Chapter 3
THREE
Istand outside the unmarked door, double-checking the address Colt texted me. The building is nondescript, it could be an accounting firm or insurance office if not for the discreet security camera and intercom system.
I press the buzzer with trembling fingers, feeling painfully overdressed and under prepared all at once.
I'd changed outfits seven times before settling on a black wrap dress that hints at curves without being obvious about it.
Conservative enough to wear to work, but with a neckline that dips just low enough to make me feel exposed.
The heels might have been a mistake, three inches of false confidence that make my calves look good but leave me unsteady.
Knots form in my stomach as I wait. What if he takes one look at me and decides I'm not what he expected? What if I'm too vanilla, too awkward, too much?
I'd spent an hour on makeup that looked like I wasn't wearing any, and my hair falls in loose waves I pretended not to care about. The effort feels ridiculous now, like I'm playing dress-up in a world I don't belong in.
Checking my phone one last time, I find no new messages. No escape route. Just me standing on the precipice of something I've only dared imagine in the dark, alone, where no one could see how badly I wanted it.
The door buzzes. Time to find out if I'm brave enough for this, after all.
I step into a small anteroom where a woman with pink hair and impressive tattoos sits behind a desk.
"Name?"
"Tess. I'm... meeting someone."
"First time?" she asks.
I nod, feeling like I have "FRAUD" stamped across my forehead in bold letters.
"ID, please. And there's a waiver." She slides a tablet toward me. "Basic rules: no phones, no pictures, consent is everything, respect the safe words."
I sign where indicated, hyperaware of my trembling hand. Pink hair hands me a small black wristband and points toward a second door. "Enjoy."
The primary space is nothing like I imagined. No dungeons or chains hanging from the ceiling—just a large, dimly lit lounge with comfortable seating arrangements, a bar along one wall, and soft music playing. People mill about in everything from jeans to elaborate leather outfits.
I freeze just inside the doorway, clutching my purse like a shield. Everyone looks like they belong here. Everyone except me.
"You came."
The voice behind me is low, steady. I turn to find Colt standing there, and the air leaves my lungs.
His profile picture didn't do him justice.
He's taller than I expected, his presence filling the space between us without crowding it.
He wears dark jeans and a simple black button-down, sleeves rolled to expose muscular forearms. Nothing flashy or costume-like.
Just confidence wrapped in casual clothes.
"I did," I manage, my voice smaller than I intended.
His eyes—gray, I realize now—study my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. I don't.
"You're nervous," he says, a statement not a question.
"I'm not—"
"Don't." His voice drops lower. "Don't lie to me, Tess. Not about the small things, and especially not about the big ones."
Heat floods my face. The way he demands my honesty is terrifying. And he can see through my facade, even through messaging he could read me, but now standing in front of him I feel completely naked. "Fine. Yes, I'm nervous. I feel like everyone here can tell I don't belong."
A slight curve touches his lips, not quite a smile, but something close and it sends a spark of warmth through me.
"Follow me."
He leads me to a quiet corner with a small couch and chair. He takes the chair, leaving me the couch—giving me space, I realize. A small kindness I hadn't expected.
"Why are you nervous?" he asks once we're settled.
"Because I've never done this before. Any of this."
"That's not why."
I blink at him. "Excuse me?"
"You're not nervous because you're new. You're nervous because you're finally doing something you've wanted for a long time." His gaze doesn't waver. "You're nervous because this is something you've only imagined in the secrecy of your own mind, and now it's real."
The accuracy of his assessment leaves me speechless. I look down at my hands twisting in my lap.
"Look at me, Tess."
I do, drawn by the quiet command in his voice.
"Everyone here started somewhere. The difference is whether you're honest about what you want or if you hide behind what you think you should want."
"And what do I want?" I challenge, echoing our text conversation.
His eyes darken. "To surrender. But only to someone worthy of that gift."
Gift. He's calling my dark and twisted fantasy a gift. It makes it feel like something precious, special. Worthy of being wrapped up in foiled paper with a big bow. Not something to be hidden in the closet, trapped under the weight of so much shame.
My heart hammers against my ribs. "And you think you're worthy?"
"I know I am." No arrogance, just certainty. "The question is whether you think so."
"I'm not sure yet," I admit, my voice barely audible over the ambient music. "I don't know how this works."
Colt leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. The space between us shrinks without him moving any closer.
"It works however we decide it works. That's the first thing you need to understand."
I take a sip of water from the glass the server had silently delivered. "So there's no... rulebook?"
Something flickers across his face. Amusement, maybe.
"There are principles. Safety. Consent. Aftercare." He watches my face carefully. "But what happens between those boundaries is ours to create."
"What are your principles?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies me with that unnerving focus, like he's reading something written on my skin.
"I believe control is a responsibility, not a right," he finally says. "I believe pain and pleasure are two sides of the same coin. And I believe that true surrender is the most intimate gift one person can give another."
My mouth goes dry. "And what would you do? If we... took the next step?"
His eyes darken, and when he speaks, his voice drops to a register that vibrates through me.
"First, I'd learn your body. Every inch. What makes you flinch, what makes you melt." He doesn't move, but I feel the weight of his words like a physical touch. "I'd find the places between pleasure and pain where you live most honestly."
Heat blooms low in my belly. I shift slightly on the couch.
"I'd teach you to beg," he continues, his voice quieter now, meant only for me. "Not just with words, but with your body. I'd make you earn every touch, every bit of praise."
I swallow hard. "And the other things? The things I wrote about?"
Colt leans in closer, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"I'd call you exactly what you are—my pretty toy.
Something I own, something I use." His eyes never leave mine.
"I'd tell you how desperate you look, begging for things that would make other women slap my face.
How filthy you are for wanting my hand around your throat while I tell you what a needy little slut you've been. "
My breath catches. No one has ever spoken to me like this—not even in bed, much less in public. The words should offend me. Instead, they slip under my skin like a drug.
"I'd make you admit it," he continues, relentless. "Make you say the words out loud—that you want to be degraded, used, owned. That you crave being called names that would make you cry in any other context."
I press my thighs together, suddenly aware of how wet I am. My face burns.
"And after?" I ask, my voice a trembling whisper. "When it's over?"
Something softens in his expression, though the intensity remains.
"Then I'd hold you. Tell you how perfect you were. How beautiful your surrender is." His voice gentles. "I'd make sure you know that nothing we did changed how I see you—except to make me see you more clearly."
I exhale shakily. "That's... a lot."
"It is," he agrees. "Too much?"
I should say yes. I should thank him for his time and walk out that door and delete the app and pretend I wanted none of this.
Instead, I meet his gaze and whisper, "No, it's perfect."