Chapter 5
Skye
Iwake up feeling deliciously sore, my body a map of last night's pleasure. Stretching languidly, I can still feel the phantom press of rope against my skin, the echo of Gage's hands and mouth upon me.
God, last night was... intense. Different. Better than anything I've experienced before.
Rolling over, I glance at my phone. It's already past noon, not surprising after how late I got home. Three missed texts, all from Gemma.
Gemma: How was last night? ??
Gemma: Hello??? Details, please!
Gemma: Fine, be that way. Lunch tomorrow?
I smile despite myself, typing a quick response.
Me: Lunch tomorrow works. Can Summer come?
I'm not ready to talk about last night. Not yet. I need time to process what happened, what I felt. What I'm still feeling.
Rising from bed takes effort, my muscles protesting in ways that remind me of exactly what I did and what was done to me last night.
In the bathroom mirror, I examine myself.
A few faint marks to go with the ones from the ropes, nothing that won't fade by tomorrow.
A slight bruise on my hip where Gage's fingers dug in as he…
Heat floods my cheeks at the memory, and I quickly turn on the shower, cranking it too hot. That's when Gemma texts back.
Gemma: Lunch at my dad's by the pool.
Me: I'll be there.
I step into the shower, and as the water cascades over me, I close my eyes, letting my mind drift back to last night.
The way Gage looked at me, like I was something precious and rare.
The way he touched me, confident and commanding.
The way he held me afterward, insisting on aftercare even when I tried to brush it off.
That's the part that unsettles me most. The tenderness. The intimacy. Those quiet moments after the scene ended, wrapped in his arms, his voice soft in my ear.
I'm used to having sex. I'm even used to submission.
But that kind of care? That's unfamiliar territory.
The Doms I had in the past would offer me water and make sure I was okay.
They would sit with me while respecting my boundary of not being held.
But last night when Gage said the aftercare was for him too.
.. I felt he needed it more than I did, so I gave in.
I step out of the shower and dry off, trying to shake the thoughts away. It was just one night. Just a scene. Just play.
Then why does it feel like so much more?
My phone buzzes with a new text, and my heart leaps, thinking it might be Gage. But it's just my dad.
Dad: The quarterly deposit has been made. Let me know if you need anything else.
Staring at the screen, I can feel my frustration rising. So typical. Money instead of actual attention or care. I don't bother responding.
I never asked for his money. Never wanted it. But my mom made me promise to accept his help with school when she got sick, and it was the one promise to her I couldn't break. So, I take the bare minimum, just tuition and books, and make my own way for everything else.
Heading to the kitchen, I put on coffee and check my work schedule for the day. The salon is closed on Sundays, but I have a personal client coming in at three o’clock for highlights. Just enough time to work on my business plan before I need to leave.
Opening my laptop, I try to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me, the projected expenses for my future spa. But my mind keeps drifting to Gage. Will he text today? Should I text him? Is that too desperate?
God, I sound like a lovesick teenager instead of a grown woman who just had mind-blowing sex.
Forcing myself, I concentrate on the numbers and plans for my future business. This is what's important: my education, my career goals, my independence. Not some Dom with intense eyes and skilled hands who made me feel things I've never…
My phone buzzes again, and this time it is Gage.
Gage: Good morning. (Though I suppose it's afternoon now.) I trust you slept well?
My heart shouldn't race at a simple text. Yet here we are.
Me: I did. Though I'm a little sore today.
Gage: A good sore, I hope?
I bite my lip, fingers hovering over the screen.
Me: Very good.
Gage: Excellent. Drink plenty of water today. And if you're free Tuesday night, I'd like to see you again.
Tuesday. Right. I vaguely remember agreeing to meet him again while in the throes of pleasure last night. Had he planned that? Asked me when he knew I couldn't possibly say no?
The thought should irritate me, but instead, it sends a little thrill through me.
Me: I'm free. Same time?
Gage: 8 PM. I'll send a car for you.
A car? I frown at the screen.
