Chapter 7 #3
"Maybe I like fire." But I relented at his expression. "Okay, okay. Professional distance. I'll be good."
"Will you though?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because your definition of good and mine might differ."
"I'll try to be good," I amended. "But you know . . . stress makes me bratty. And weddings are stressful. All those people, all that pressure to be perfect . . ."
"Which is why we need communication protocols," he said firmly. "Ways to check in without raising suspicion."
"Ooh, yes!" I bounced in my seat, excited by the spy-like element. "Code words?"
His lips twitched at my enthusiasm. "What did you have in mind?"
"Unicorn for when I'm feeling little," I said immediately. "Like, 'Hey Tyson, I saw this unicorn sticker I thought was cute.' That tells you I'm slipping into little space and might need support."
"Subtle," he said dryly, but made a note. "What else?"
"Storm for when I need grounding. Like 'Looks like a storm's coming' or 'I hate storms.'" I chewed my lip, thinking. "And . . . glitter for when I'm feeling bratty?"
"Of course glitter," he said with fond exasperation. "Let me guess—'There's glitter everywhere' means you're about to cause chaos?"
"You know me so well already." I beamed at him. "But also we need serious ones. For real emergencies."
His expression sobered instantly. "If you ever feel unsafe—"
"I text you 'red' and you come immediately," I suggested.
"No matter what," he promised, writing it in bold letters. "And if you can't text?"
"Physical signal?" I thought about it. "What if I tap my collarbone three times? Like where a necklace would sit? That means I need you but can't say it."
"Good. Visible but subtle." He made more notes. "And ‘yellow’ for non-emergency but still important?"
“Perfect.”
"And just one for me.”
"For you?"
"Whiskey." His eyes met mine. "For when I'm about to break cover because you look too good and I can't stand not touching you."
Heat flooded through me. "That's . . . that's going to happen?"
"Lena." He leaned forward, intensity radiating from every line of his body.
"When I see you in that purple dress, surrounded by people who don't know you're mine, watching other men look at you?
" His voice dropped to a growl. "It's going to take every ounce of control not to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of there. "
I swallowed hard, thighs clenching at the mental image. "Okay. Whiskey means you're at your limit. Good to know."
"Though I'd prefer you didn't test it," he added, but his eyes said he knew better. "My self-control is good, but not infinite."
"Where's the fun in not testing boundaries?" I grinned at his groan. "Besides, you like it when I'm bratty. Admit it."
"I'm admitting nothing that can be used against me later."
"Smart man." I stretched, suddenly aware we'd been at this for hours. "Is that everything for the secret-keeping section?"
"One more thing." He grew serious again. "After the wedding, we reassess. Talk to Duke if needed. I know what he said, but I’m sure if he sees we’re serious he’ll reassess."
“Serious?” My heart pounded.
“ If ,” he asserted.
“Ugh,” I sighed,” I wish it didn’t have to be secret.”
His thumb stroked over my knuckles. "This is temporary secrecy for a specific reason, with a clear end date. After Mandy's wedding, we decide together what comes next. Whether we tell Duke, whether we continue, whether we adjust the dynamic. Together."
"I like that."
"Good." He squeezed my hand once more before letting go. "Now, we should probably talk about regular protocols. Schedules, routines, that kind of thing."
"My favorite," I said with zero enthusiasm, making him chuckle.
"Says the woman who just spent twenty minutes designing an elaborate code system."
"That was spy stuff! That's cool!" I protested. "Schedules are boring."
"And necessary," he countered. "Unless you want to survive on Lucky Charms and forget what sleep is?"
I glanced guiltily at the cereal box on my counter. "I feel attacked."
"You feel cared for," he corrected. "There's a difference."
And damn if he wasn't right.
T yson finished writing with a flourish, three pages of neat handwriting covering everything from daily check-ins to aftercare requirements. The legal pad looked official despite the coffee ring staining one corner and my doodle of a unicorn I'd added while he wasn't looking.
"Want to read it over?" He slid the pages across the table, and I caught the slight nervousness in his voice.
I pulled the contract closer, scanning his careful handwriting.
He'd captured everything—safe words, boundaries, public protocols, private dynamics.
But it was the little details that made my throat tight.
He'd included mandatory creative time as a daily requirement.
A clause about my independence, stating clearly that submission didn't mean losing myself.
A whole section on aftercare that went both ways.
"You included mandatory vegetable consumption," I noted, trying for outrage but landing somewhere closer to touched.
"Someone has to make sure you eat actual food." He watched me read, those brown eyes tracking every expression. "Is it too much? We can adjust—"
"It's perfect." I meant it. The contract was thorough but thoughtful, structure without suffocation, dominance without destruction. Everything we'd talked about laid out in clear terms.
"You sure? Because we can—"
"Tyson." I looked up, meeting his eyes. "It's perfect. You're perfect. Stop second-guessing."
