Page 16

Controlled Surrender

Nora

Dean’s bedroom is different from what I expected.

Where the rest of his apartment is minimal and almost impersonal, this space feels more lived-in. The king-size bed dominates the room, neatly made with charcoal gray bedding. One wall features a large, abstract painting in shades of blue and silver—the only real art I’ve seen in his place. Bookshelves line another wall, filled with engineering texts, hockey trophies, and unexpectedly, a collection of worn paperback novels.

What catches my attention most, though, is the large window with a small seating area beneath it—a cushioned bench piled with pillows, overlooking the lights of the town below. It’s oddly cozy, almost romantic, at odds with the disciplined image Dean projects.

“This isn’t what I pictured,” I admit as he closes the door behind us.

“What did you picture?” He moves closer, stopping just behind me.

“Something more… austere, I guess. Military corners on the bed. Nothing personal.”

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through me. “I’m disciplined, Nora. Not a robot.”

His hands settle lightly on my shoulders, warm even through the fabric of my blouse. I can feel the heat of his body behind me, not quite touching except for those hands.

“The rules,” I say, remembering why I wanted to talk in the first place. “We should—”

“Turn around,” he interrupts, his voice quiet but firm.

I hesitate, then do as he says, turning to face him. He’s close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“We can talk about rules,” he says, his gaze intent on mine. “But first, I need to know something. Why are you really here tonight?”

The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”

“You showed up with a list of boundaries in your pocket and concern on your face.” His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gentle touch at odds with his penetrating gaze. “But you’re also wearing perfume I haven’t smelled on you before. And unless I’m mistaken, that’s a new bra under your shirt.”

I feel heat rush to my face. How did he notice? “I—”

“What do you want tonight, Nora?” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Tell me the truth.”

The question strips away my defenses. What do I want? Not to discuss rules or worry about Daphne. Not to overthink every interaction. I want what I always want with him—to let go, to surrender, to feel instead of think.

“I want you,” I say simply. “I want what we do together. How you make me feel.”

Something softens in his expression. “Good. Because that’s what I want too.” He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “I’ve been thinking about tasting you all day.”

A shiver runs down my spine at his words and the promise they hold.

“But first,” he continues, drawing back slightly, “I want you to do something for me.”

“What?” My voice sounds breathier than I intended.

“I want you to show me what you’re wearing under this.” His fingers toy with the top button of my blouse. “Slowly.”

My pulse quickens. This is new—if he wanted me to undress, I figured he’d just strip me, his movements efficient and commanding. The idea of performing for him, of revealing myself deliberately, makes my skin flush with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal.

“Can you do that for me?” he asks, stepping back to create space between us.

I nod, fingers moving to the first button. “Yes.”

“Good.” He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, giving me room.

I begin unbuttoning my blouse, hyperaware of his gaze following each movement. The room feels too warm suddenly, the air charged with anticipation. When I reach the last button, I hesitate before letting the fabric fall open, revealing the black lace bra underneath.

Dean’s eyes darken, his jaw tightening slightly. “Beautiful,” he says, the word rough around the edges. “Keep going.”

I slip the blouse off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. My fingers move to the zipper of my slacks next, lowering it with a deliberate slowness that feels both awkward and thrilling. I push the fabric down my hips, stepping out of the pants to stand before him in just the matching black lace set.

“Turn around,” he instructs softly. “Slowly.”

I do, feeling exposed and powerful at the same time. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin, but heat pools low in my belly at the knowledge that he’s watching, taking in every detail.

When I complete the turn to face him again, his expression has changed—still intensely focused, but with a vulnerability I haven’t seen before. Like he’s been affected more deeply than he expected.

“Come here,” he says, holding out a hand.

I move toward him, taking his hand and letting him guide me to stand between his knees. His hands settle on my hips, warm against my skin.

“You know what I like about you, Nora?” he asks, looking up at me.

“What?”

“You never do anything halfway.” His thumbs trace small circles just above the lace of my underwear. “When you commit to something, you’re all in.”

There’s something in his voice—admiration, yes, but also a question. Like he’s trying to figure me out still.

“Is that why you like controlling me?” I ask, emboldened by the unusual dynamic between us. “Because I commit fully?”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, quickly replaced by consideration. “Maybe.” His hands continue their gentle exploration, moving up my sides. “Or maybe I like seeing what happens when someone so controlled finally lets go.”

He pulls me down suddenly, guiding me to straddle his lap. The position puts us face to face, my knees on either side of his hips, my arms instinctively moving to his shoulders for balance.

“Kiss me,” he says, but it’s softer than a command. Almost a request.

I lean in, pressing my lips to his. The kiss starts gentle but quickly deepens as his hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer. I can feel him hardening beneath me, the friction making me gasp against his mouth.

He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, across my collarbone. “I want to taste you,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every inch of you.”

In one fluid movement, he flips our positions, laying me back on the bed and moving over me. His mouth continues its exploration, down between my breasts, across my stomach, each kiss deliberate and focused. When he reaches the edge of my underwear, he looks up, seeking permission.

“Yes,” I breathe, understanding the unspoken question.

He hooks his fingers into the lace and slides it down my legs, then settles between my thighs, his hands spreading them wider.

“Watch me,” he commands, and this time it is a command. “I want you to see what I’m doing to you.”

