Deviant Obsession

Chapter 10

Rhea

The bell above Ramona Coffee's door chimes as I push inside, immediately hit by the rich scent of freshly ground beans. The promise of caffeine is a welcome wake-up call as I mentally sift through my lengthy to-do list, separating out the various assignments I wanted to get started on before my classes this afternoon.

But every carefully organized thought dissolves in my mind like cotton candy in a puddle when I see him .

Dean stands at the counter, one hand casually braced against the polished surface as he waits for his order. My stomach does a violent flip. It’s been three days since the club, since he introduced me to a world I never knew I needed to explore, and I still can't shake the way my body responds to his mere presence.

Before my brain can catch up with my feet, I'm walking toward him. The memory of his hands on my body, his voice in my ear ordering me to come, has every assignment I’d been mulling over tossed into a metaphorical trash can. I force my voice to stay light, playful even as I plant myself right next to his towering frame.

"Stalking me again?" I tease, trying to mask how quickly my nerves have skyrocketed just being near him. "Will I ever be able to go anywhere again without seeing your face around every corner?"

He turns slowly, those piercing eyes raking over me with a kind of clinical detachment beneath raised brows. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Gone is the arrogant frat bro who tried to seduce me among the beer kegs and solo cups and gone is the commanding Dom who had me writhing in his hands. In his place, stands a stranger, cold and distant.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he says, voice clipped and sharp enough to cut glass.

Heat floods my cheeks as his words land like a vicious slap. The dismissal in his tone makes me feel an inch tall, stupid for even daring to approach him. How could I seriously think what happened between us meant anything beyond a fun scene and a quick blowjob? He'd made that clear enough when he'd bluntly dismissed me from the room afterward, hadn't he?

My fingers twist anxiously around the strap of my bag. The barista plants his order on the counter beside him—black coffee, of course—and he turns away from me to retrieve it, as if I'm not worth another word. The casual disregard stings worse than any implement he might have used on me.

"Of course you’d say that," I throw back, battling with all my strength against the humiliation burning through me. My words don’t come out nearly as stern as I’d hoped, brittle instead with wounded pride. "Acting like you haven’t been chasing me like some crazed dog. Well, don't bother seeking me out anymore. I mean it this time. What happened at the club was a one-time thing. It won't be happening again."

Something shifts in his expression then, so subtle I almost miss it. The cold mask slips just slightly, revealing a flash of curiosity in the way he raises that eyebrow this time. His eyes rake over me slowly, head to toe, for what must be the hundredth time since we first met, and I struggle not to squirm at the feeling that he’s mentally undressing me.

The infamous smirk returns, coupled with a dark heat blooming in his steely eyes. It’s the same darkness that had me willingly following him into that private room and letting him introduce me to pleasures I never knew existed. In what could only have been seconds, his entire energy morphs, as if the memories of the last time we saw each other have suddenly come flooding back.

The predator in him has scented blood in the water, and I've already said too much, revealed too much with my defensive response.

I take an instinctive step backward, my muscles tensing as if my body is bracing to run from the building, and pretend this confrontation never happened. However, the damage is done. Dean has seen right through my attempted bravado to the truth underneath—that I haven't stopped thinking about him since that night.

The few other customers in the coffee shop fade to background noise as he sets his drink down again, untouched. His looming presence seems to grow, filling the space between us until I can barely breathe. This is the Dean I remember, the one who commanded my submission with nothing more than a knowing look.

My back hits the pastry case, and I realize I've been retreating without even meaning to. Dean follows, each step measured and deliberate. The shop suddenly feels too warm, too small. My skin burns with awareness as other patrons mill around us, completely oblivious to the tension crackling in this little bubble of space. They have no idea that just three nights ago, this man had me begging, trussed up naked, and completely at his mercy.

And from the dangerous smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he knows exactly where my thoughts have gone.

“Won’t happen again, huh? Well, I don’t know about that.” Dean leans in close, his breath ghosting across my ear. "You know what I see when I look at you?" His deep growl makes my knees weaken, the fight draining from my body with every inhale of his overwhelming presence. He plants one hand on the pastry case behind me, effectively caging me in all over again.

"I see potential. So much untapped potential." His voice drops lower, meant only for me. "You've barely scratched the surface of what you could handle. What I could show you."

