Chapter 8 Lila
LILA
I don’t float home, but it’s close.
My cheeks hurt from smiling. My thighs are sore in the best way. My phone buzzes again, and I sit on it just to stop myself from opening his last message for the tenth time.
Wear something I’ll want to take off. That’s your only instruction.
I shriek into a pillow. Then again, and possibly too loudly because the neighbor’s dog barks. Too bad.
I try to get my life together. First goal: feed myself. I open the fridge, look at a suspicious Tupperware, close the fridge, and order sushi. Immediate success.
Next: laundry. I dump a pile onto my bed. There’s a sock I don’t recognize, one bra with a deadly underwire, and a blouse I forgot existed. I fold two towels and then flop back like my body’s been hit by a truck labeled “CEO dick.”
It’s not even 5:00 p.m., and I already feel like the day has been too much. In a good way. Kind of.
I grab my phone again and open the group chat from girls’ night. Might as well tell someone. Sort of.
Me: So, I have a date.
Priya: A WHAT
Jo: LILA. WHO.
Dani: Pics or we riot.
Me: I’m serious.
Priya: Is it the bar guy?
Dani: Wait. The office guy??
Jo: Is it Mr. Silverfox Corporate???
I stare at that last one and chew my lip. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Me: Can’t say. Contractually complicated.
Jo: You signed an NDA for a date??
Dani: Blink twice if you’re being held in a luxury penthouse.
Priya: You better tell us if there’s dessert involved.
I laugh out loud and drop the phone on my chest. It buzzes again.
Priya: Also, if this ends in handcuffs, we take full credit.
And there it is.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what this is.
On instinct, I open my browser and type “what is a BDSM relationship?”
Mistake number one. The first article is written by someone who definitely thinks everyone should wear latex in public.
The second is more useful—until I get to the part that says, “BDSM doesn’t necessarily include love or romance.
Sometimes it’s about control, trust, and exploration, not emotional attachment. ”
I sit with that.
Ethan’s voice is still in my ears, dark and commanding.
His hands on my body. The look in his eyes when he made me come again and again.
What if I’ve read too much into this and he’s just seeing this as another project, an indulgence?
What if I fall for him and he’s already moved on by the time I figure shit out?
The irony is I never said I wanted a relationship.
After everything I’ve been through, I’m not exactly eager to sign up for heartbreak.
But Ethan is different. He doesn’t ask twice, yet somehow I still feel like I’m choosing.
He’s sharp, self-contained, and so damn good in bed I nearly forgot my name.
Now I can’t figure out if I’m in too deep or just afraid of how much I want him to want me back.
I groan, lock my phone, and pull my blanket over my head.
This is stupid. I should be excited. I am excited. My whole body’s like a livewire, even with him being so careful and so in control, so exact. And he wants me again. Tonight.
I should be on cloud nine.
Instead, I feel like I’ve just been handed a rulebook for a game without knowing the ending or the stakes. So, I whisper into my pillow. “Please don’t let this just be a game.”
The doorbell rings and I groan again as I push off from the bed to go answer it.
The good news is that it’s my food, and the sushi is gorgeous—neatly sliced, artfully plated, each piece practically begging to be photographed and consumed in equal measure.
There’s fresh tuna that melts as soon as it hits my tongue, salmon wrapped around a sliver of avocado, a decadent seared scallop with a slick of umami glaze.
I moan under my breath after the first bite.
I eat slowly, savoring it, trying not to think about contracts or silver foxes. The wasabi is sharp, the pickled ginger clean. For a few minutes, I remember what it feels like to enjoy something without overthinking every calorie or every consequence.
Once I’m full, I wipe my hands, shut my laptop, and actually get some work done.
I review the Q3 vendor expenses, knock out a few overdue emails, and even manage to clean up the pitch deck Harrison needs before tomorrow.
It feels productive in a way that distracts me, which is good, because I need at least one hour where I’m not vibrating with confusion and very specific lust.
