Chapter 1
The GPS had promised three hours and twelve minutes. I made it in three hours and ten.
Two minutes shaved off, like I always did—meetings, deadlines, the slow unraveling of my last relationship. Control wasn’t just a habit; it was the foundation of everything I’d built. The penthouse with its sterile lines, the career that demanded obedience from others but never from me, the tailored blazers that armored my ribs like a second skin. Need was a weakness, and I had spent a lifetime pretending I didn’t have any.
Now, my fingers were clenched around the steering wheel, the leather warm under my palms, the late afternoon sun bleeding through the windshield. My blouse clung to my back, the fabric damp with the kind of sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature. I hadn’t even taken off my cardigan.
The gates loomed ahead, iron and imposing, their surface weathered by time. Beyond them, the unknown. My pulse thudded behind my sternum, a slow, insistent drumbeat that had nothing to do with the quiet authority of the estate and everything to do with the thought screaming in my skull: You can still turn around.
The thought was reasonable. Sensible. The kind of logic that had built an empire of order and predictability. That empire had a penthouse with a view of the city’s jagged skyline, a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows, and a boyfriend—Greg—whose face flashed behind my eyelids. Soft features, softer hands, the way he’d laughed when I’d tried to explain what I needed. “Sex isn’t supposed to be complicated, Scarlett.” As if pleasure were a balance sheet. As if I hadn’t spent the last eighteen months faking orgasms just to spare his ego.
I exhaled through my nose, the breath unsteady. The air in the car felt too thick, too heavy, like the silence that rushed in when I killed the engine. A bird called from the trees—sharp, demanding. I didn’t want to give it my attention. Didn’t want to give anything my attention except the thought that clawed at me: Turn around. Turn around. Turn around.
But I didn’t.
I put the car in drive.
***
The road to the house was a tunnel of green, the canopy so dense it swallowed the sky. My tires crunched over gravel, the sound too loud in the hush of the woods. Then, suddenly, the trees parted, and there it was: a Victorian behemoth of soft grey and white trim, all wraparound porches and gingerbread detailing. A postcard. A lie. Because the addition on the west side was all glass and steel, windowless, and I knew—knew in the pit of my stomach, where a deep knot of hunger had begun to form—that was where the real work happened.
I parked, the car sighing as I cut the engine. The air outside was rich, loamy, alive. Nothing like the city’s stale exhale of exhaust and regret. I stepped out, my flats sinking slightly into the gravel. The scent of earth and green things filled my lungs, so thick I could taste it. I smoothed my blouse, adjusted my jeans, and walked toward the house, my pulse spiking with every step.
The front door opened before I could knock.
Rosa stood in the doorway, her dark hair streaked with silver and pulled into a loose bun. She wore linen pants and a grey sweater, no shoes. Her gaze was warm, knowing—a gaze that saw right through the bullshit I’d been feeding myself for years. She looked at me like she already knew the shape of my desires, the weight of my hesitation. Like she’d been waiting for me.
“Scarlett,” she said, as if my name were a secret she’d been keeping.
The word settled low in my body, a heat that had no business pooling between my thighs. I shifted, suddenly hyper-aware of the way my jeans pinched at the waist, the way my blouse’s fabric whispered against my skin. I was still wearing it. Still hiding.
“Come in,” she said.
I followed. The house swallowed me whole.
Inside, the air was thick with lavender and old money—the kind that didn’t need to shout. The rug underfoot was so plush my flats disappeared into it. Rosa led me up a staircase wide enough for a procession, her voice a murmur. “Second floor. End of the hall.”
The room was small. A bed, a dresser, a chair. No TV. No distractions. Just a window framing the woods like a painting, and a desk with a leather-bound journal resting on it like a dare.
“Write in it every day,” Rosa said. “No one reads it but you.”
I set my bag on the mattress. The sheets were a white so crisp it felt accusing.
Rosa opened the top drawer of the dresser. Nested in velvet was a single collar—black leather, simple, unadorned, with a silver ring at the front. It looked heavy. Not in weight, but in meaning.
“This is your collar,” she said. “There’s only one. While you wear it, you are available. To any Dominant in the house. At any time. For any reason.” She didn’t blink. Didn’t soften the words. “The only thing that stops it is your safeword. What will it be?”
I hesitated. The weight of the choice pressed down on me, my throat tightening. Red. The word came to me without thought, instinctive. “Red,” I said finally. “Red for stop.”
She nodded. “Good. Put it on when you’re ready.”
I reached out. The leather was softer than it looked, buttery under my fingertips. The ring was cool. A coiled tension began building deep within my pelvis, a slow, insistent pull. My logical mind screamed at me to stop, to think, but my body leaned in, drawn to the weight of it, the promise of it.
I picked it up. Fastened it around my neck.
The leather warmed immediately, as if it had been waiting for me. I could feel it with every swallow, every breath. You asked for this.
Rosa’s smile was knowing. “Good. Now come meet Dominic.”
***
The library was at the back of the house, all floor-to-ceiling shelves and the scent of old paper and leather. A fire crackled in the hearth, low and hypnotic, the sound of the flames licking the wood like a whispered promise. Dominic stood at the window, his back to me, silver threading his temples. When he turned, his eyes were the color of a winter sky—grey, endless, eyes that made you feel like he’d already seen every part of you and found it interesting.
