Priya: You better tell us if there’s dessert involved.
I laugh out loud and drop the phone on my chest. It buzzes again.
Priya: Also, if this ends in handcuffs, we take full credit.
And there it is.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what this is.
On instinct, I open my browser and type“what is a BDSM relationship?”
Mistake number one. The first article is written by someone who definitely thinks everyone should wear latex in public. The second is more useful—until I get to the part that says,“BDSM doesn’t necessarily include love or romance. Sometimes it’s about control, trust, and exploration, not emotional attachment.”
I sit with that.
Ethan’s voice is still in my ears, dark and commanding. His hands on my body. The look in his eyes when he made me come again and again. What if I’ve read too much into this and he’s just seeing this as another project, an indulgence? What if I fall for him and he’s already moved on by the time I figure shit out?
The irony is I never said I wanted a relationship. After everything I’ve been through, I’m not exactly eager to sign up for heartbreak. But Ethan is different. He doesn’t ask twice, yet somehow I still feel like I’m choosing. He’s sharp, self-contained, and so damn good in bed I nearly forgot my name. Now I can’t figure out if I’m in too deep or just afraid of how much I want him to want me back.
I groan, lock my phone, and pull my blanket over my head.
This is stupid. I should be excited. Iamexcited. My whole body’s like a livewire, even with him being so careful and so in control, so exact. And he wants me again. Tonight.
I should be on cloud nine.
Instead, I feel like I’ve just been handed a rulebook for a game without knowing the ending or the stakes. So, I whisper into my pillow. “Please don’t let this just be a game.”
The doorbell rings and I groan again as I push off from the bed to go answer it. The good news is that it’s my food, and the sushi is gorgeous—neatly sliced, artfully plated, each piece practically begging to be photographed and consumed in equal measure. There’s fresh tuna that melts as soon as it hits my tongue, salmon wrapped around a sliver of avocado, a decadent seared scallop with a slick of umami glaze. I moan under my breath after the first bite.
I eat slowly, savoring it, trying not to think about contracts or silver foxes. The wasabi is sharp, the pickled ginger clean. For a few minutes, I remember what it feels like to enjoy something without overthinking every calorie or every consequence.
Once I’m full, I wipe my hands, shut my laptop, and actually get some work done. I review the Q3 vendor expenses, knock out a few overdue emails, and even manage to clean up the pitch deck Harrison needs before tomorrow. It feels productive in a way that distracts me, which is good, because I need at least one hour where I’m not vibrating with confusion and very specific lust.
Time skips. I swear it does. Because I look up and suddenly it’s 6:14 p.m. and I’m meant to be leaving in fifteen minutes. Panic flares. I rush to the bathroom, but getting ready takes me twice as long as usual. I do my hair, redo it, throw on a dress, change it, and then go back to the first one. When I finally lock my front door, I feel like I’ve run a marathon without moving.
I drive to his place in my ancient car that I usually reserve for grocery runs and late-night emergencies. The engine makes a weird wheeze every time I hit a red light. A Tesla pulls up next to me and I avoid eye contact entirely.
Ethan’s building looms ahead and I suddenly feel ten levels underdressed. I park, double check my lipstick in the rearview, then head in.
He opens the door like he’s been waiting. He’s in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled. There’s something different in his smile tonight.
“Turn around,” he says.
I blink. “Already?”
He steps forward, closes the door behind me, and brushes my hair off my shoulder.
“I didn’t say I was keeping you here,” he says into my ear. “You’re getting in my car. But first, I’m giving you something to wear.”
He produces a small velvet pouch. I reach for it and open it slowly, heartbeat skipping.
Balls. Silver. Weighted. The kind I’ve only ever seen online. My breath catches.
“You’ll put them in now,” he says. “And I’ll keep the remote.”
My throat’s dry, but my legs are worse. At no point do I think of turning him down, because god help me I want to see how it feels. “Bathroom?” I manage.
He gestures to the hallway like this is all perfectly civilized.
