Everyone thought we hated each other.

And maybe that was part of the thrill.

In the office, Ava was relentless—sharp-tongued, brilliant, and ruthless when it came to cutting down my ideas during meetings. Her clipped responses, those perfectly arched brows raised in mock disdain, the way she’d lean back in her chair and let the silence linger just to make me squirm.

It drove me insane.

And she knew it.

But the truth—the real truth—wasn’t something anyone would believe.

Because behind closed doors, when the facade dropped…

I was hers. Completely.

It always started the same way.

The tension would build throughout the day—glances exchanged across the conference table, subtle, lingering. Words chosen deliberately to test each other, Ava’s voice just a shade softer when no one else could hear. The way her nails would drag slowly along the spine of her leather notebook as she spoke, holding my gaze just long enough to remind me of last time.

And when the workday ended, I’d get the text.

Tonight. Same place. Don’t keep me waiting.

---

The Space Was More Than a Room – It Was Hers

The space felt alive.

Not loud or chaotic. No, this was curated, precise—designed for control.

Ava’s apartment wasn’t just a place where power shifted. It invited submission.

The moment I crossed the threshold, it felt like the room itself inhaled. The sound of the door latching behind me was the last tether to the world outside.

Thick, floor-length curtains veiled the windows, muffling the pulse of the city until it was nothing but a dull hum beyond these walls. The room was a sanctuary of shadow and warmth, flickering candlelight reflecting off the deep burgundy drapes.

The scent lingered—her scent.

The sharp sweetness of jasmine oil mixed with spiced vanilla and the faint musk of amber. It was layered, intoxicating. A signature fragrance that didn’t just cling to her skin but seemed woven into the space itself.

And the objects—

Every one chosen with intention.

The black satin sheets, smooth and untouched, the fabric catching the candlelight.

A glass bowl filled with ice, already beading with condensation.

A sleek, polished bottle of oil, the glass warm to the touch.

Leather cuffs—soft, padded but strong—placed neatly on the nightstand.

The blindfold, folded with care, a length of silk waiting for her hands.

The flogger was there, too.

Draped over the back of a velvet chair. Not as a threat. As a promise.

But the most powerful thing in the room wasn’t the tools.

It was her.

Standing at the foot of the bed, body partially veiled in a black silk robe so sheer it did nothing to hide the skin beneath. The neckline dipped low, parting just enough to reveal the curve of her breasts. The hem whispered against the tops of her thighs, her skin gleaming, still carrying the oil she’d used earlier.

The candlelight loved her.

It clung to the high arch of her cheekbones. The deep wine stain of her lips.

But it was her eyes that owned me.

Dark. Unreadable. Heavy with meaning.

And when she finally spoke, voice low, smooth, a command as much as a statement—

"Close the door."

I knew I wasn’t stepping into a room.

I was stepping into her world.

The Ritual of Undressing

She said nothing.

But that look—the tilt of her head, the slight arch of her brow—was a command all its own.

"Strip."

I obeyed.

My hands moved to the first button of my shirt, the fabric cool beneath my fingers as I worked it open, one button at a time. The silence felt heavier now, broken only by the faint whisper of fabric separating.

But I wasn’t alone in this.

Ava watched.

Not passively.

She absorbed it.

Every shift of my breath. The way my chest rose and fell just a fraction faster. The subtle tension in my arms as the shirt slid from my shoulders, baring my skin to the warm air of the room.

I felt exposed—

And not because of the nudity.

Because she made it feel earned.

Her gaze followed the curve of my collarbone, the line of my chest, the way the candlelight painted shadows along my ribs. She didn’t touch me.

Not yet.

But her lips parted slightly, and the sound of her breathing—steady, controlled, but slightly deeper than before—made my pulse throb in places I couldn’t hide.

When my shirt fell to the floor, I reached for my belt.

The leather whispered as it slid free from the loops, the soft clink of the buckle echoing louder than it should have in the quiet.

I could feel my heartbeat behind my ribs.

Lower.

Throbbing harder.

My pants dropped next, pooling at my feet.

And still—her eyes never left mine.

Not once.

Until I stood bare, vulnerable.

And she finally moved.

She circled me, slowly, her steps soundless against the hardwood. Close enough for the hem of her silk robe to brush the back of my calf.

The scent of her oil followed. Jasmine. Sweet and musky.

It made my mouth dry, my skin burn hotter.

Her voice—when it came—was a whisper just behind me, breath warm against my neck.

