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"Betrayal, revenge, sexuality—it's all part of the human clusterfuck," I mused aloud, my eyes tracing the lines of his face, wondering what it'd be like to map them with my fingertips. "We're all just trying to navigate through the bullshit."
Nash agreed, his brown eyes locking onto mine. "And sometimes, we find someone who understands the labyrinth of our desires. Someone who sees the monster within and doesn't flinch."
"Careful there, stalker boy," I teased, even though my heart hammered against my ribcage. "You might just make me believe in fairytales and happily ever afters."
"Who said anything about happy endings?" A smirk played on his lips as he looked down at me, an unspoken challenge between us. And goddamn it, if I didn't want to take whatever this was and run with it until I was breathless and begging for more.
My fingers traced the edges of my sketchpad, the coarse fibers a harsh contrast to the softness of Nash's vineyard beneath us. The breakfast spread was something out of a damn Renaissance painting, but the gnawing in my gut wasn't from hunger—it was that raw need for connection. And as much as I clung to my walls, Nash was already scaling them like some sort of emotional Spider-Man.
"Lost people recognize their kind," I muttered, feeling the weight of my own history—the betrayal that had turned my heart into a locked vault.
"There's comfort in shared misery, isn't there?" his voice was a velvet rope pulling me closer.
"Like finding a fellow inmate in an asylum.”
"Celeste," Nash said, his tone shifting, serious enough to make me sit up straighter. "I want to offer you something... unconventional." He reached into his coat pocket and produced a sheaf of papers. "This is no ordinary proposition."
I watched, half curious, half defiant, as he laid out the contract between us. His fingers flitted over the document like a pianist preparing for a symphony. "This," he began, "is a chance for you to dive headfirst into the desires you've only dared to whisper about on your blog."
"So this Dom and Sub contract—is it going to come with a lecture on safe words and aftercare, or are you planning to throw me to the wolves?"
"Always safe, sane, and consensual," Nash confirmed, his brown eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. "It allows you to explore your darkest fantasies within the boundaries we agree upon. It's about trust, Celeste. Giving yourself over and knowing you'll be caught."
"Trust doesn't come easy to a girl who's been fucked over more times than she cares to count," I shot back, but my pulse thrummed with the awareness of what this paper represented—a key to doors I'd only dared to crack open in the solitude of my mind.
"Which is why everything we do will be on your terms. You set the limits. You hold the power." He pushed the contract toward me, and I could feel the gravity of his words, heavy with promises of pleasure and pain intertwined.
"Power, huh?" I scoffed lightly, trying to mask the swell of something terrifyingly close to hope. "That's one hell of a seductive sales pitch, Rigby."
"Only if you want it to be," his voice was a silken thread weaving around my defenses. "The choice is yours, Celeste. Always yours."
"Choice," I echoed, my fingers hovering over the page, the ink calling out to me.
I flipped through the pages, each word igniting a different part of my brain—some dark corner that I usually kept padlocked. Orgasm training; Jesus, that sounded like it involved more discipline than I'd applied to any aspect of my life, ever. Bondage seemed straightforward enough, but the notion tied knots in my stomach, both the kind that made me want to run and those that whispered for me to stay.
"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, my gaze scanning over 'free use' like it was some kind of alien concept. But wasn't that what my blog was about? The freedom to be used as I desired, not as anyone else dictated?
The contract listed out 'blood play', and I felt my heart jackhammer against my ribcage. Nash watched me, his eyes pools of midnight secrets, daring me to dive in. Scarification followed, the word alone sending a shiver down my spine—half terror, half thrill. Every line of the contract was a blend of horror and fascination, like watching a car crash in slow motion.
"Feeling overwhelmed?" Nash's voice wrapped around me, comforting and constricting all at once.
"Does it show?" I shot back, trying to keep my tone light, flippant. But inside, I was a goddamn mess of arousal and dread. It was like staring into the abyss, knowing it stared back into you, seeing all your fucked-up kinks and quirks.
"Only to someone who pays attention," I could hear the smile in his voice, the bastard.
There was something about the contract, though. A pull that went beyond curiosity or the flush of excitement. It felt like a piece of me was already stitched into those words, like they were written with invisible ink that only I could see, beckoning me closer. I couldn't explain it, couldn't rationalize it. Maybe I was just a sucker for punishment, or maybe it was the allure of finally stepping into the world I'd painted in the shadows of my mind.
God, this is insane. My fingers brushed over the parchment, and it was like touching an outlet with a butterknife, a jolt of connection that screamed that this was meant for me—even if every rational part of my being was screaming to run for the fucking hills.
The vineyard around us was silent, like it was holding its breath for what came next. He leaned closer, and I could practically feel the heat radiating off him as he began to outline the rules that would govern... well, everything.
"Death," he said firmly, "is the only hard limit. Everything else we can explore, push, test." His fingers traced the edge of the paper, a predator caressing the bars of a cage he had lovingly crafted.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I muttered under my breath. As he listed off the possibilities, each more twisted than the last, I couldn't help but feel like I was standing at the edge of a cliff—and Nash was offering not just a parachute, but a pair of goddamn wings.
"Your blood will seal the agreement," he continued, presenting me with a delicate silver lancet. The damned thing looked like it belonged in a museum, not slicing into my skin. But that was Nash—elegance and danger wrapped up in a tantalizing package.
"Is this where I make a joke about 'bleeding for my art'?" I asked, taking the lancet with trembling hands. The metal was cool against my warm skin.