Time skips. I swear it does. Because I look up and suddenly it’s 6:14 p.m. and I’m meant to be leaving in fifteen minutes.
Panic flares. I rush to the bathroom, but getting ready takes me twice as long as usual.
I do my hair, redo it, throw on a dress, change it, and then go back to the first one.
When I finally lock my front door, I feel like I’ve run a marathon without moving.
I drive to his place in my ancient car that I usually reserve for grocery runs and late-night emergencies. The engine makes a weird wheeze every time I hit a red light. A Tesla pulls up next to me and I avoid eye contact entirely.
Ethan’s building looms ahead and I suddenly feel ten levels underdressed. I park, double check my lipstick in the rearview, then head in.
He opens the door like he’s been waiting. He’s in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled. There’s something different in his smile tonight.
“Turn around,” he says.
I blink. “Already?”
He steps forward, closes the door behind me, and brushes my hair off my shoulder.
“I didn’t say I was keeping you here,” he says into my ear. “You’re getting in my car. But first, I’m giving you something to wear.”
He produces a small velvet pouch. I reach for it and open it slowly, heartbeat skipping.
Balls. Silver. Weighted. The kind I’ve only ever seen online. My breath catches.
“You’ll put them in now,” he says. “And I’ll keep the remote.”
My throat’s dry, but my legs are worse. At no point do I think of turning him down, because god help me I want to see how it feels. “Bathroom?” I manage.
He gestures to the hallway like this is all perfectly civilized.
I walk like a woman about to sit in an exam she didn’t study for. Once I’m inside, I lock the door behind me and brace both hands on the edge of the sink. My reflection’s wide-eyed and flushed, and I whisper a very quiet “holy shit” before I shake it off and take a breath.
The balls are smooth and heavy. My fingers are trembling, and inserting them is awkward, unfamiliar, and strangely intense. The second one makes me gasp a little, not from pain, but because my body has no idea what to make of this. I clench, then release, and it settles in place.
Oh my god.
I tug my panties back on and try to walk. It’s a wobble at first. Every step makes them shift slightly, and the weight does something to my brain that I can’t even explain. I fix my dress, run a hand through my hair, and hope I don’t look like I’ve just committed a felony.
When I return to the living room, he’s standing now, remote in hand, gaze sharp.
His eyes drop to my thighs, just for a second, then he looks right at me.
“Good girl.”
I don’t know how those two words can feel like a reward and a threat, but they do, and I’m already wondering how I’m supposed to survive the rest of the evening.
He takes my coat like a gentleman—if gentlemen kept sex toys in their inner pocket and looked at you like they already knew how the night would end.
The remote disappears into his jacket, and I follow him down to his car, trying not to clench with every step because I’ve already learned that clenching makes it worse. Or better. Depending on who’s asking.
We pull up outside a restaurant I’ve only ever seen online, the kind with actual valet and menus that don’t show prices.
The entrance is stone and glass and glowing sconces, and inside it’s all smooth candlelight and warm shadows, the kind of luxe that doesn’t feel like it’s trying too hard.
People look up when we walk in, and more than one of them definitely knows his name.
A server leads us to a corner table dressed in white linen and flanked by velvet chairs that feel more like thrones. I try to act like I belong here. Like my thighs aren’t trying to press together under this dress. Like I can sit normally.
Ethan doesn’t touch the remote yet. He just watches me with that sharp calm of his while the server lists off the specials in an accent I don’t dare imitate. He orders without looking at the menu. Of course he does.
When the wine arrives, it’s in a crystal decanter so beautiful I want to apologize for not being French.
The server pours it with a practiced tilt, and I take the glass with careful fingers.
The color is deep gold, and it smells like flowers and sugar and something way too expensive for me to pronounce.
I bring it to my lips and take one small sip.
He presses the button.
The wine hits my tongue just as the vibration pulses through me, sharp and deep and perfectly placed.
My breath stutters. The sweetness blooms on my palate while my inner muscles contract around the weighted balls, sudden and needy.