"Hands behind your back."

I obeyed.

Not because she asked.

Because I needed to.

The Binds – The Beauty of Control

The sound came first.

The soft, deliberate click of metal buckles being loosened.

I couldn’t see her yet—still standing with my hands behind my back as instructed—but I could feel her. The heat of her body lingering close, the scent of jasmine stronger as she moved behind me, letting me hear the leather being prepared.

The cuffs were heavy.

Thick, black, padded along the inside, yet the edges were firm enough to remind me that this wasn’t just play.

She wasn’t guessing.

She was in control.

Her fingertips grazed my wrist, brushing over the pulse there, before fitting the first cuff snugly around me. The leather was cool, a contrast to the heat pulsing beneath my skin.

The strap tightened, the metal clasp sliding home with a quiet, satisfying click.

Tighter.

Not cruel.

Just enough to hold me.

She shifted, circling me again, making me feel the restraint on one wrist fully before securing the other.

I flexed once, testing.

They held.

Secure.

Unyielding.

And then—

The chain.

I heard it before I felt it.

The delicate clink of metal, then the pull of tension as she fastened the link between my wrists. Not so tight I couldn’t move—just enough that my hands stayed behind me.

Open.

Exposed.

Ava’s body pressed to my back, the silk of her robe whispering against my bare skin. Her lips hovered just behind my ear, breath warm but controlled as she whispered,

"Do you feel that?"

I swallowed hard, nodding.

"Good."

Her fingers traced the leather now, adjusting, testing the security of the binds.

She wasn’t just restraining me.

She was claiming me.

Her lips brushed my ear again, softer this time.

"You’re bound for me now. Powerless."

A pause—just long enough to let me feel it.

"And you’re already shaking. Aren’t you?"

I exhaled shakily, heat coiling lower.

"Yes, Mistress."

Her teeth grazed my neck, sharp enough to sting but never break skin.

"Good boy."

The Blindfold

The silk came next.

I heard it before I felt it—the delicate sound of fabric slipping through her fingers, soft as a whisper against the candlelit hush of the room.

Then, the touch.

Cool, smooth, brushing gently across my cheek before Ava circled back in front of me, the black silk pooling loosely in her hands as she lifted it with care.

I didn’t move.

I didn’t need to.

My pulse was already thrumming beneath my skin, every heartbeat louder, sharper, because I knew what came next.

The blindfold hovered for a moment, lingering just inches from my face, as though she wanted me to feel the weight of anticipation.

To make me wait.

And then—

The first slide of it over my eyes.

Darkness.

It stole the candlelight first. The golden hues. The flickering reflections.

Gone.

The knot tightened behind my head, Ava’s fingertips grazing my scalp as she adjusted it—firm, secure. Not restrictive.

But absolute.

The absence of sight made everything else sharper.

The warmth of the room.

The scent of burning wax mingling with her jasmine oil.

The sound of her breath—steady, controlled, close enough that I could almost feel it against my lips.

Almost.

My breathing slowed, chest rising and falling as the tension shifted, my senses recalibrating in the dark.

She didn’t speak right away.

But she moved.

I heard her footsteps first—the quiet glide of bare feet over hardwood as she circled me, the silk robe brushing her skin in delicate whispers.

Then she was closer.

Her breath at my throat.

The heat of her body radiating against mine but never touching.

And when she did—

It wasn’t her hands.

It was her lips.

Barely.

The softest press against the side of my neck, just enough to make the hair on my arms rise, enough to make my bound wrists strain slightly in reflex.

"You can’t see me," she whispered, her voice lower now, softer—just a murmur at my ear.

"But you can feel me. Can't you?"

I nodded.

"Good. I want you to feel everything tonight."

And I already did.

Ice & Heat

I heard it first.

The faint clink of melting cubes shifting in a glass bowl.

Ava let the sound linger, just loud enough to make my breathing catch, the weight of the silence amplifying every heartbeat pounding beneath my ribs.

I was blindfolded, bound, standing there—exposed to her, open, already feeling the ache of restraint tightening low in my abdomen.

And then—

The first touch.

A single ice cube.

It brushed the hollow of my throat, the icy pressure searing against overheated skin.

I jerked.

The shock made me gasp, the binds holding firm as my body instinctively tensed beneath the bite of cold.

Ava’s voice followed—soft, but commanding.

"Stay still."

I forced myself to obey, breathing shallow, body taut as she pressed the ice lower, gliding it along the curve of my collarbone in a slow, deliberate path.