Red crept up his neck. "I'm not—"
"You are." I grabbed a pen from the collection scattered across my table—purple, because of course—and signed with a flourish. Then, because I couldn't help myself, I added a little heart next to my name.
He stared at the heart for a long moment, something soft crossing his face. Then he took the pen and signed with military precision, each letter exact.
We sat there staring at our contract, signed and official. The weight of what we'd just done settled over me like a blanket.
"So," Tyson said, then stopped. Started again. "This is probably backwards, but . . ."
I watched him fidget with the pen, this dangerous man who'd faced down death suddenly nervous about whatever came next.
"Would you . . ." He cleared his throat. "Would you go on a date with me?"
I blinked. Processed. Then burst out laughing—not mocking, but genuinely delighted. "Are you asking me out after negotiating a kinky contract?"
"I'm doing this all wrong." He rubbed the back of his neck, and the gesture was so endearingly awkward I wanted to climb back in his lap. "We just spent hours discussing power exchange and safe words and I haven't even taken you to dinner."
"Most people don't negotiate BDSM contracts before the first date," I agreed, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.
"But I want . . ." He struggled with words again, and I realized this mattered to him. Really mattered. "This isn't just about the dynamic. I want to know your favorite movie. Take you to dinner. Hold your hand in public, once we can."
My heart did something complicated in my chest, like it was trying to expand beyond what ribs could contain. "Yes."
"Yes?"
"I accept your date offer, silly!" I bounced in my seat, excitement bubbling over. "Where are we gonna go?"
He relaxed, smiling that rare full smile that transformed his whole face. "Has to be somewhere the club would never go. Can't risk running into anyone who'd report back to Duke."
"Ooh, secret date. I’m getting such spy vibes right now," I tapped my chin, thinking. "What about that tea shop on the far side of town? The one with all the doilies and tiny sandwiches?"
"Rosewood's?" He considered it. "Not a single biker would be caught dead there. Too many flowers and old ladies."
"Perfect!" I could already picture it—Tyson's large frame crammed into a tiny chair, holding a delicate teacup. "Can we ride your bike? I've never been on a motorcycle!"
His grin widened. "You want to ride my hog?"
"Is that what they're actually called?" I giggled at the ridiculous term. "That's absurd. But yes! I want the full experience. Wind in my hair, bugs in my teeth—"
"You'll wear a helmet," he said firmly. "Non-negotiable."
"Fine, but I get to pick the helmet. Something with style." I was already imagining the possibilities. "Maybe purple to match my hair?"
"I mean, I don’t own any in purple, but I guess I can get one."
“You don’t need to buy me a helmet just for one ride—”
“Who said it would only be one ride?”
I bit my lip.
"When?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager and failing completely. "When can we go?"
"How about tomorrow? I'll pick you up at two. Gives me time to grab a helmet, and we should be done with enough time before evening church." He stood, pulling me up with him. "But first, I think we need to seal this contract properly."
"Oh?" I grinned up at him, playing innocent. "How do you seal a contract like this?"
"Come here and I'll show you." His voice had dropped to that register that made my knees weak.
I stepped closer, and he met me halfway. His hands framed my face, thumbs stroking my cheekbones with reverent care. For a moment, we just looked at each other, the weight of everything we'd promised hanging between us.
He made a sound low in his throat, and then his mouth was on mine. This kiss was different from our desperate collision in the storage room or the gentle exploration after. This was a claiming, a promise, a seal on everything we'd just negotiated.
He kissed me like he'd been starving for it, like the hours of talking had been foreplay. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I opened for him eagerly, meeting his intensity with my own. One hand tangled in my hair while the other spanned my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I could taste coffee and want and promise on his tongue. Could feel the careful control in how he held me—firm but not bruising, possessive but not painful. Everything about this kiss said I've got you and you're safe and you’re mine, mine, mine.
When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. My lips felt swollen, beard-burned in the best way. His eyes were dark with want, but underneath was something softer.
"Contract sealed?" I managed, voice breathless.
"Very sealed." He pressed his forehead to mine, and we just breathed together for a moment. "Though I might need to seal it again. For insurance purposes."
"Very thorough of you," I agreed, already tilting my face up for another kiss.
He obliged, this one slower, deeper, full of promise. When he finally pulled back, I was practically melting against him.
"I should go," he said reluctantly. "Get supplies for the window repairs. Food that isn't cereal. Check in with Duke about last night."
"Responsible," I sighed. "I hate it."
"I'll be back soon." He pressed a kiss to my forehead, then my nose, then my lips again. "Try not to burn the apartment down while I'm gone."
"No promises. Chaos, remember?"
"My little chaos." The possessive made me shiver. "Be good. Eat something real for lunch."
"Sir, yes sir," I said with a mock salute that made him groan.
"Brat."
"Your brat," I corrected, grinning.
"Yeah," he agreed softly. "Mine."