His eyes sharpened. “It’s not a weakness to need structure.”
I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.” I didn’t even know what I was agreeing to anymore.
He stepped closer. His scent filled the space between us—citrus, spice, power. “And you want to be seen. Taken in hand.”
I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, heat crawling up my neck.
He made a low sound, approval threaded through it. “You’re older than most here. Experienced. But nobody’s ever really taken care of you, have they?”
I flinched. The truth stung. “No, sir. Not for a long time.”
“Do you want to play tonight?”
The wordplaybarely registered. My brain was static. My body answered first—a nod, small, helpless.
“Use your words,” he said quietly.
“Yes, sir. I want to play.”
The faint smile that followed wasn’t kind. It was approving. Controlled. “We’ll keep it simple. You’ve been out of the scene. You need routine. Someone to take charge.”
He was right. Every part of me screamed that he was right.
He reached for my chin, fingers firm but not cruel, tilting my face up until I met his gaze. His touch burned.
“You’re nervous,” he said, amused. “Good. That means you’ll listen.”
The room behind him blurred into color and noise. All I could see was him.
“Where’s your collar?”
The question cut through me. I swallowed. “Don’t have one. Not anymore.”
His thumb traced the line of my jaw, right over the frantic pulse there. “Shame,” he murmured. “You’d wear black well. What are your safe words?”
“Traffic lights, sir.”
He released me slowly, and the absence of his touch felt like cold air rushing in. “You’ll follow.”
I did. Because of course I did.
He led me upstairs, away from the music and the heat, to a quieter space. My heartbeat filled the silence between us. When he opened the small room off the landing, he didn’t bother to look back before saying, “Inside.”
I went.
The door shut behind us, cutting out the club. The room was dim, soft light from a single lamp. He turned, steady and sure.
“Take off your shirt.”
My hands shook before I even reached the buttons. I fumbled them one by one, clumsy under his gaze. When the shirt finally came off, goosebumps chased across my skin.
He didn’t move. Didn’t need to. The air itself felt like a touch.
He watched. Taking in everything. The way my chest moved, the way my stomach was soft—not toned, not that I braced myself for it, the way I always did, but it still hit hard when Felix’s hands actually landed on my skin. He started with my arms, hands strong and sure, like he was running some kind of inventory. He ran his thumb down the inside of my left elbow and paused, pressing just enough to make me shiver.
“Stiff here,” he murmured. “Old injury?”
I swallowed, too aware of every point of contact. “Carpal tunnel. Desk job,” I admitted.