A drop of melted water traced down my chest.

I could feel it.

The unbearable contrast of heat and cold, the sharp sting easing into a slow burn as she dragged the ice across my nipple—just enough to tighten the skin, to make me ache.

And then her mouth.

Warm.

Soft.

Lips replacing the ice as she kissed the same spot, tongue circling the hard peak, soothing the sting with heat.

My knees nearly buckled.

But she wasn’t done.

The ice returned—melting slightly now, her grip slippery as she trailed it lower.

Down the center of my chest.

Further.

Pausing just above where I throbbed for her, the tension coiling tighter, deeper, until I could feel myself straining, desperate for contact—

But she lingered.

Waiting.

Testing.

Letting me feel every drip of cold water tracing along my stomach, soaking into the heat of my skin.

"You're trembling already," she whispered, her breath fanning over the path the ice had traced.

I couldn’t speak.

I could only nod.

And then, without warning—

She pressed the ice lower.

Just along the crease of my hip.

Close.

So close to where I needed her—but not touching.

The ice circled there, teasing, while her other hand hovered near my thigh, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast as the cube melted against me.

I exhaled, the tension unbearable now, the ache throbbing in time with every pulse of cold against heat.

And then—

It was gone.

The ice pulled away, the absence leaving me raw, desperate for her heat again.

I barely had time to catch my breath before she whispered against my lips,

"Not done yet."

Fire on Skin

The ice was gone.

But the chill it left behind still clung to my skin, lingering in the damp trails where melted droplets had kissed my chest, my stomach—every inch she had teased but never satisfied.

I was trembling now.

Not from the cold.

From her.

From the unbearable tension she built with every second I stood there, bound, blindfolded, aching.

Then I heard it.

The soft pop of a bottle opening.

The shift of liquid inside.

I didn’t have to see it.

I felt it.

Warm oil, drizzling from the bottle in a slow, deliberate line along my chest.

It hit where the ice had been moments earlier, the heat spreading instantly, searing against the cooled flesh, making me gasp at the contrast.

The first drops were light, careful.

But then came more.

A slow stream.

Pooling at the center of my sternum. Sliding down the line of my abdomen, gathering in the ridges between each muscle, trailing lower—

So close—

But not close enough.

And then her hands.

Ava’s palms followed the path of the oil, pressing against my chest, smoothing it in long, deliberate strokes.

Her touch was slower than before.

More indulgent.

Her thumbs grazed the peaks of my nipples, the heat soaking into my skin as she massaged it deeper, letting her fingers explore the same lines she had mapped with the ice.

The friction was maddening.

The warmth of her hands mixed with the lingering burn of heat and the damp kiss of the melting cold she’d left behind.

I groaned, my body flexing involuntarily, hips pressing forward, seeking friction that still didn’t come.

The binds held.

And so did her control.

She circled behind me then, her body pressing lightly to mine, the silk of her robe just barely grazing my back as her slick hands spread the oil along my shoulders.

My head tilted back.

I could feel the heat of her breath at my ear, her lips so close—

"You feel so warm now," she whispered, her voice low, taunting.

"So ready. So desperate for me. Aren't you?"

I nodded.

"Words, baby."

"Yes, Mistress...please—"

The word please broke from me like it had been ripped free, half-plea, half-surrender.

And yet, she wasn’t finished.

The oil bottle returned.

This time, she let the heat spill over my stomach, lower now, trickling along the sensitive skin just above my hips.

And then—

She dragged her nails through it.

A sharp, scraping contrast.

Gentle, but enough.

I moaned, my whole body reacting, my hands flexing uselessly in the leather cuffs as she explored me without rush, without mercy.

The heat was unbearable now.

But it wasn’t just physical.

It was the power she held—the way she took her time, the way she didn’t give, didn’t let me have anything I hadn’t earned yet.

And the way she whispered against my throat, finally, finally pressing her body fully to mine—

"You’re not coming. Not yet."

The Flogger – Pain and Softness Entwined

The heat lingered.

Oil still coated my skin, the warmth seeping into every nerve she had teased, soaked into the very ache pulsing low in my abdomen.

But the absence of her hands left me raw.

I could feel the tension—coiling deeper, heavier—while my chest heaved, blindfolded, bound, the scent of jasmine and spiced vanilla wrapping around me like another layer of restraint.

And then I heard it.

The faint rustle of something soft being lifted.

The flogger.

Velvet tendrils brushing against themselves as she tested the weight.

