Page 11

11

T he tension's been building for days, coiling tighter and tighter inside me like a spring about to snap. Sterling's meticulous progression plan—once something that reassured me, made me feel safe—now feels like some slow, exquisite form of torture. Especially after that night in the collection room, when he finally let go, when I saw what he looks like when he's not busy being careful.

And now he expects me to go back to steps? To schedules? I can't. I won't.

When I show up at his house for our weekly dinner, the air between us feels charged, electric. Sterling's gone all out—perfectly cooked salmon, roasted vegetables, a bottle of wine breathing on the table like we're starring in some domestic fantasy.

And for a while, I pretend. We talk about work. Shared interests. His newest project. My latest hobbies. But underneath it all, resentment simmers, a slow boil I can't tamp down. When Sterling leans back in his chair, fork abandoned, and starts explaining the "next phase" of his precious intimacy schedule, the dam inside me finally breaks.

"I can't do this anymore," I snap, setting down my wineglass harder than I mean to, the sharp clink echoing too loud in the quiet room.

Sterling's golden eyes narrow, just slightly. "The progression is necessary for your safety," he says, even, measured, like he can logic away the growing wildfire inside me.

"Is it?" I shoot back, voice rising. "Or is it just another excuse for you to stay in control?"

Something flickers in his expression—fast, fleeting—but I see it. A hit.

"You had no problem losing control when I was inside you," I say, standing now because sitting feels impossible, like my skin's too tight. "No concern for progression then."

His nostrils flare—his only tell—but he doesn't move, doesn't argue. "That was different," he says, voice low.

"How?" I demand. "Because you decided when and how it was okay? Because you're the one who gets to set all the rules?"

I pace, too wired, too raw to stay still. "I'm not some fragile fucking thing that's going to break if you touch me wrong. I've been preparing. Researching. Training my body, Sterling. I'm ready for more. I want more."

Sterling rises slowly, and it's like watching a mountain unfold itself—intimidating in ways he probably doesn't even mean to be. But there's no aggression in it. Only weight. History. Fear.

"You think research," he says tightly, "and a few late-night practice sessions qualify you to make that call?"

His voice cracks at the edges, and suddenly I see it: He's not angry. He's terrified. "You have no idea what you're asking for," he finishes, voice almost a whisper.

"Then tell me," I say, stepping closer, heart pounding so hard it hurts. "Stop being cryptic. Stop treating me like a fucking patient. Talk to me like someone you want. Like someone you trust."

For a second, he just stares at me. And then his face hardens, like he's bracing for impact.

"You want honesty?" he asks, and his voice is a dangerous, broken thing now. "Fine."

He exhales, shoulders sagging, looking suddenly—not like a powerful minotaur who could wreck me without trying—but like a man carrying something so heavy it's crushed him down to the bone.

"The last human I was with ended up in the hospital," he says, flat and unflinching. "Because we rushed. Because he said he was ready. Because I believed him."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut.

"Tearing," he says quietly, staring somewhere over my shoulder. "Internal injuries. Emergency surgery." A pause. A breath. "He survived." Another pause, longer. "But we never spoke again."

Silence drops between us, thick and suffocating. I can barely breathe.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, voice wrecked. "Sterling, I—I didn't realize it was that bad."

"I didn't tell you," he says, finally turning toward me, the full force of his guilt and shame laid bare. "I should have." He rakes a massive hand through his hair, frustration rolling off him in waves. "I should've explained. Instead of just... imposing rules."

"Then tell me now," I say, gentler, reaching for him, my hand so small against his broad chest. "All of it."

For a moment, he hesitates—like he's still deciding if he deserves to be forgiven. Then, slowly, heavily, he lets me guide him to the couch. He sits, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. And for the first time since we met, I see him completely. Not the boss. Not the minotaur. Just a man—frightened and furious with himself for needing someone he could hurt.

I sit down beside him, our knees brushing. I don't say anything. I don't push.

I just wait.

And slowly—slowly—he begins to talk.

His voice is low and rough, like dragging barbed wire from his throat. He tells me about the researcher three years ago—the slow burn of attraction, the way caution frayed into recklessness, the final, awful moment when it all went wrong.

"When my knot expanded too quickly," he says, staring down at our hands, "he tore inside. Badly. He needed surgery. Weeks of recovery."

I squeeze his fingers, trying to anchor him—to tell him I'm still here, still listening.

"But the worst part..." Sterling's voice tightens, his massive shoulders hunching inward, "was the way he looked at me afterward. Like I was a monster. Like I'd meant to hurt him."

"You're not a monster," I say, fierce and certain, even as my voice wobbles. "You're a different species. You have different needs. That doesn't make you dangerous."

His amber eyes lift to mine—and Jesus, the wreckage there nearly undoes me.

"Doesn't it?" he says, quiet and broken. "You've seen me lose control, Hank. You've seen what I become when desire takes over." He exhales shakily. "If that happened while I was inside you..."