I’m curious, and maybe I should feel uncomfortable, but this is Dean—his rules.

I prop myself up on my elbows, meeting his gaze just as his mouth makes contact. The first touch of his tongue sends electricity shooting through me, making my back arch involuntarily. But true to his instruction, I keep watching, unable to look away from the way his eyes sink closed in pleasure as he works me with deliberate precision.

It’s overwhelming—not just physically, but the visual component, the hungry way his mouth devours me, catching glimpses of his circling tongue, the vulnerability of being exposed to him this way. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open and in place as he alternates between long, slow strokes and focused attention that makes my breath hitch.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs while planting a hot, open-mouthed kiss on my inner thigh. His thumb strokes my clit while he presses kisses into my thigh.

“Dean,” I gasp as the pressure builds, my hips trying to move against his hold.

He pulls back slightly. “Not yet,” he says, his voice husky. “I’ll tell you when.”

The denial sends another rush of heat through me. I drop my head back, fighting the rising tension in my body.

“Look at me,” he reminds me. “I want to see your face when you come.”

I force myself to look down again, meeting his gaze as he returns to his task with renewed intensity. One of his hands slides up my body to my breast, fingers finding my nipple through the lace of my bra, adding another layer of sensation.

“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for.

He hums against me, the vibration pushing me closer to the edge. Just when I think I can’t take any more, he pulls back again.

“Dean, please,” I beg, frustration edging into my voice.

But instead of continuing, he moves up my body, surprising me by capturing my mouth in a deep kiss. I can taste myself on his lips, a strange intimacy that makes me moan.

“You taste incredible,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Better than I imagined.”

“You’ve imagined this?” I ask, suddenly curious.

A small smile touches his lips. “Of course I have, Nora. You’re beautiful and brilliant, and even when I didn’t want to notice you, I couldn’t stop it.”

There’s something raw in his admission that catches me off guard. Before I can respond, he’s moving down my body again, returning to his position between my thighs.

“Now,” he says, his breath warm against my sensitive flesh. “Now you can come.”

This time, he doesn’t hold back. His mouth works me with passionate intensity, pushing me rapidly toward release. When it hits, it’s overwhelming—waves of pleasure crashing through me as my back arches and my hands fist in the bedding. True to his command, I keep my eyes on his, watching him watch me fall apart.

As I come down from the high, trembling and breathless, Dean moves up to lie beside me, pulling me against his chest. For several moments, we stay like that, my heart rate gradually slowing, his hand drawing lazy patterns on my back.

“That was…” I trail off, unable to find adequate words.

“Yeah,” he agrees, understanding my speechlessness.

I become aware of his arousal, still evident against my hip. “Do you want me to—”

“Not yet,” he interrupts gently. “Just stay here with me for a minute.”

It’s an unexpected response. In our previous encounters, there’s been a clear reciprocity, an exchange. This feels different—more intimate somehow, less transactional.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him. “Can I ask you something?”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Anything.”

“Why me?” The question has been lurking in the back of my mind since this began. “Why… this?”

Dean studies me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. “You want the truth?”

I nod.

“Because you scare me a little,” he admits.

Of all the answers I expected, that wasn’t one of them. “I scare you? How?”

He shifts slightly, seeming to choose his words carefully. “You see too much. Most people look at me and see what they want to see—the hockey player, the engineering student, whatever fits their narrative. But you…” He shakes his head slightly. “From that first tutoring session, you looked at me like you were cataloging every detail, figuring out how all the pieces fit together.”

I’m not sure how to respond to this unexpected vulnerability. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s terrifying,” he says with a small laugh. “And exhilarating. Because sometimes I feel like I’ve spent my whole life being careful, making sure no one sees too much. And then there you were, seeing everything anyway.”

The admission creates a strange ache in my chest. “I don’t see everything.”

“You see more than most.” His hand comes up to cup my face. “That day in the tutoring center, when you called me out on my vector mechanics error and said I was capable of more—no one talks to me like that. No one expects more of me than I already give.”

I remember the moment—his surprise, the flicker of something that looked almost like respect in his eyes.

“That’s why I wanted this with you,” he continues. “Because if anyone could handle all of me—the control, the intensity, everything I usually have to hold back—it would be you.”

The weight of his confession settles over us, creating a different kind of intimacy than the physical one we’ve shared. I’m not sure what to say, how to acknowledge what feels like a significant shift in our dynamic.

“I don’t know if I can handle all of you,” I admit finally. “But I want to try.”

Something flickers in his eyes—vulnerability quickly masked by desire. “Is that so?”

Before I can respond, he’s moving, rolling me onto my back and settling over me again. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s different from before—hungrier, almost desperate.

“Show me,” he whispers against my lips. “Show me you want to try.”

And just like that, the vulnerability is channeled back into passion, the moment of unexpected honesty folded into our physical connection. As his hands move over my body with renewed purpose, I realize that Dean’s control—the very thing that draws me to him—might be as much a defense mechanism as my own analytical distance.

But that’s a thought for another time. Right now, all I want is to lose myself in him. To surrender to the connection between us, whatever it might be becoming.

The list of rules lies forgotten somewhere on his kitchen counter, as irrelevant now as the boundaries we’ve already begun to cross.