I tensed—already anticipating the next sensation, but Ava, as always, took her time.

"You remember your words, don't you, Malik?"

Her voice was lower now. More intimate.

The reminder settled like a stone in my chest.

Green. Yellow. Red.

She didn’t have to explain them.

Green meant keep going.

Yellow meant slow.

Red stopped everything.

We had said them before. But now, in this moment, with the heat still clinging to my skin, they felt different.

More powerful.

More real.

I nodded, throat dry.

"Say them," she whispered against my neck, lips grazing just enough to make me feel.

"Green. Yellow. Red," I echoed, voice rough, but steady.

"Good."

The first stroke came without warning.

A whisper of the flogger's velvet strands grazing my stomach.

Not a strike—just a tease.

Soft. Sensual.

I exhaled hard, the binds tightening slightly as I flexed beneath the touch.

The next stroke was different.

Firmer.

A deliberate thud across my chest, just enough to sting but not bruise, the kind of sensation that bloomed slow and warm, melting into the heat already coursing through me.

I gasped—

And she heard it.

She felt it.

"You’re still so quiet for me," Ava murmured, circling back in front of me, the strands of the flogger tracing along my shoulder next.

Her free hand brushed my oiled skin, fingers tracing where she had just struck, soothing the sting.

"But I want to hear you, Malik. Let me know how much you need this."

Another strike.

Slightly lower. Across my ribs this time.

The heat flared, sharper but still controlled, and I moaned—finally giving her the sound she wanted.

The blindfold amplified everything.

I couldn’t see her.

But I could feel her.

The soft caress of the flogger’s strands followed each strike, her other hand lingering, grounding me.

Pain.

Pleasure.

Care.

Each strike was heavier, more deliberate, never rushed, until my whole chest burned with sensation—an ache that wasn’t suffering but surrender.

I wanted it.

Craved it.

And when the next lash fell just above the line of my stomach, my hips arched involuntarily, the ache between my thighs unbearable now.

I was trembling.

Completely.

But Ava wasn’t done.

She leaned in then, her hand wrapping gently around my throat—not squeezing, just anchoring me in place as her lips ghosted over mine.

"You’re close already, aren’t you?"

I nodded, breath ragged.

"Say it."

"Yes, Mistress. Please—"

Her grip shifted, nails trailing down my chest where the flogger had left its mark, pressing lightly into the heated skin.

But she didn’t strike again.

She just waited.

Letting the ache pulse. Letting the restraint build.

"Not yet, Malik," she whispered, her voice softer now.

"You come when I say so. And not a moment before."

Holding Him on the Precipice

The ache was unbearable now.

The flogger lay discarded somewhere nearby. Forgotten.

But its aftermath lingered—velvet kisses that left a heated bloom beneath my skin, each mark singing with residual warmth. A reminder of her.

The binds still held.

The blindfold stayed firm, cutting me off from the candlelit room.

All that existed was sensation.

And her.

Ava's hands returned—not rough this time, but calculated. Fingers pressing against my chest, tracing the marks she’d left behind, soothing them with careful strokes that made me shiver beneath her touch.

Her voice followed.

Low. Breathless.

"I could keep you like this all night."

A statement. Not a threat.

Because she could.

And I’d let her.

I felt her shift closer, the heat of her body hovering just above mine—skin to skin but not quite touching, the ache magnifying in the inches between us.

And then, her fingertips.

Trailing lower.

Down my stomach.

Slow. Torturous.

Pausing just above where I throbbed for her.

"You're dripping for me, Malik."

The heat in her voice made me groan—the binds flexing as I pulled, the leather resisting as I fought the need pulsing deeper.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

Because the next touch was nothing but a feather-light brush of her palm, grazing my length once, barely enough pressure to count.

And then, gone.

I cursed under my breath, head tilting back, the blindfold making everything sharper—

The scent of her.

The heat radiating from her skin.

The unbearable pulse between my legs.

But she wasn’t done playing.

"You're so close already," she whispered, her lips brushing my ear, but her hand still refusing to give me what I needed.

"You want more?"

"Yes, Mistress—please—"

The word please broke from me like a prayer.

And finally—

Her hand closed around me.

Slow.

Firm.

The warmth of the oil still coating her skin made every stroke glide, torturously smooth as she worked me in a rhythm too gentle, too deliberate.

Not enough.

Never enough.

She was teasing me—holding me just on the edge, the pressure perfect but never letting me fall.