"I…" My protest dies in my throat as I think about just how far we went already—the blindfold, the restraints, the way he played my body like an instrument. The promise of more? It beckons me like heroin to a helpless addict.

"You’re wound so tight, little one. Remember how you trembled under my touch?" His words paint vivid pictures in my mind. "How sweetly you begged? How perfectly you submitted?"

I can barely choke down a full breath. "I wasn’t in my right mind that night. I was..."

"You were magnificent," Dean purrs. The praise sends that familiar warmth pooling low in my belly. "And you could be again. Tonight."

I shake my head, trying to clear it. "I can't. I shouldn't."

"But you want to." It's not a question. His fingers brush my hip, feather-light but deliberate. "I can see it in your eyes."

He's right. God help me, he's right . Every nerve ending in my body is singing, crying out for more.

"The things I could teach you. The pleasures I could introduce you to. You enjoyed our last scene, but that was just the beginning."

My resistance is crumbling, and he knows it. His thumb traces small circles on my hip, each touch breaking down my resolve piece by piece.

"Tonight," he says again, before I can form any kind of weak protest. How is he doing this? He makes it sound inevitable. "Come back to the club. Let me show you more."

I should say no. Should walk away. But then I remember… Nat's working late at the bar tonight. No need to make excuses, no awkward questions to dodge.

"I..." The sound comes out pathetically breathless. I clear my throat, try again. "I’ll think about it.”

His answering smile is pure sin. "Ten o'clock. I'll be waiting in the reception." He steps back, breaking the spell he's woven around us. "Don't you dare be late."

Just like that, his dominant demeanor vanishes. He retrieves his coffee, nods politely as if we've just had a casual conversation about the weather, and strides toward the door.

I'm left half-collapsed against the pastry case, heart racing, and body humming with anticipation.

What have I just agreed to? Did I agree?

But even as doubt creeps in, I know I'll be there. The memory of pleasure, submission, and of floating in that blissful headspace... It's too powerful to resist.

And Dean knows it.

He knew it the moment I tried to take the power back into my own hands. He knew how to break down my defenses. And the realization should frighten me.

Instead, it has me clenching my thighs together with need.

***

Dean's fingers press into the small of my back as he guides me down the hallway. Adrenaline courses through my veins like a heady drug, every cell in my body remembering our last encounter behind one of these identical doors. But this time he leads me further, past the room where he first introduced me to his world of pleasure and control.

"In here." His voice is low, different from the teasing drawl I’m so used to. There's an edge to it now that scares me as much as it draws me in.

The door clicks shut behind us with a finality that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. Blue light pours from LED strips lining the walls in this new room, casting strange shadows across various implements mounted on the walls. My eyes struggle to adjust to the dim lighting, but I can just about make out the silhouettes of each wicked object. Some are familiar, and others completely foreign.

Dean circles around to face me, and the playful smugness I saw in the coffee shop has vanished entirely. In its place is something harder, more intense. His blue eyes bore into mine with such focus that I have to resist the urge to look away.

"Tonight will be different than before," he says, each word deliberate and measured. "I want to explore your limits with pain." He pauses, studying my face. "How does that make you feel?"

My mouth goes instantly dry. I try to school my features into something resembling composure, but my racing pulse betrays me. "I... I'm interested," I manage to whisper.

"Interested?" One dark eyebrow arches upward. "Or scared?"

"Both," I admit, feeling utterly naked though I haven’t removed one item of clothing.

His lips curl into the ghost of a smile. "Good. I need you to always be honest with me. I’ll never force you to do something you don’t want to, but I can’t read your mind." He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Before we begin, let’s review the most important part."

My breath catches as his hand comes up to grip my chin, forcing me to maintain eye contact. "The traffic light system isn't just a suggestion, little one. It's non-negotiable. I need to know you understand exactly what each color means."

There's steel in his voice, and something in my core liquefies in response. "Green means continue," I recite, mercifully sounding steadier than I expected. "Yellow means slow down or check in. Red means stop everything immediately."

"And you'll use them?" The pressure on my chin increases slightly. "You'll tell me if anything becomes too much?"

"Yes."

He studies me for another long moment, as if trying to read the truth in my eyes. Whatever he sees there must satisfy him because he finally releases my chin with a small nod.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and those two simple words send pure electricity crackling through my veins. "Then we can begin." He takes a step back, and suddenly the air feels colder without his closeness. The change in his posture is subtle but unmistakable; his shoulders squaring, his chin lifting slightly. When he speaks again, his voice has taken on that silky-dangerous quality that makes my knees weak. "Strip for me."

