Chapter 7 #2
"It's not silly." No hesitation, no judgment. "What kind?"
"Shiny ones. Holographic. Stars and unicorns and rainbows." I picked at a cuticle, embarrassed by how much I wanted this. "I had a whole collection before, but Cruz threw them out."
“So stickers are for collecting, not . . . sticking?”
“What kind of a monster uses a sticker!”
He laughed. "Okay, we'll get you new ones. Better ones." He made more notes. "What else?"
"New coloring books. Not the adult kind—though those are good too. But like, actual kids' ones sometimes? With Disney characters or animals?" My voice got smaller with each admission. "And stuffies. Soft ones I can hug when things get hard."
"All reasonable," he said, still writing. "Anything else?"
"Praise." The word came out barely above a whisper. "Being told I'm good. That I'm . . ." I couldn't finish, couldn't voice how desperately I craved those words.
"That you're my good girl," he said softly, pen setting aside. "Because you are, Lena. Already. Just by being brave enough to ask for what you need."
Good girl. His good girl.
"I . . ." My voice cracked. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?" He leaned back, studying me with those intent brown eyes. "It's true."
"Because I might cry," I admitted, blinking hard against the sting.
"Hey." He reached across the table, palm up in invitation. "C'mere."
I stared at his hand for a long moment before taking it. He tugged gently, and I found myself moving around the table, letting him pull me into his lap. His arms came around me, solid and safe, and I tucked my face into his neck.
"Listen," he murmured against my hair. "Being good isn't about being perfect. It's not about never making mistakes or always following rules. You're good because you're trying. Because you're honest about what you need. Because you're trusting me with parts of yourself that someone else hurt."
I shuddered against him, breathing in his scent.
"That takes courage," he continued, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back. "So yeah, you're my good girl. My brave girl. And I'll tell you that as often as you need to hear it."
"Promise?" The word came out muffled against his shirt.
"Promise." He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "Though fair warning—I might get creative with delivery. Can't have you getting bored."
I laughed wetly, pulling back to look at him. "Creative how?"
"Stick around and find out." His thumb brushed away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "Now, we should probably get back to negotiations before we get distracted again."
"Right. Professional contract stuff." But I didn't move from his lap, and he didn't seem inclined to make me. "Very serious business."
"The most serious," he agreed solemnly, then ruined it by smiling. "Though maybe we continue with you right here? For efficiency."
"Efficiency," I repeated, grinning despite myself. "That's definitely why."
"Now, where were we?"
I snuggled closer, feeling safer than I had in years. "About to make this the weirdest and best contract ever written."
"That's my girl," he murmured, and I felt the words all the way to my toes. "So, uh, we need to be clear about intimate activities."
I bit my lip, fighting a grin at his discomfort. Here was a man who'd faced down armed enemies, who'd literally choked someone for threatening me hours ago, and he was blushing about sex talk.
"Intimate activities? Are we talking about sex, Soldier Boy?" I couldn't resist the tease, though my own hands shook slightly where they rested against his chest. "Because you should know I have a praise kink a mile wide and your voice does things to me."
The pen slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the table. "Lena."
"What? We're being honest, right?" I shifted in his lap, noting with satisfaction the way his hands tightened on my waist. "When you called me your good girl just now? I felt that everywhere."
His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "You can't just—"
"Say true things? Sure I can." But then I sobered, needing him to understand the important part. "But also . . . little space isn't sexual for me. When I'm really little, I just need cuddles and care. Soft touches, not sexy ones."
Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Separate dynamics."
"Exactly." I played with the collar of his shirt, needing something to do with my hands. "When I'm little, I want bedtime stories and forehead kisses and maybe help washing my hair. Intimate but not . . . you know."
"I know." He retrieved his pen, making careful notes. "Separate dynamics, separate needs. Intimate care in little space, no sexual component. And what about when you're not little?"
Heat flooded through me at the rough edge to his voice. "Then I want you to wreck me."
His hand stilled against my cheek. "Lena—"
"But with care," I rushed to add. "Does that make sense? I want intensity and passion and maybe some power play, but all of it grounded in caring. In safety."
"Perfect sense." His thumb traced my cheekbone, and I leaned into the touch. "Care doesn't mean gentle. It means considered. Damn, I love how you know what you want."
