Page 101 of Key of Kink

I curled my arm under my head and stared at the folded blanket again.

I did the right thing.

The floor had been necessary. With that one instruction, I’d restored structure restored and maintained boundaries—the same ones I’d blurred by bringing Quinn back here in the first place.

This is still containable. It had to be. So where do we go from here?

The obvious answer was another scene, a return to familiar territory. Negotiations. Lines drawn. Limits. I could reframe the previous evening as escalation within parameters. I could restore rhythm. I even had an idea of what kind of scene I’d like to do.

Assuming Quinn also wants that.

I needed something to remind us both of where we stood.

What filled my head was his hands on my head, his gaze locked on mine as I drove my cock all the way home. His body tightening around my shaft as he approached orgasm. His pleas that had set me alight.

I exhaled slowly. Shut this down. Contain it. Offer him another scene at Obsidian. Keep it structured. Keep it there.

There would be no repeat of this.

Footsteps approached, and I pushed myself upright just as he appeared in the doorway, two mugs in his hands. His hair was slightly rumpled. He wore yesterday’s T-shirt and jeans. He looked⁠—

Comfortable.

“Morning,” he said in a low voice. He crossed the room and placed the mugs on the bedside table. Then without waiting for instruction, he lowered himself to his knees on the rug, his spine straight, hands resting loosely on his thighs.

My pulse reacted.

He isn’t doing this to impress me.

He was doing it because he wanted to start the day that way.

“I thought you might want tea before facing reality,” he said with a smile.

“Tea is always a good idea. Thank you.”

He huffed. “I’ll need a hefty dose of caffeine to face the library. Monday mornings are feral.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Feral? A library?”

Quinn snorted. “Oh, you think a library is this quiet place where no one talks above a whisper, and people sit around and read stuff? I wish.” He counted on his fingers. “Firstly, all the people who couldn’t find books over the weekend descend at once. It’s like a lost-and-found for adults.”

I bit my lip. “That sounds pretty manageable.”

Another snort. “Yeah right. Half of them don’t know what they’re looking for. They just know it’s ‘blue’ and ‘about feelings.’”

My lips twitched.

“Then there are the printers,” he continued. “They wait until exactly 9:07 to rebel. Always on a Monday, and always when someone needs to print something urgently for court or a job interview.”

“That seems oddly specific.”

He shrugged. “It’s a pattern.” His eyes gleamed. “Don’t believe me? I have charts. And don’t get me started on the school kids. They’re already late for school, but they just remembered they need a book on the Tudors for a project they should’ve finished last week. And they need it instantly. Preferably one with pictures.”

“But you said you like the children,” I reminded him.

“I do,” he admitted. “But they move in packs. And they whisper like it’s a competitive sport.”

I smiled at that.