I moaned, hips flexing into her grip, desperate, helpless, the binds keeping me from doing anything but submitting to whatever pace she chose.

A whisper.

A pulse of heat.

Every slow pull, every squeeze just shy of completion, the tension winding tighter with each stroke.

I was unraveling for her.

And she knew it.

Her lips grazed my throat now, her teeth nipping gently as her hand kept moving, her voice soft but merciless.

"You want to come, don’t you, Malik?"

"Yes...yes, Mistress, please, I—"

But she stopped.

Her grip vanishing.

Leaving me trembling.

A throbbing, aching mess of restraint and hunger.

I shouted her name, the sound breaking from me, desperate, raw.

And all she did was laugh—the sound low, rich, wicked against my ear.

Her palm pressed flat against my chest, pushing me back against the bed.

"Not yet, baby," she whispered.

"You’re not breaking for me until I’m finished tasting you.

The Release

The tension had become unbearable.

My body was a raw, trembling mess—bound, blindfolded, aching for her.

Ava had kept me teetering on the edge for what felt like hours, each stroke calculated, each whisper in my ear designed to wind me tighter. My chest burned from the heat of her flogger, the oil still lingering on my skin, a sensory haze blending pain and pleasure into something intoxicating.

But it wasn’t just the pain.

It was the denial.

The way she owned my body without even needing force.

Her words were enough.

Her control was absolute.

I was hers.

And she knew it.

The binds flexed as I struggled against them, my hips arching, desperate for the release she had stolen from me again and again.

I could feel her heat.

Her body hovering just above mine.

But she didn’t touch me.

Not yet.

The silk blindfold still robbed me of sight, but I could sense her there—so close I could feel her breath grazing my lips.

When she finally spoke, her voice was softer now, but no less commanding.

"Malik," she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw, feather-light.

"I’m going to give you what you’ve been begging for all night."

My breath caught.

Her lips finally touched mine.

Soft. Gentle. But claiming.

And then—

She climbed onto me.

The heat of her thighs brushing against my sides as she straddled me, the scent of her—jasmine, musk, the raw sweetness of her arousal—flooding my senses, overwhelming me completely.

I felt her hand guide me to her center, the slick, warm heat parting as she sank down in a slow, deliberate slide, taking me fully.

I groaned—loud, unrestrained—as her body stretched to take me, the wet heat consuming every inch of me after so much denial.

"Yes, baby," she whispered, voice breaking slightly as she settled fully onto me, hips pressing down until we were joined completely.

"Feel how much I’ve been needing you too?"

I couldn't answer.

Could barely breathe.

The blindfold made it worse—made it better—my whole body hypersensitive to the way she moved, circling her hips just enough to make me throb deeper inside her.

Tighter.

Hotter.

Her body clenched around me, pulling me deeper, holding me right where she wanted me.

"You’ve been so good for me," she whispered, leaning down, her lips grazing my ear as her nails trailed over my chest, soothing the marks she had left earlier.

"You want to come for me now, don’t you?"

"Yes, Mistress. Please—please—"

Her hips lifted.

Slow.

Excruciating.

Sliding up my length before sinking back down with perfect, torturous control.

I moaned, my head pressing back into the sheets, the binds flexing as I strained, but there was nowhere to go—nothing I could do but let her take what she wanted.

She rode me like she was proving something.

Like she was still teaching me a lesson.

Drawing me to the edge and keeping me there, her body clenching, teasing, keeping me from tipping over even when I felt the coil twisting tighter, tighter—

But then, something shifted.

Her breath changed.

I felt the tremble in her thighs, the stutter in her rhythm as she ground down harder, deeper, her control beginning to slip.

And when she spoke next—

It wasn’t dominance.

It was need.

"Malik… don’t hold back."

The words shattered something inside me.

The binds didn’t matter anymore.

The ache didn't matter.

I thrust up into her as much as the cuffs allowed, meeting her rhythm, every pulse of her body dragging me deeper, making me lose every shred of restraint I had left.

The tension snapped—

And I came inside her.

Hard.

Deep.

My body shaking beneath her as I spilled everything I had, a broken sound tearing from my throat as pleasure crashed over me like a wave I couldn’t stop.

But Ava didn’t stop moving.

She rode me through it.

Until her own body tightened—

Until her moans broke into gasps, her walls pulsing around me as she trembled, her release finally crashing over her in perfect, shuddering waves.

The last thing I felt before the blindfold slipped away—

Was her lips pressing gently to my forehead.

