Chapter 6 Lila
LILA
I wake up in Ethan’s massive bed, silk sheets clinging to my skin, and the reality of last night slams into me. His scent is everywhere and my body aches in the best way, but my mind is spinning.
I slept with my boss. My billionaire, untouchable boss.
I push the sheets down, my skin still flushed, thighs sore, chest marked.
I don’t even need a mirror to know how I look.
His hands were everywhere. His mouth too.
I remember every second of it. I don’t want to forget any of it. That’s part of the problem.
With a small groan, I slip out of bed, finding my dress crumpled on the floor. No panties in sight. I pull the dress on anyway, wincing a little as I straighten. My legs protest. My brain protests harder.
What the hell happens now?
I’m halfway to panicking when the door opens. Ethan walks in, shirtless, holding two coffees like this is the most normal morning of his week. He’s calm, loose, barefoot, and tanned in places that make me want to fall right back into bed.
“Morning, baby girl,” he says with a smirk.
My heart flips. “Hi,” I say, voice rough. “Um. Thanks?”
He hands me a cup, sits across from me on the bed, and watches me take a sip. Black. Strong. Exactly how I take it.
We move to the balcony. It’s wide and clean, all stone and glass, and overlooks the city like we’re above the chaos.
Sunlight’s starting to hit the tops of buildings.
People are waking up and getting to work.
I’m sitting in last night’s dress, with no bra, drinking coffee with a man who turned me inside out less than six hours ago.
Ethan sits back in the chair across from mine with his legs spread and one arm draped casually along the backrest. He looks relaxed, but his eyes don’t move off me.
I cross my legs, sip my coffee, and pretend not to care. “So,” I say, and cough.
“So,” he echoes, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll say next.
I stall. He doesn’t help me, damn him.
“This doesn’t…change anything at work, right?” I ask, keeping my voice light. “I’m still just your assistant?”
His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You were never just my assistant.”
“That sounds like the start of a scandal.”
“Only if you run from me.”
I glance at him. He’s not joking. He’s watching me like I’m a flight risk, like he’s already figured out I don’t do complicated things well and I’m two seconds from spiraling.
“I wasn’t planning on running,” I say.
He nods slowly, not convinced.
“You’re saying you’re okay?” he asks.
“I’m great,” I say, and even I don’t buy it.
I set my cup down a little too carefully and smooth my dress like it needs supervision. My hands keep finding things to do, and that’s usually the tell.
My last relationship didn’t end well. It started out sweet and attentive, the kind of attentive that feels flattering when you’re not used to being picked first. For the first few months, I got a fair dose of compliments, check-ins, the steady reassurance that he liked me exactly as I was.
It took months before the tone shifted just enough to make me second-guess myself.
He liked to frame control as preference. He preferred that I dressed a certain way. Preferred that I stayed in. Preferred that I didn’t argue, because why would I need to? He made it sound logical. Reasonable. Like he was doing me a favor.
Then there was the part he never let me forget either. That I was curvy, men weren’t lining up, and he was a saint for wanting me anyway. Submission was a fair trade for being chosen.
I ignored the first shove. Then the second. Told myself it was stress. A bad night. An argument that went too far. It always does, until it always goes further.
It took more strength than I like admitting to leave. Strength I didn’t know I had and still don’t trust completely. The body remembers things the brain would rather edit. Raised voices. Doors closing. Hands tightening just a second too long.
So now, when someone is attentive, when someone is possessive but refined about it, my instincts sprint ahead and begin scanning for exits. I glance at Ethan, at the way he stands there without crowding me, without touching unless I move first. No part of me thinks he would ever cross that line.
But my pulse hasn’t gotten the memo yet. It’s still deciding whether to stay or run.
“Lila.”
I meet his eyes. They’re dark. Calm. Unreadable. The same way they looked last night right before he fucked me like I’ve never been fucked in my life. “I’m thinking,” I admit.
“About?”
“Boundaries. Regret. Logistics. Whether my hair looks insane.”
“Your hair looks hot,” he says. “And if you regret last night, say so now.”
I don’t. I absolutely do not.
But I also don’t know what the hell happens next, and that’s the part that’s turning my brain into a loading screen. “I don’t regret it,” I say.
His expression doesn’t change. “I don’t like limbo, Lila. You gave yourself to me last night. Fully. If that was just sex for you, say it.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Good.”
I shift in my seat, suddenly way too warm despite the breeze.
“You don’t do casual, do you?” I ask quietly.
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
I sip my coffee to keep my hands from shaking. “I do.”
His jaw ticks, just once. “We’ll work on that.”
