Deviant Obsession

Chapter 11

Rhea

My face is still buried in the silken sheets as gentle fingers work at the rope around my wrists. I lift my head and flex my fingers experimentally, watching the shadows of rope marks fade across my skin.

"Easy now," Dean murmurs, his touch impossibly soft as he examines my abused flesh. "Let me take care of you."

He nudges me to turn around and lie on my back, the contrast between this tenderness and his earlier dominance making my head spin. I watch him in awe as he reaches for a bottle on the side table, his expression one of calm focus. The first touch of cool lotion against my heated skin draws a quiet gasp from my lips.

"Too cold?" he asks, already adjusting his pressure.

I shake my head, mesmerized by the careful way he traces each raised welt across my thighs and stomach. His fingertips dance along the marks he left, soothing away the lingering sting. It feels almost like being reverently studied, like he's mapping constellations across my skin.

The silence wraps around us like a cocoon, broken only by my occasional sighs as he works. My mind keeps flickering back to moments before—the sharp crack of leather against flesh, and the way my body arched into each strike, hungry for more. The memory alone has me exhilarated despite how exhausted I am.

"You're trembling," Dean observes, his palm coming to rest flat against my hip.

"Good trembling," I manage to whisper, arching instinctively into his touch.

His other hand continues its gentle exploration, finding every spot that needs attention. I never expected this level of care from him. The man who just had me begging and writhing under his cane now treats me like I'm made of crystal.

My eyes drift closed as he works the lotion into my skin, but I can still feel his gaze on me. I find myself swaying slightly under his ministrations, drunk on the combination of endorphins and his unexpected gentleness. His hands are strong but tender, nothing like the commanding grip that held me in place earlier.

When he finally sits back, I feel the loss of his touch like a physical ache. Opening my eyes, I catch him watching me with an expression I've never seen before. It’s raw and unguarded, making my chest tight.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"I feel..." I trail off, searching for words that won't come. How do I describe this floating sensation? This strange mix of vulnerability and safety? The way my skin still hums with remembered pain while my heart thuds with something dangerously close to trust?

Dean waits patiently, his presence steady and grounding beside me. Sitting up against the pillows, I look down at the marks bloomed across my pale skin. It’s evidence of how completely I surrendered to him. The sight should shock me; it should probably frighten me. But instead, I find myself tracing them with wandering fingers, already cataloging which ones might linger longest.

"I feel taken care of," I finally murmur, meeting his glacial eyes.

Something passes across that unreadable face—satisfaction, maybe, or relief. He reaches for me again, fingers ghosting over the scarlet patterns on my thighs. "Good," he says. "That's exactly what you deserve. And what about the scene?" Dean's voice remains calm, patient even, but there's an undercurrent of tension I don’t know the reason for.

My cheeks flush hot as I consider the sharp sting of each strike, the way my body responded, how completely I lost myself in the sensations. "I..." The words tangle on my tongue. "I loved it. The pain, I mean. More than I expected to. It was kind of…cathartic, I guess."

His eyelids drop a little at my admission, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before he schools his expression. "It’s meant to be, in a way. Don’t be surprised if you feel pretty emotional for a while, it’ll pass… You took it beautifully," he praises me, fingers still trailing absently over my thigh. "The way you welcomed those last three strikes for me... fuck. "

"I didn't think I'd want it so much," I confess timidly. "The pain, the submission, and...um… all of it."

Dean's hand stills against my skin. "And the rest?" There's something careful in his tone now, apprehensive.

My heart leaps into my throat as I think about how it ended—his hands gripping my hips, the stretch of him filling me, my desperate cries echoing off the walls. "The sex was…unexpected," I manage, watching him closely. "Since, you know… we didn't... last time."

His expression shifts completely like someone just flicked a switch, guilt pinching his features as he leans back slightly. "Fuck, you're right. We didn't..." He runs a hand through his hair, agitation evident in the hurried gesture. "We should have discussed that first. I got carried away with how into it you were, but that's no excuse."

"No, it's okay," I rush to reassure him. "I wanted it. I gave you the green light." The words tumble out, trying to erase that troubled look from his face.