Soft.

Tender.

"You’re mine," she whispered.

"And you were perfect for me tonight."

Connection and Comfort

The silence that followed was different.

Not empty.

Not cold.

It was full—saturated with everything we had just shared, the echoes of moans and whispered commands still lingering in the candlelit room.

My body felt wrecked.

Completely spent.

The binds had been released, but my wrists still tingled where the leather cuffs had held me firm. My muscles ached, sensitive, the lingering burn of the flogger still singing faintly along my skin.

But all I could feel—truly feel—was her.

Ava.

She was no longer the dominant force, no longer a mistress holding me captive in her world.

She was simply herself.

Soft.

Warm.

Present.

The blindfold was gone, but my vision was still blurry as she curled against me, the silk of her robe discarded somewhere on the floor, her bare skin pressing fully into mine.

Her head rested on my chest, her hair spilling over my shoulder, damp curls sticking to her skin where sweat still lingered.

And in that quiet, with the rise and fall of my breathing slowing beneath her—

She soothed me.

Her fingertips traced gentle circles along my forearm, where the binds had held me captive moments earlier. Slow. Reassuring.

The same hands that had marked me. Restrained me.

Now comforted me.

I exhaled, my chest sinking deeper into the mattress, the last remnants of tension unraveling as I felt her press a soft kiss just above my heart.

"You're here," she whispered, the sound barely audible.

It wasn’t a question.

It was a reminder.

I nodded, swallowing hard, voice rough when I finally spoke.

"I’m here."

Her lips curled into a small, satisfied smile against my skin.

She shifted, pulling the blanket up, draping it over both of us as she settled closer. The weight was grounding, the warmth of her body pressing into mine making me feel safe—held in a way that went beyond the physical.

I felt her exhale.

Felt her body finally relax fully against mine.

And then she whispered the words that shattered me more than anything we had just done.

"Thank you for trusting me, Malik."

I turned my head, pressing a lingering kiss into her hair.

"Always."

Silence returned—but this time, it wasn’t heavy with tension.

It was peaceful.

Whole.

And I realized, in that moment, it had never been about control.

It had always been about trust.

The Completion of Trust

The silence felt sacred now.

The tension that had once filled the room—tight, electric, pulsing with restraint—was gone, replaced by something deeper.

Warmer.

The binds had been undone.

The blindfold removed.

Yet I still felt held.

Not by the leather. Not by the silk.

But by her.

Ava lay curled against me, her body pressed fully into mine, bare skin to bare skin, the soft curve of her thigh draped over my hip. The heat between us had softened, no longer the consuming burn it had been moments earlier when she’d unraveled me completely—

But a lingering ember.

Steady.

Comforting.

The scent of jasmine still clung to her skin, mixing with the candle wax and the lingering musk of our bodies—familiar, grounding, as her head rested on my chest.

Her fingers traced delicate, aimless patterns along my wrist.

Gentle. Careful.

The same hands that had bound me. Struck me.

The same hands that had held me together when I shattered.

I shifted slightly, wincing at the sensitivity lingering along my ribs where the flogger had left its heat behind.

She noticed.

Of course she did.

Her fingers moved instantly, soft lips pressing against my chest where the marks still lingered, her breath warm as she whispered,

"Does it still hurt?"

I shook my head, voice raw, words thick.

"No, Mistress… Just sore."

The corner of her mouth quirked, the title falling so easily from my lips even in this tenderness. But she didn’t correct me.

She only pressed another kiss there—softer this time.

"You were perfect for me tonight," she whispered.

I felt it then.

The ache in my chest.

Not from the pain.

But from the vulnerability she had allowed me to share.

"I trust you," I whispered, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting.

Her body tensed—just for a heartbeat.

And then I felt her exhale, her cheek pressing more firmly against my chest, fingers slipping down to lace with mine where they rested against the sheets.

It felt so small.

So simple.

But nothing had ever felt bigger.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again, but there was no more steel. No more power play.

Just her.

"And I trust you too, Malik."

The candles had burned lower now, their glow dimming to nothing more than embers along the velvet shadows of the room.

But the warmth between us—

That heat would linger.

Because tonight wasn’t about punishment.

Or dominance.

It had been about trust.

And as she curled deeper into my arms, her breathing slowing, steadying, the press of her lips lingering just long enough against my pulse—

I knew I was completely hers.

Not because she had taken control.

But because I had given it.

Willingly.

And so had she.

The End.