“Scarlett,” he said. No handshake. No small talk.
“Dominic,” I replied, my voice steadier than my knees.
His gaze dropped to the collar, then back to my face. Then lower, over my body—not with the leering assessment of a man in a boardroom, but with the quiet certainty of someone who already knew the answers. My skin prickled under his scrutiny, my fingers twitching at my sides.
“You’re nervous,” he said.
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“Good.” He gestured to a leather chair, its upholstery worn from use. “Sit.”
I did. The leather was cool under my thighs, the scent of it rich and familiar. He sat across from me, one ankle resting on his knee, his hands relaxed on the arms of the chair. The silence stretched, thick as syrup. I wanted to fill it. Wanted to beg him to fill it. My logical mind hated the quiet, the way it exposed me, but my body leaned into it, drawn to the tension, the anticipation.
“I’m not sure what I’m doing here,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dominic didn’t blink. Didn’t judge. Just nodded, like he’d heard it a hundred times before. “You’ll figure it out.”
He reached for a clipboard on the table beside him, handed it to me. Four pages. Single-spaced. The paper was thick, expensive. Serious.
I read the first line: Hard limits: scat, blood, needles, fire, permanent marks. My pen hovered over the page. Some lines even I wouldn’t cross. I checked them without hesitation, my hand steady.
Soft limits: breath play, knife play, humiliation. My pen stilled. Humiliation. Greg’s face flashed in my mind again, his horrified expression if he ever saw me like this—on my knees, marked, used. Shame burned through me, hot and sharp, but beneath it, something else flickered. Something that liked the idea of being seen like this. Of being wanted like this. My fingers trembled as I checked the box.
Curiosities: bondage, impact, sensory deprivation, orgasm control. My hand moved faster now, the pen pressing hard into the paper, the scratch of the nib loud in the quiet room.
Deepest fantasy (optional): To be completely taken. No choices. No decisions. Just surrender.
I wrote it. My breath hitched, and a deep knot of hunger formed beneath my navel, tight and aching. My logical mind reared back, appalled, but my body leaned in, craving the release of it, the freedom of it.
Dominic took the clipboard. Read it. His fingers tightened on the paper—just for a second. Then he set it aside and stood, stepping closer. His hand brushed my shoulder, a casual touch that sent a jolt through me, sharp and electric. “Stand up,” he said.
I did. He didn’t move away. His thumb traced the line of my collarbone, just above the leather, his touch light but possessive. My skin burned under his fingers, my breath shallow. “You sure about this?” he murmured, his voice low, even.
My thighs pressed together under my jeans, a futile attempt to ease the ache. My logical mind screamed at me to run, to think, but my body was already surrendering, already his. “Yes,” I whispered.
“Good.” He stepped back, his voice dropping to a murmur. “We’ll start slowly.”
My legs carried me without permission as I followed him out.
***
The tour was a blur of copper pots and the scent of herbs hanging from the kitchen ceiling, of beeswax polish in the dining room and the kind of quiet in the great hall that made you feel small in the best way. And then, the playroom.
Dim lighting. Padded benches. A St. Andrew’s cross in the corner. Shelves of toys I couldn’t name. The air smelled of leather and wood polish, undercut with something muskier. Arousal. My skin prickled, and I pressed my thighs together, but it did nothing to ease the familiar ache settling between my legs.
As we left, we passed through the great hall. Claire was still there, kneeling in the corner, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. Dark hair. Flushed cheeks. Marcus stood over her, the wooden spoon now resting against her thigh. She wasn’t flinching. Wasn’t begging. Her breathing was steady, her gaze fixed on the floor, but her fingers twitched against her palms, betraying the storm beneath her stillness.
Marcus caught my stare and smirked. “She’ll be here a while,” he said, tapping the spoon against her leg. Claire didn’t react, but her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Dominic noticed my fixation. Of course he did. His lips quirked. “You’ll learn,” he said, his voice low, even. “And you’ll like it.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My throat was too tight, my mind too full of Claire’s flushed face, the way she’d wanted it. My clit throbbed in a rhythm I couldn’t control, my logical mind horrified, my body ravished by the sight.
Dominic led me away, but my gaze lingered until we turned the corner. The collar seemed to grow heavier with each step.
***
Alone in the room, I unpacked. Cardigans in the closet. Jeans in the dresser. Toiletries in the bathroom down the hall. My phone buzzed in my bag. One bar of signal. I pulled it out, scrolled to my best friend’s number.
I think I made a mistake.
Three dots. Then: You’re at that sex retreat, aren’t you?
I set the phone down.
My reflection in the window was a stranger: platinum blonde hair, a black leather collar, a woman sitting on a bed in a Victorian mansion in the middle of nowhere. The collar gleamed under the fading light, a stark contrast to the cotton of my blouse. I looked like someone who had given up control.
I looked like someone who had just begun.
I stood. Smoothed my blouse. My breasts strained against the fabric, my nipples visible if you looked closely. I didn’t adjust it. Didn’t fix my hair.
I traced the collar at my throat. The leather was warm now. Mine.
I left the room and went downstairs to meet the rest of my life.