My heart raced when I heard him use the word “love”.
"Sometimes I might want gentle. Sometimes I might want you to pin me against a wall. But always, always I want to know it comes from a place of—"
"Care," he finished quietly. “Connection. Not anger or punishment."
"What about you?" I asked, needing to deflect from the intensity. "What do you need?"
He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "Control."
I waited, knowing there was more.
"Not of you," he clarified quickly. "Of the situation. Of myself. Knowing I can keep you safe, make you feel good, provide what you need. Having protocols to follow so I don't . . ." He stopped, staring at something I couldn't see.
"So you don't what?"
"Fail." The word came out raw. "So I don't fail you like I failed them."
My heart clenched.
"Tyson—"
"I need structure too," he continued, pushing through. "Clear protocols, regular check-ins, defined expectations. Not because I want to control you, but because I need to know I'm doing right by you. That I'm not missing signs or misreading situations or—"
"Breathe," I said softly, pressing my palm to his chest. His heart hammered under my touch. "Just breathe for a second."
He did, eyes closing as he pulled in air. I stayed quiet, letting him find his center. This was big—him trusting me with his needs, his fears.
"I’m fine with check-ins. As often as you need." I squeezed his hand. "We'll talk about what's working, what isn't, what needs to change."
"And you'll be honest?" His eyes searched mine. "Even if something makes you uncomfortable? Even if you think it'll upset me?"
"Especially then," I promised. "If something feels wrong, I'll say so."
He stared at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "How'd you get so wise?"
"Therapy. Lots and lots of therapy." I grinned. "Plus I've got this hot tactical expert explaining the difference between good control and bad control."
"Hot, huh?" A smile finally tugged at his lips.
"Smoking," I confirmed, then squeaked as he pulled me closer. "But we're supposed to be negotiating!"
"We are." His lips brushed my ear, making me shiver. "I'm establishing that praise kink you mentioned."
"Evil," I gasped, then forced myself to pull back.
"So, we come to the complicated part." Tyson shifted me off his lap gently, and I mourned the loss of contact as I settled back in my own chair. He tapped the pen against the legal pad, expression turning serious again. "Keeping this from the club."
"Duke's rule." The words tasted bitter. "Stupid Duke and his stupid overprotective rules."
"He's looking out for you in his way." But Tyson's jaw tightened slightly, telling me he wasn't thrilled about it either. "Still, it means we need protocols. No public displays at the clubhouse. No letting anyone suspect—"
"So I can't call you Daddy at church?" I asked, widening my eyes innocently.
"Lena."
"Kidding!" I held up my hands in surrender, then grinned. "Mostly. Though the look on Thor's face would be worth it."
"Thor would help hide my body after Duke murdered me," Tyson said flatly. "Slowly. With extreme prejudice."
"Fair point." I pulled my feet up onto the chair, hugging my knees. "But seriously, how do we handle this? The wedding prep alone means I'm surrounded by the club for weeks. All those events, fittings, parties . . ."
"We maintain cover. Professional distance in public." His eyes met mine, heat flickering in their depths. "But in private . . ."
"In private, I'm yours," I finished softly, feeling the truth of it settle into my bones. "If that's what you want."
"You know that’s what I want." No hesitation, no doubt. The certainty in his voice made me shudder.
"Good." I cleared my throat, trying to refocus despite the butterflies rioting in my stomach. "So we need rules for public behavior."
"Baseline professional friendliness," he said, making notes. "Same as we've maintained for years. I'm security, you're the club tattoo artist. Nothing more in public."
"No lingering looks?"
"Not where anyone can see."
"No accidental touches?"
"Have to be careful." He grimaced. "Though that'll be the hardest part. Now that I've had my hands on you . . ."
"Yeah," I breathed, remembering the weight of his palms on my hips. "Same."
We stared at each other across the table, the air thick with want and frustration. This was going to be torture—being near him but not able to touch, to kiss, to show the world he was mine.
"The wedding will be the biggest challenge," I said finally. "I'm literally in the wedding party. You're running security. We'll be in the same space for hours. All up close and personal."
"Lena." His voice had dropped an octave, rough with warning. "You're playing with fire."