"Still," he insists, "I pride myself on better control than that. Better communication." His jaw works as he struggles with obvious disappointment. "You deserve more consideration."

"Dean..." I reach for him without thinking, my hand landing on his wrist. His pulse thunders under my palm. "I don't regret it."

His larger hand covers mine, squeezing in a silent apology. "You sure?" The question seems to carry weight beyond just this moment.

"I’m sure," I answer, though my mind screams at me to be more cautious. This is dangerous territory. This kind of openness, and this intimacy could lead to deeper feelings. It wasn't supposed to be part of the arrangement. “You can go back to being your usual asshole self now, don’t worry about me.”

He huffs a quiet chuckle at my sad attempt at a joke, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. We sit frozen like that for several heartbeats, the silence growing a little uncomfortable between us. Finally, Dean stands, clearing his throat. "You should get dressed."

I chew on my lip as he retrieves my clothes from the floor, trying to ignore how his eyes seem immediately drawn to the anxious habit when he turns back around. My hands shake slightly as I pull on my underwear, my mind racing with everything that's shifted between us in the past hour.

"Here." He hands me my bra, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that once again feels far too deliberate.

"Thanks," I murmur, focusing intently on the clasps rather than his proximity or the way he's still watching me with that guarded expression. I dress in loaded silence, the rustle of fabric somehow deafening in the quiet room.

All the while, I can’t shake the feeling that he can’t wait for me to leave. It guts me just as deeply as the first time we snapped out of a scene and back into uncomfortable reality.

This is exactly what I didn't want—this complexity, these dangerous undercurrents. It was supposed to be simple. Clinical, almost. Just exploration and release. Instead, I'm standing here feeling stripped bare in ways that have nothing to do with being naked. It’s all I can do to tell myself it’s just the aftermath of the scene thrumming in my veins.

He did say I’d be feeling extra emotional for a while.

"Well…I should go." I grab my bag, needing to escape before I do something stupid like ask him what this means or, worse, tell him how much I'm starting to crave these gentler moments between us. He doesn't try to stop me as I move toward the door, but I can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing against my back as I reach for the handle.

The welts across my thighs throb gently beneath my pantyhose as I hurry down the corridor, a constant reminder of how completely I submitted to him. I completely caved to his control, his demands, and then his unexpected softness. I can only pray the evidence isn’t visible through the sheer fabric for all the world to see.

This wasn't part of the plan. None of it was. The scene itself—heavens, the scene—exceeded every fantasy I didn’t even know I was harboring. But it's the quiet moments after it that have me truly shaken. The way he soothed my wrists when he untied me. How his voice softened when he praised my responses. The flash of vulnerability in his eyes when he thought he'd overstepped.

I pause at the end of the hallway, pressing my forehead against the cool wall. My reflection in a nearby mirror catches my eye. I swallow hard as I take in my flushed cheeks, chewed- up and swollen lips, and that unmistakable post-sex glow. I barely recognize myself.

"Don’t get used to it, Rhea," I whisper to my reflection. "This won’t last. It’s just a game to him. And to you. Nothing more."

But even as I form the words, I know I'm lying to myself. The way my heart races when he looks at me has less and less to do with physical attraction—or even the irritation that once burned there. I have to stop myself from falling into dangerous territory, and letting myself feel things I swore I wouldn't.

My hand drifts to my neck, finding the spot where his lips branded me days ago. The slight ache grounds me, reminds me why I need to keep my emotions in check. Guys like Dean don't do feelings. They don't offer anything beyond these stolen moments in dark rooms.

Don’t you dare start pining like the virgin he accused you of being.

He wasn’t my first, and he won’t be my last. The fact that he’s made my body feel things I never dreamed of is only proof that I’ve held myself back all these years from truly experiencing anything. There’s a whole world of sensations out there open to me now. Because I let myself take that leap. Because I gave myself permission.

Now all I have to do is convince my brain that Dean isn’t some rare angel I’ll never find again.

"Stupid," I mutter, pushing off the wall. "So stupid."

Each step toward the exit feels heavier than the last. Part of me wants to turn back, to demand answers about what's happening between us. A bigger part knows that would be disastrous. Better to leave now, while I still can. Before these feelings grow any deeper roots.