My fingers tremble as I reach for the top button of my blouse. Dean's unwavering stare follows each movement, and the weight of his attention makes every nerve ending spark to life. The fabric whispers against my skin as it falls away, followed by my skirt pooling at my feet. I hesitate for just a moment before unhooking my bra, letting it join the growing pile of clothing.

When I'm finally bare before him, Dean appraises me with hooded eyes. He doesn't speak, simply gestures toward the bed with a slight tilt of his head. It’s a clear command. The sheets are cool against my heated skin as I lie back, trying and failing to control my breathing.

"Arms above your head," he orders, unhooking a length of black rope from the wall that looks as silken as it does strong. The mattress dips as he kneels beside me, and I can't help but notice how his t-shirt pulls tight across his shoulders with each precise movement. I relish the lack of blindfold this time round, thoroughly hypnotized by watching him in his element. I can’t help but bask in the way his hungry gaze roves over every inch of me like I’m a feast for a starving man.

The rope is as soft as it looks, wrapping around my wrists like a lover's caress before he secures them to the headboard.

"Spread your legs."

I obey, my cheeks burning as he fastens matching ropes around my ankles, drawing them wide apart until I'm completely exposed to him again. The vulnerability of being spread open and bound while he remains fully dressed sends a rush of heat straight to my already throbbing core.

"Stunning," he murmurs, running one finger down the inside of my thigh. Then he stands, moving to retrieve something else from the wall of intriguing-yet-terrifying objects. "We'll start slowly. I want you to watch everything I'm going to use on you. Get an idea of what you do and don’t enjoy."

The first implement he selects catches the light as he presents it to me—a small, silver wheel mounted on a handle, tiny spikes glinting around the outer edge with wicked promise. "This is a Wartenberg wheel," he explains, letting me see how it spins. "It can feel like anything from a light tickle to a harsh bite, depending on how much pressure I apply."

He sets it aside and lifts a flogger next, the leather swaying hypnotically as he moves. The sight of it makes me suddenly hungry to feel it stroke my bare skin. Finally, he produces a slender cane, and my eyes widen as he tests its flexibility with a whisper-soft swoosh through the air.

"Color?" he asks, noting my reaction.

"Green," I whisper, surprising myself with just how much I mean it.

He hums his approval before picking the wheel back up, returning to the bedside before trailing it lightly along my collarbone. The sensation is sharp but delicate, like being traced with ice. When he increases the pressure slightly down the slope of my breast, I gasp at the intensified sting.

The wheel's path continues downward, leaving trails of fire across my ribs, my belly, my thighs. Each new area brings a different sensation—some places making me squirm with ticklish sensitivity, others drawing soft moans as the bite of the spikes sends sparks of pleasure-tinged pain through my nervous system.

“Good girl,” he encourages, soothing the more sensitive paths with a brush of his fingers when I hiss a little too loudly.

Just when I think I've adjusted to the wheel's kiss, Dean sets it aside and picks up the flogger. He glances back to my face, waiting until I give a timid nod before embarking on this new round of introductions. The first strike lands with a soft thud against my thigh, more surprising than painful. The next falls harder, and I arch into the assault as the leather strips paint paths of heat across my skin.

Dean works with artistic precision, building a masterpiece of red welts that almost glow against my pale complexion. The leather tails create different sensations depending on how he wields them. Sometimes it’s a gentle caress that makes me beg for more, other times a sharp snap that pulls desperate whimpers from my throat.

"Look at you," he breathes, pausing to trace the marks blooming on my chest. "So responsive, so pretty." The praise makes me flush with pride even as another strike lands just below my breasts. "The way you move when I hit you..." The flogger connects with the sensitive curve of my hip, making me gasp. "Like you were made for this."

My skin feels electrified, every nerve ending singing as Dean continues his assault. He varies the rhythm unpredictably. Sometimes quick successive strikes blend into one continuous burn, and other times a long pause leaves me trembling in anticipation of where the next blow will land.

"Please," I whimper, though I'm not sure if I'm begging him to stop or continue.

"Color?" he checks, the flogger trailing teasingly across my stomach.

