Chapter 13 - Van
The moment Carmela steps into my bedroom the next day, every muscle in my body goes taut with need.
She moves through my space like she belongs here, trailing her fingers along my dresser, and my cock responds immediately - half-hard just from watching her claim territory that's supposed to be mine alone.
Christ. I close the door behind us, the click echoing like a warning shot. She's dangerous to my control, this bright, joyful woman who makes me want things I have no business wanting.
"Van?" She turns toward me, eyes bright with anticipation and something that might be nervousness. "You look like you're fighting yourself."
Smart girl. She sees the war happening beneath my skin - the phantom ache starting in my wrists, the way my jaw clenches as I watch her stand near my perfectly made bed. Every instinct screams at me to either run or pin her down.
"I am." The admission comes out rougher than intended. But she's here, willing, and my cock throbs against my zipper despite the trauma trying to surface.
She steps closer, close enough that I can smell her skin. "What do you need?"
What I need is to possess her completely. What I need is surgical precision to navigate this without letting my PTSD contaminate what we're building. What I need is to establish protocols that will keep us both safe while I lose myself in commanding her responses.
"To establish our dynamic properly," I tell her, positioning myself directly in front of her. "Formal protocols. Clear boundaries. This isn't a game, princess."
Her chin lifts slightly, and the movement sends heat straight to my groin. "I know that."
"Do you?" I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
Close enough that she can probably smell my arousal, see how her presence affects me.
"Because once we negotiate these limits, once we establish what belongs to me, there's no taking it back casually.
No changing your mind when things get intense. "
She swallows hard, and I track the movement of her throat, wanting to put my mouth there. "What do you need to know?"
I pull out my phone, opening the notes app with the same methodical approach I use for surgical consultations. My hands are steady despite the blood rushing to my cock, despite my mind trying to drag me back to darker places.
"Safe words first." My voice finds its professional cadence, the one that keeps me grounded when trauma symptoms surface. "Standard traffic light system - green means continue, yellow means slow down or check in, red means full stop immediately. No exceptions."
"Green, yellow, red," she repeats, nodding.
"Hard limits. Things that are completely off the table." I watch her face carefully as I continue. "Anything involving other people. Anything that could cause permanent damage. Anything in public spaces where your family name could be compromised."
Relief flashes across her features at that last point. Smart girl - she understands the implications.
"Soft limits," I continue. "Things you're uncertain about but might be willing to explore with proper preparation and communication."
She bites her lower lip, and I want to bite it too.
Want to suck it into my mouth until she moans.
"I… I don't know enough to have many soft limits yet.
" She thinks a little, then smirks. "Though I draw the line at anything involving your collection of hot sauce.
Seventeen bottles is excessive, Van. We're not incorporating condiments. "
The smile grows across my face. This woman is something else. But I need to remember that she jokes when she's nervous, and that she's just learning how this works.
"That's why we start slowly and build trust through consistent protocol.
" I set my phone aside and grip her chin gently, forcing her to meet my eyes.
The contact sends electricity through my fingertips.
"When we're in scene, you address me as Sir.
You ask permission before coming. You don't hide your responses from me - I want to see everything you're feeling. "
I wait for her to quip about that, perhaps suggest calling me 'Supreme Commander of the Bedroom.' But she doesn't. Instead, her breath catches, pupils dilating. "Yes, Sir."
The title in her sunshine voice makes my cock throb against my zipper, but I maintain control. The formal structure helps - gives me something to focus on besides the desperate need to pin her down and claim every inch of her skin.
I pause, letting the weight of what I'm about to say settle between us.
"Outside of scenes, we negotiate as equals.
You have full power to modify or end our arrangement.
But understand what you're committing to.
" My hands frame her face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones.
"I'm not just some civilian you're playing around with.
I'm a man who owes his life to your family, who's been entrusted with protecting their most precious asset.
