Page 70 of Deliah

He gave a small shrug. “No. I had a normal upbringing, actually. No trauma to report. Bit rare, I know.”

“Okay, so then what? What made you turn into the guy who ruins girls in bed and then takes them to Prada the next morning?”

He smirked at that. “I was nineteen. Thought I was the shit. Used to go to this swanky members-only club in London with a couple of older mates. Met this woman there—late twenties, legs for days, sharp tongue. She worked the floor and had the kind of energy that made men sit up straighter just to get a glance.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You shagged the hostess?”

“Not right away,” he said with a lazy smile. “She made me work for it. Made me wait.”

“And she was into all this… stuff?”

“She introduced me to it,” he said. “Subtly at first. I didn’t even realise what was happening. She had a way of handing over the reins while making you think you were the one taking them. It was psychological.”

“So she trained you?” I grinned.

He gave me a look. “Don’t make it weird.”

I laughed. “Too late.”

He leaned forward slightly. “But yeah, she was the first. She liked to be told what to do. Liked structure. Obedience. But she was wild with it—testing limits, pushing buttons. It wasn’t about control for the sake of ego. It was about what it did to her. How she softened when things made sense.”

I tilted my head. “And you liked that?”

“Yeah, I did. It wasn’t just sex. It was like… creating safety inside the wildness. Giving someone permission to let go because you were holding it all together.”

I studied him. “So it stuck?”

“Clearly.” He raised his glass. “She moved on, but the dynamic didn’t. I read everything I could, learned what worked. Tried, failed, adjusted. I’ve never been one for playing around without purpose.”

“And you’ve been like this ever since?”

“Pretty much. But not everyone can handle it. Some women like the idea of a dom until they actually get one. Others… want saving. That’s not me.”

“And what do you want?” I asked.

He glanced at me, jaw tightening just slightly. “Someone who can handle being seen.”

I blinked. “Seen?”

“Yeah. Properly. Someone who can take the heat but still show up. Someone who knows it’s not about punishment—it’s about structure. Growth. Trust.”

“Sounds intense.”

“It is.”

I sipped from my glass. “And you think I can handle that?”

“I know you can,” he said, eyes darkening slightly. “You don’t need saving, Deliah. You need direction. You need someone who sees through the lashes and the lip gloss and all the little distractions you throw around when you’re scared.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not scared.”

He leaned in, voice low. “No? Then why are you asking all these questions?”

I looked away, biting my lip. “Shut up.”

He chuckled. “There she is.”

“I hate you.”