I reach out without thinking, threading my fingers through his, both of my hands swallowed by his huge, callused palm. The size difference should intimidate me. Instead, it feels... right. Safe.

"I trust you," I whisper. "I know you wouldn't hurt me."

He shakes his head slightly, stubborn even now. "Intention means nothing if the outcome is the same."

"Then we're careful," I say. "But Sterling—" I lean closer, heart pounding so hard I feel it in my teeth. "There has to be a middle ground between recklessness and this—" I gesture helplessly between us. "This glacial torture you're putting us through."

Sterling studies me like he's trying to map every inch of my soul.

"Such as?" he finally asks.

I take a breath. Fuck it. No fear. No shame.

"Such as letting me suck you off. I want to taste you," I say, the words burning out of me in a rush.

His eyebrows lift, startled.

"You've been so focused on preparing me to take your knot eventually," I continue, voice shaking with how much I mean it, "that we're skipping everything else. Skipping the ways we could still be close without the same risks."

Sterling tilts his head, considering me with that maddening calm. "You want me to come in your mouth," he says, and it isn't a question.

"Yes," I say—no hesitation now. "God, yes."

He goes still—prey-still. Only the faint change in his breathing gives him away.

"And how," he says carefully, "do you propose we manage that?"

I don't flinch. I don't back down. I've thought about this. Obsessively.

"I'd kneel," I say, pulse pounding in my ears. "You'd stand. You'd have full control over depth, movement—everything."

He's listening now, really listening, muscles taut with tension.

"Your hands would stay at your sides," I continue. "No grabbing my head. No pushing deeper." I swallow hard, throat dry. "We'd establish signals—clear ones. You stop the second I tap your thigh twice."

Sterling's nostrils flare. His pupils blow wide. A low rumble shivers in his chest, rattling through the space between us.

"You've been thinking about this," he says, rough as gravel.

"Constantly," I confess, voice barely above a whisper. "It's driving me insane—not knowing how you taste. Not knowing what sounds you'd make when I take you down my throat."

His chest rises and falls, heavy and uneven. He looks like he's caught between running and taking me apart right here on the floor.

"You'd be challenged," I acknowledge, squeezing his hand. "But you'd manage. Because you care about me."

The rumble in his chest deepens. Possessive. Hungry.

And then, after a heartbeat of brutal silence, he leans in—his forehead nearly touching mine—and says, voice low and dangerous:

"Show me."

I blink, stunned. "What?"

"Show me," Sterling repeats, every word a dare. "How you would do it. Where you would kneel. How you would signal me."

He releases my hand, slowly, deliberately—giving me the choice to back down.

But I don't. I won't.

Heart hammering against my ribs, I push my chair back and slide to my knees on the hardwood floor. The air feels thicker down here, hotter. Sterling's scent—salt, musk, something dark and mouth-watering—wraps around me, dizzying.

I lift my chin, meeting his eyes steadily. "Here," I say, voice trembling but sure. "This is where I'd be."

Sterling's hands clench on his thighs—white-knuckled. But he doesn't touch me. Not yet.

"If I needed you to stop," I say, reaching out and tapping his thigh twice, firm and clear, "this would be the signal."

He stares down at me like he's starving—like I'm something he's spent a lifetime denying himself.

"And right now," I whisper, feeling the charge between us snap tight, "I'm not stopping."

Then, with deliberate, almost reverent movements, Sterling reaches for his belt. My breath catches painfully in my throat.

"Does this mean—?" I start, voice breaking.

"It means we try," he says, his voice so deep it vibrates against my chest. "With all precautions." A beat. "And we stop immediately if anything feels wrong."

I nod, too fast, too eager. My mouth is already watering by the time he frees himself, and fuck—even half-hard, he's massive. Thick, veined, heavy. The base of his cock already wider, swelling with the early signs of the knot he's been so damn careful about.

"Remember," Sterling says roughly, eyes molten, locked on mine. "Tap twice. I'll be watching."

"I remember," I breathe.

And then— I lean forward, reverent, trembling with need.

The first taste of him hits me like a drug—musky, salty, a little sweet, uniquely him. I start slow, licking over the head, circling the slit, savoring the weight and heat of him on my tongue.

Sterling stays absolutely still at first, except for his breathing, which gets heavier with every pass of my tongue.

"Yes," he groans, voice wrecked. "Just like that. God, just like that."

Emboldened, I take him deeper, sliding my mouth down his shaft, one hand stroking what won't fit. My own cock is leaking, aching, straining painfully against my pants.

"Hank," Sterling warns, low and guttural, as I fumble my free hand down to free myself. "That wasn't part of the plan."

I pull off him just long enough to rasp, "I can't help it. Need to touch myself while I taste you."

A growl shudders through his chest, but he doesn't stop me. Doesn't even pretend he can.