When you submit to me, you submit completely - not just as a woman to her dominant, but as a Rosetti daughter to the man who will kill anyone who threatens what's his. "
Her pupils dilate at my words, recognition of what claiming the youngest Rosetti daughter truly means flickering in her gaze. The dangerous world we inhabit, the protection this relationship will require, the family power it represents.
"I know what staying with you means," she says quietly. "What you claiming a Rosetti means. I choose all of it."
Something settles deep in my chest at her words. She understands. This isn't just bedroom dynamics - this is life-altering commitment that will reshape both our worlds.
"Good girl." I release her chin and step back, establishing the formal distance this conversation requires. "We'll start tonight with advanced restraints and sensory play. Build on what we discovered last night."
The formal protocols established, I feel the familiar calm that comes with proper preparation. Every contingency considered, every boundary mapped. Now we can begin.
I lead her through my bedroom to the closet, my hands steady despite the anticipation building in my chest. The hidden panel slides away softly, revealing my BDSM room in all its fully equipped glory.
Carmela's sharp intake of breath fills the space as she takes in the leather-padded bench gleaming under recessed lighting, the suspension points mounted in the ceiling like surgical equipment, the cabinet full of implements I've collected over the years.
Everything organized with the same precision as my surgical instruments.
"Jesus, Van," she whispers, her voice echoing slightly off the soundproofed walls. "It's more intense than… than I remember." She turns to me sheepishly. "I peeked in here, you know," she admits.
The room triggers something deep in my chest - that desperate need for control that sometimes feels like it's going to consume me whole. But watching her take it in, seeing no fear in her expression, keeps my arousal sharp and present.
"Second thoughts?" The words come out harsher than intended.
"No." She steps further into the room, trailing her fingers along the leather restraints hanging from the wall. "It's just… very thorough."
I move to the cabinet, pulling out silk blindfold and soft leather cuffs. The familiar ritual of preparation centers me, pushes away any lingering trauma responses.
"Van?" Her voice cuts through my focus. "Who did you use this room with? Before me, I mean."
Nobodies. One night-stands. Occasionally paid company.
"Noone worth mentioning," I tell her. "Nobody ever came here more than once."
She must see something in my face, because her tone softens. "Are you okay?"
I set the restraints on the bench calmly. "I'm fine." Better than fine - I'm exactly where I need to be. "Strip. Everything off. Then lie down, arms above your head."
Her eyes widen at the direct command, but she complies without question. The dress slides off first, pooling around her feet like silk water. Then her bra - delicate lace that I want to tear with my teeth. Finally her panties, revealing the neat triangle of dark hair between her thighs.
My cock strains against my pants as she settles on the leather bench, completely naked and trusting. The sight of her like this - vulnerable, willing, mine - makes my mouth go dry with want.
"Fucking beautiful," I mutter, securing the leather cuffs around her wrists. I check the fit with two fingers of space, professional even as my cock throbs with need. "This stays on until I decide otherwise." I secure the blindfold across her eyes. "No peeking."
The moment her vision is gone, something extraordinary happens. The constant ache in my wrists fades to nothing as I focus entirely on what I'm about to do to her.
She's helpless now, but by choice. Under my control, but because she wants to be.
I retrieve ice cubes from the small refrigerator, along with feathers and other implements. But first, I need to touch her properly.
"Tell me what you feel," I command, trailing my fingers along her collarbone without warning.
She gasps, arching against the leather. "Your hands. Warm. I want more."
"Good girl." I cup her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple until it hardens. "And now?"
"Oh god, Van. Sir. That feels…" She trails off as I roll her nipple between my fingers, applying just enough pressure to make her back arch.
I grab an ice cube, dragging it along the same path my fingers just traced. The contrast makes her cry out, nipples hardening further as goosebumps break across her skin.
"Cold. Sharp. Please don't stop."
I've never felt this clear, this present. Every movement, every command, every response from her body creates a feedback loop that drowns out everything else. For the first time since my discharge, my PTSD symptoms have gone completely quiet.