The club's main area pulses with loud music, the sound washing over me as I emerge from the private corridor and descend the stairs. Bodies writhe on the dance floor, couples entwined in darker corners. Everyone is lost in their own worlds of pleasure. I envy their simplicity, their ability to take what they want without overthinking it.

Or catch feelings.

The exit sign glows like a beacon of sanity ahead of me. Just a few more steps and I'll be out in the quiet entrance hall, then the cool night air. I can call a ride, go home, take a long shower, and try to wash away these dangerous thoughts. Then maybe I can work out why I even came here in the first place.

As I make my way towards the velvet curtain separating me from reality, I’m willing every muscle in my body not to turn around. My heart stutters the closer I get to the exit, wondering if Dean followed me. Wondering if part of me hopes he did.

But then I freeze, my world tilting sideways.

Across the dance floor, Dean stands by the bar, laughing with the bartender. He's wearing dark jeans and a black button-down he definitely wasn’t wearing minutes ago. And how did he get here without passing me in the hallway? My feet come to a standstill as he turns, catching sight of me. His brow furrows in confusion.

"Rhea?" He calls out, striding toward me, head tilted. "What are you doing here?"

Footsteps sound behind me, and Dean's eyes shift over my shoulder. His expression transforms instantly, a cold rage sweeping across his features.

"Ethan?" The name falls from his lips like a curse.

My stomach drops to my feet like a lump of lead. Slowly, I turn to find an identical face behind me—the man I just left in the playroom. The man who just marked my skin, who bent me over and drove himself into me, who took his time soothing the burning welts...

"Ethan? Wha— no ." A strangled gasp tears from my throat as horrific realization crashes over me. "You pretended to be him?"

Ethan raises his hands, pausing several steps away from me and his furious twin . "Shit. I… Look, I didn’t know you were Rhea . I can explain?—"

"Explain?" My voice rises sharply, drawing attention from nearby clubgoers. "Explain how you had sex with me while pretending to be your brother? How you let me think... Oh god, I'm going to be sick."

"What?" Dean's voice cuts through the air like steel. He moves toward his twin, anger radiating from every line of his taught body. "You did what ?"

"She came into the coffee shop thinking I was you," Ethan says quickly, backing away slightly. "We’ve swapped girls a million times, I didn’t think it was a big deal. I didn’t know it was the Rhea you’ve been obsessing?—"

"Stop talking." Dean cuts him off, hands curled into fists. "Right fucking now, before I break your jaw."

Their voices blur together as they argue, Dean’s face twisted with anger while Ethan emanates only glacial calm. I back toward the exit, my skin crawling with the memory of his hands on me—hands I thought belonged to the man I'd chosen to trust. Every mark he left feels like a brand of shame now, and every gentle moment of aftercare is now a layer of manipulation.

"I'm leaving," I announce, cutting through their heated exchange. My voice sounds strange in my ears, tight with unshed tears. "Don't either of you psychos dare follow me."

"Wait!" They both start forward, then glare at each other with identical expressions of warning.

"Rhea, let’s just talk—" Dean tries again.

"No." I hold up a trembling hand. "I trusted you… Or who I thought was you. I gave my consent to you , not him . And you," I turn to Ethan, venom dripping from every word, "you took advantage of that trust in the worst possible way. You made me feel safe just to get what you wanted.”

Ethan's face pales. "It wasn't like that. I didn’t know who you were. I thought you were just another one of Dean’s casual hookups. Someone who wouldn’t be bothered if I took his place. I didn’t realize I’d messed up until you mentioned that he hadn’t fucked you before."

"Save your excuses for someone who might believe them." The tears threatening to fall make me even angrier. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. "You're both disgusting. The twin who violated me and the one who never bothered to warn me he had a crazy duplicate running around."

Without another word, I spin on my heel and shove through the exit curtain, leaving their weak protests behind me. My phone is already in my hand, ordering a ride, desperate to get as far from this nightmare as possible.

Behind me, the curtain opens again. "Rhea, wait. Please!"

I can't even tell which one of them it is at this point. The thought makes me walk faster, wrapping my arms around myself as I hurry toward the street. The welts on my skin burn with fresh humiliation, every mark a reminder of how completely I was deceived.