I take him back into my mouth, working him with slow, hungry determination, my hand matching the rhythm on my own cock.

"Fuck," Sterling snarls, hands clenching on his thighs, voice losing all its polish. "Your mouth. So fucking hot. So perfect. Can't?—"

His thighs tremble under my touch, restraint bleeding out of him by the second.

"I want to grab your hair," he groans, so desperate he sounds wrecked. "Want to fuck your throat. Want to feel you gagging on me. Want to see tears streaming down your face."

I moan around him, the filthy words lighting up something molten inside me.

"But I won't," Sterling grits out, muscles locking rigid. "Won't risk you. Won't lose control."

I pull back just enough to pant, "I trust you. You can touch. Just... don't push."

The second my mouth closes around him again, his massive hand tangles in my hair—gentle, trembling slightly, just there, anchoring us both.

The weight of his touch. The raw, guttural sounds tearing from his throat. The taste of him leaking onto my tongue. It's too much. Not enough.

"I can smell you," Sterling snarls, nostrils flaring. "Smell how close you are just from having me in your mouth. So fucking desperate."

His filthy encouragement wrecks me. I suck harder, take him deeper, my hand jerking frantically between my legs.

"Hank," Sterling grits out, voice barely human now, "I'm close. The knot?—"

I feel it—swelling thick and hot against my fingers, the base of his cock throbbing where I stroke him. Rather than retreat, I focus on the head, the most sensitive parts, sliding my hand firmly around the growing knot, milking him.

"Fuck!" Sterling roars, hips jerking once despite himself before he locks down hard, every muscle trembling with the effort to stay still. "Your hand— your fucking mouth —can't?—"

The filthy words pour out of him now, ragged and raw.

"Want to fill you. Stuff your throat. Mark you from the inside out so you never fucking forget who you belong to."

I relax and he pushes deeper until his knot is touching my lips and the head of his cock is inching down the back of my throat. I moan helplessly around him, the vibration sending him over the edge.

Sterling shudders, roars, comes—thick, hot pulses flooding my mouth, forcing me to swallow around him. And that's it—that's all it takes.

My own orgasm detonates through me—violent, messy, unstoppable—spilling over my hand and stomach as I choke on his release, tears streaming down my cheeks from the sheer overwhelming intensity.

Sterling recovers first—still shaking, still not steady—but reaching for tissues with a tenderness that guts me. He kneels beside me, wiping my face gently, reverently, as if he's afraid to hurt me now. His touch is so soft, it's almost painful after the intensity of what we just survived.

"Are you all right?" he asks, voice hoarse, breath still ragged.

I laugh, a soft, shaky thing, feeling more powerful—more alive—than I have in my entire fucking life. "I'm perfect," I whisper, smiling up at him, my lips still swollen, my body still trembling. "That was perfect."

Sterling lets out a breath—something between a laugh and a groan—and hauls me carefully to my feet. My legs wobble, and he catches me without even thinking, pulling me down onto the couch beside him.

His arm wraps around my shoulders, warm and massive, anchoring me to his chest. I press my ear against him, listening to the wild drumbeat of his heart as it slowly, slowly returns to something like normal.

We sit like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the silence between us thick with things we don't need to say aloud yet.

Finally, Sterling speaks, voice low and raw against the top of my head. "You were right," he admits, like it costs him something but he needs me to know anyway. "There's a middle ground to be found."

Hope sparks in my chest, wild and foolish and unstoppable.

"Does that mean..." I start, tilting my head to look up at him, "you'll reconsider the pace of our progression?"

Sterling hums—a deep, rumbling sound I can feel vibrating through his chest. His big hand strokes slowly through my hair, gentle now, soothing, nothing like the desperate grip from before.

"It means..." he says carefully, "I'll stop treating the plan like scripture. We'll adapt. Based on trust. Based on readiness."

It's not a complete surrender. It's not a reckless rush forward. But it's real. And it's enough.

For now.

"Thank you," I whisper, voice thick, "for trusting me. For telling me what happened. For being vulnerable."

Sterling's arms tighten around me briefly—one of those silent, wordless answers he's better at giving than speaking. "And thank you," he murmurs back, rough and sincere, "for pushing me when I needed it. For seeing me... even when I'm a fucking mess."

We stay curled together on the couch, our bodies pressed close, our breathing finally slowing into something steady. The storm between us has passed, and left something softer in its place. Stronger. Because tonight wasn't really about the physical boundaries we crossed. It wasn't about the taste of him on my tongue, or the feel of his knot swelling under my hand, or even the way we made each other shatter.

It was about this. This messy, clumsy, broken-open trust. This choice to keep choosing each other—even when it's terrifying. Whatever challenges still wait for us—whatever lines we have yet to cross— We'll face them together.

Slow when we need to be. Fearless when it matters most. And always, always honest.

The real breakthrough tonight wasn't physical at all. It was us.