I want to laugh, but I get the feeling that wouldn’t fit this situation. I settle for looking at the skyline instead, at the people far below us. My stomach’s twisted with everything I’m feeling. He watches me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, like he always does.
“I don’t want to be a mistake,” I say.
“You won’t be.”
“And I don’t want to be one of many.”
“You’re not.”
There’s a pause in which he leans forward, sets his cup down, and reaches for my ankle. His warm fingers rest on my skin.
“I’m serious about you.”
My throat tightens. “Why?”
“Because you don’t play games. Because you listen. Because you give me that smart mouth and then follow orders like you were made for it.”
“That’s not love,” I say, too fast.
“I didn’t say it was.”
I open my mouth to say something else. I don’t know what. He leans in before I can.
“You’ll stay tonight.”
“I—”
“No more guessing. No more walking out the door without answers.”
I swallow hard. “You like control.”
“I like you,” he says. “Control just makes it easier.”
I look at him.
He leans in before I can finish the thought, his hand still wrapped around my ankle. The hold isn’t tight, but it’s firm enough that I don’t move. I stay there.
“I’m not asking for love, Lila,” he says. “I’m asking for you to see just how sexy you can be when you’re not doubting yourself. So, I propose setting up a contract. If you feel like that’s too much, you’re absolutely free to go. I’m not going to push you.”
My pulse stutters. “A contract?”
He raises an eyebrow, like he’s either amused or testing how fast I’ll run. “Have you ever done BDSM before?”
“I mean, I’ve seen Fifty Shades, if that counts,” I say, then immediately want to punch myself in the throat. This is not the time for casual pop culture references. This is the time for calm, rational maturity. Unfortunately, I’m short on all three.
He doesn’t flinch. “That’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking if you know what it actually entails. The principles. The expectations. The responsibilities.”
My fingers tighten around the coffee mug. “I don’t. Not really.”
Ethan leans back slightly. “Consent is central. So is communication. Safe words, hard limits, soft limits, all clearly established. I don’t push. I don’t coerce. I lead, but never without your full agreement.”
It’s almost laughable, how different that is from what I knew. My ex thought consent was a formality that expired once I said yes the first time. If I changed my mind, it was drama. If I hesitated, it was rejection. I swallow, hard. “So you’re not looking for a relationship?”
He considers my question with a thoughtful crease between his brows, and it immediately makes him look like a man accustomed to dark libraries, inherited estates, and emotional complications best revealed during thunderstorms. The sunlight captures his jawline, and suddenly he is less “corporate executive in a tailored suit” and more Mr. Rochester striding across the moors, coat snapping behind him, prepared to declare something reckless and life altering before tea.
It’s deeply inconvenient.
There’s something about the way he goes still before he answers, as though my words deserve examination rather than dismissal.
The pause feels almost gothic. I half expect a distant piano to begin playing on its own.
He tilts his head, studying me as though I am either a puzzle or a woman about to faint attractively onto a chaise lounge.
The crease deepens. My pulse misbehaves.
This is how scandals begin, I tell myself.
It should be illegal for a man to look conflicted and competent at the same time.
To my relief, he answers just then. “Not in the traditional sense. I’m looking for trust. Discipline.
Obedience, yes, but that’s earned and it comes with trust. And the pleasure is the outcome that is heightened by all of that. ”
My breath stutters. “And this works for people?” I choke out.
He smirks immediately. “When it’s done right.”
Before I can come up with a reply, he leaves, only to return with a crisp, printed document and a sleek black folder.
“This is the contract. Read it before you sign anything. Ask questions. Highlight anything you don’t like.
I don’t care if it takes a week or more.
If you don’t feel completely secure in this, it won’t happen. ”
I open it carefully, scanning the front page, and pretending to be unsurprised that this is already ready for me.
There’s an NDA clause. That figures. Boundaries section.
Play terms. A health disclosure part—wow.
He’s not playing. The contract spells out what’s on and off the table, how safe words work, even a note on mental health resources and check-ins.
It’s not what I expected. It’s…responsible. Kind of terrifyingly so.
And I can’t lie—my stomach is flipping like I’m back in high school and just got asked to prom by the hot senior. He watches me like he’s cataloguing my reactions. “No pressure. You can walk out right now and I won’t text, call, or chase you.”
My fingers hover over the edge of the paper. I think about every time I’ve handed myself over for scraps. Every time I convinced myself that love had to hurt just a little to be real.
This doesn’t feel like love. But it feels honest. It feels like something with rules I can actually understand.
I meet his eyes. “Okay. Let’s try.”
He nods once. “I’ll grab a pen.”
My stomach does that flipping thing again, but I manage to nod. I’m not sure what I just agreed to, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like giving myself up. It felt like stepping in.