I choke back a sound and blink fast, gripping the stem of the glass like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Ethan raises his own glass and watches me over the rim. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes are darker now. Patient. Possessive. Satisfied.
My nails dig into the white linen as another wave hits. The table doesn’t move, but I swear the floor might. My breath shortens and I try to focus on the wine glass in front of me, but Ethan presses the button again, and everything shatters behind my eyes.
I bite down a sound that should never be made in public.
The server brings out our food.
Ethan looks completely unaffected, cutting into his steak like I’m not gripping the edge of the table trying not to collapse. “Doing alright, baby girl?”
“I’m fine,” I manage. My voice is three octaves too high. I clear my throat. “This lamb is delicious.”
“You’re delicious.”
“Ethan.”
He smirks and turns the dial down. “You can thank me later. Privately.”
I barely get a sip of water in when a voice breaks through the restrained flow of conversation in the restaurant.
“Oh my god. Ethan?”
A tall blonde appears at the side of our table, all legs and blown-out hair, eyes wide like she didn’t know we’d be here, even though she absolutely did.
He doesn’t stand. “Sabrina.”
“You didn’t text back,” she says, blinking too fast. “And now I see why.”
She finally looks at me.
And freezes.
“Lila?”
I blink, recognition catching up slower than it should. “Sabrina Hayes?”
She laughs once. “Wow. I didn’t expect to see you again. Ever. This is…different.”
“Isn’t it,” I say flatly.
Her eyes drop to my chest, then to my stomach, then she tilts her head with fake sympathy. “You’ve filled out.”
“Yeah,” I say, picking up my wine again. “Turns out when you stop starving yourself for a dance team that doesn’t pay and a boyfriend who cheats with your roommate, you actually grow hips. You should try it.”
Ethan’s fork is down. His voice is dry as stone. “You have thirty seconds to walk away.”
She ignores him. “Just surprised, is all. You always seemed so—small. And now you’re, well. Comfortable. Everywhere.”
I smile. “And yet somehow I still look better than you.”
Her mouth opens, but Ethan’s already motioning. Security materializes beside her like they were just waiting for the signal.
“Escort Ms. Hayes out,” Ethan says, calmly. “She’s not welcome here again.”
Sabrina gapes. “You’re serious?”
“You interrupted my date, insulted my guest, and embarrassed yourself. I’d say you did all the heavy lifting.”
She sputters something about knowing the owner, but the guards are already moving. She’s gone before I can finish another sip.
Ethan looks at me.
“You okay?”
“I’m great,” I say, with a shrug. “You gonna turn that thing back on or do I have to beg again?”
His eyes darken. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You started it.”
He leans in, voice low. “And I’m going to finish it. But not until dessert.”
Once we’ve finished the mains, dessert comes out—chocolate cake with a side of berry compote and Hokkaido milk ice cream. The cake melts on my tongue, dense and rich, and I barely register the fork until the buzz starts again.
My gasp is immediate. Ethan watches me like he’s memorizing every twitch, every breath.
“Breathe through it,” he murmurs silkily, between spoonfuls of ice cream.
I grip the table with one hand, the dessert fork in the other, and try to keep my spine straight as my thighs shake.
The vibration pulses on. I bring another bite to my mouth, but my hand falters just as the pressure spikes.
I moan into the cake, cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
He doesn’t look away, and I’m almost afraid the diners at the table beside us are going to hear me, but I can’t stop myself.
I come hard, shaking silently, the taste of chocolate still coating my tongue as the pleasure crashes through me like a wave I never saw coming.
Ethan finally lowers the dial. “Good girl.”
I blink twice, trying to remember where we are. My body’s boneless. My brain scrambled. He signals for the check like we didn’t just cross a very specific line in public.
In the car, I’m quiet. Still flushed. Still feeling it.
He rests one warm hand on my thigh as he starts the car and begins driving. “You did good in there.”
I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
As we pull into his building, I glance over, and his hand tightens gently.
“Stay the night,” he murmurs, not looking at me. “I’m not done with you.”