"Green," I pant. "So green."

His low chuckle sends heat pooling between my legs. "That's my girl. Just a little more now. Then you’ll have earned yourself a reward." He dips the fingers of his empty hand between my thighs, humming his approval when they come away slick. Fixing me with another intense stare, Dean raises those fingers to his mouth and sucks.

The sight alone has me ready to shatter completely.

When he finally picks up the cane, my entire body is humming, caught somewhere between fear and desperate anticipation.

"Remember your colors," he reminds me, tapping the rod lightly against my shin. "This one bites deeper than the others. Are you ready?"

I can only offer him a timid nod, a war raging in my mind over whether I actually want this.

“Let me hear you, little one.”

“I’m ready.” I can’t quite put my finger on what compels me to say it, but I’m sure it has a lot to do with this fierce desire to please him again. To make him proud of me. To earn my reward.

The cane whistles through the air before landing with precise accuracy across the top of my thigh. Each strike lands in a different spot to the last, spreading down to just above my knees, creating a symphony of stinging fire that has me gasping and squirming. Dean pauses between blows, letting each burn peak before adding the next.

"You're taking it so well," he purrs, trailing the smooth wood across my searing skin. The next strike lands harder, and I can't hold back a strangled cry. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as another blow follows quickly after.

"Yellow," I choke out, my determination wavering. The word barely leaves my lips before Dean is above me, one knee resting on the mattress as he brushes his thumb over my damp cheek.

"Talk to me," he commands softly, all motion stilled.

I draw in a shaky breath. "It's... it's a lot. I'm not sure I can take much more."

Dean swipes a damp curl back from my face, studying my expression intently. His features soften slightly, but that dangerous edge remains in his eyes. "We can stop if you want to. You've done so well for me. If you want to keep going, would you take three more strikes? Just three?"

The tender praise makes my chest warm despite the fire racing across my skin. I want to please him. I want to prove I can take whatever he gives me. " Yes . I can do three more."

"God, you’re so eager," he murmurs, moving back into position. It’s only then that I notice the bulge straining against his jeans. Hurting me like this, seeing me cry even, it’s got him rock hard. "Count them for me, little one."

The cane leaves a line of fire across my thigh that makes me cry out, my body jerking against the restraints as I almost sob through the tally. But before I can fall apart completely, Dean's hands are already on my ankles, releasing the restraints and soothing the welted skin there. Without another word, he drops between my spread legs, and the first swipe of his tongue against my clit has me gasping for an entirely different reason.

He devours me like the starving man I saw in his eyes before, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that have me writhing. My hands strain against the binding at my wrists, desperate to tangle in his hair as he works me higher. But he doesn’t want me to move, gripping onto my tortured thighs and holding me open as I buck against his mouth.

"Dean… please ," I whimper, my ability to produce a coherent sentence entirely robbed from me. He responds by sucking hard on my clit and sliding two fingers inside me, curling them in a motion that sends me hurtling over the edge. My orgasm slams into me before I can even think to ask for permission.

While I’m still floating in that space where I don’t know which way is up, wave after wave of pleasure seizing my muscles, Dean is already moving again. He flips me onto my stomach in one easy motion, yanking my hips up while my wrists cross in their restraints. The sound of his zipper and a foil wrapper crinkling barely registers before he's positioning himself at my entrance.

“Color?”

“Green! Please… Use me. ” I sound so fucking desperate. I am desperate.

"Such a good girl," he growls, not wasting another second before sliding into me in one deep thrust that tears a feral moan from my lips. "Fuck, you take everything I give you so beautifully." His fingers dig into my hips as he sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me deeper into the mattress.

The delicious angle has him hitting spots that make my toes curl, and it’s not long before I'm climbing toward another peak. He’s as thick as I remember him feeling between my lips, stretching me open as his impossible length threatens to rearrange my organs. When he snakes one hand around my hip to find my clit, my eyes roll into the back of my skull, a small puddle of drool starting to form on the sheets against my cheek.

"Come for me again, little one," he commands, stroking me with those expert fingers. " Now ."

Powerless to deny him anything he wants from me, I clench around him as pleasure washing through my body all over again. Dean groans deep in his throat, his hips stuttering against mine as he follows me over the edge, pulsing hot inside the condom as his forehead drops to the sweat-slicked skin between my shoulder blades.