop carrying everything. And I hold it all for you.”

I swallowed. “So it’s not just… pain and calling you Daddy?”

He huffed a small laugh. “That’s part of it. But that’s just the kink. This is a dynamic. A partnership. I don’t dominate for fun. I do it because I know how to care for someone in ways they can’t always care for themselves.”

My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. “And what would that look like… for us?”

He leaned against the counter now, mug in hand, all that dark calm wrapped around him like a second skin.

“It looks like honesty. You’d tell me when you feel off.

You’d ask for what you need. I’d learn your body like it’s mine.

You’d have a safe word—and if you used it, everything stops. No questions. No guilt. Just respect.”

I sat down in the chair across from him. Mind spinning. Something deep inside me cracking wide open.

“Jay…” I whispered, not even meaning to say his name. “He made it feel like rough was the only time I felt anything. Like pain was just… part of it. No safety. No softness after— well, barely.”

Damion didn’t speak right away. Then: “That’s not dominance, Deliah. That’s abuse.”

I looked at him. Really looked. Then I stared down at my hands. “I don’t know if I’m ready for all that.”

He set his mug down gently and crouched in front of me so we were eye to eye.

“When you’re ready,” he said softly, “I’ll be here. You don’t have to earn it. You just have to trust it.”

And that? That was the hottest, most terrifying thing anyone had ever said to me.

We sat in silence for a while after that conversation. Not an awkward silence. Just… full. Like everything that needed to be said had already been placed on the table between us, and neither of us dared to touch it yet.

Eventually, Damion stood. “I’ve got work to do,” he said, voice soft again now. “I’ll be back later.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and watched him disappear down the hallway.

The moment I heard the front door click shut, I bolted upstairs like an absolute lunatic. Phone in hand. Brain spinning. I launched myself onto the bed and did what any emotionally overwhelmed, possibly aroused, definitely unqualified woman would do in my situation: I Googled.

“Dom and sub relationships.”

“What does a submissive do?”

“Is it normal to want to be owned in bed?”

“Why is dominance sexy?”

“Signs you might be a submissive (even if you’re a nightmare in real life).”