Me: I can drive myself.
Gage: I prefer to ensure your safe arrival and departure. The car service is discreet and reliable.
I hesitate, torn between my stubborn independence and the practicality of his offer. After last night, driving home had been challenging. I'd been floating, still partly in that hazy, dreamlike state, subspace, Gage had called it.
Me: Alright. Thank you.
Gage: You're welcome. I look forward to Tuesday.
I set my phone down, trying to ignore the way my stomach flutters at the thought of seeing him again. This is dangerous territory. I've always kept my play partners at arm's length emotionally. Club Red is for physical release, for exploring desires in a safe environment, not for feelings.
Yet here I am, counting the hours until Tuesday.
With a sigh, I close my laptop and get ready for work.
I can't afford to get distracted right now.
Not when I'm so close to finishing my degree, to saving enough money to start my own business.
I have plans, goals, and dreams that don't include getting emotionally entangled with anyone, no matter how good they make me feel.
But as I gather my things and head out to my car, I can't quite shake the memory of Gage's words last night, whispered against my hair as he held me.
"I'm not going anywhere, Skye."
For the first time in my life, I find myself hoping that might be true.
"You're not focusing," Grace chides as I apply the foil to her hair. "That's the third time you've had to redo the same section."
I blink, snapping back to the present. "Sorry. Just... a lot on my mind today."
Grace, a regular client who's become something of a friend over the years, raises an eyebrow at me in the mirror. "Must be some guy."
I roll my eyes, but the blush creeping up my neck betrays me.
"Ha! I knew it," she crows triumphantly. "Spill the tea, darling. Who's got you this distracted?"
"Just someone I met recently," I hedge, focusing intently on the next section of her hair. "Nothing serious."
"Yet," she adds with a knowing smile. "I haven't seen you this flustered over a man since... well, ever."
I'd argue, but she's not wrong. I don't get flustered over men. Even though I date occasionally and have fun, I move on. My scenes at Club Red are carefully contained and physical, not emotional.
"It's complicated," I finally say, which is the understatement of the century.
Grace settles back in the chair, accepting my non-answer with a gracious nod. "Well, when it's not so complicated, I expect details. Now, tell me about this spa you're planning. Have you found a location yet?"
Grateful for the change in subject, I launch into my plans for the business, the services I want to offer, the vibe I'm going for, and the clientèle I hope to attract. By the time I've finished Grace's highlights and blow-dried her hair, I've almost managed to push thoughts of Gage aside.
Almost.
After Grace leaves, I clean up my station and head to my mom's apartment, stopping by her favorite Thai restaurant on the way. She doesn't have much of an appetite these days, but Tom Kha soup is one of the few things she'll reliably eat, even on her bad days.
Mom was diagnosed with cancer a year ago, and not long after, she got accepted to this amazing clinical trail that covers everything. They moved her into this fantastic apartment just a few blocks from where all her treatments happen, and she is doing well. I just wish there was more I could do.
"It's me," I call out as I let myself in with my key.
"In the living room, honey," Mom calls back, her voice sounding stronger than it has in a while.
I find her curled up on the couch with a book, looking frail but alert. Her once-thick black hair is growing back wispy and gray after the last round of chemo, but her smile is as warm as ever.
"I brought Thai," I announce, holding up the bags. "Tom Kha soup and those spring rolls you like."
"My hero," she says, setting her book aside. "I was just thinking I should eat something."
I bend down to kiss her cheek, noticing the dark circles under her eyes. "Good day or bad day?"
She considers this for a moment. "Medium day. Better now that you're here."
I squeeze her hand and go to the kitchen to plate our food. Mom's apartment is small but cozy, filled with plants and colorful artwork, most of it salvaged from thrift stores and yard sales over the years. We never had much money growing up, but Mom always made our space feel like home.
"How's work going?" She asks as I return with our food and settle beside her on the couch.
"Busy. Grace came in for highlights today. She asked about you."
Mom smiles. "Tell her I'm hanging in there." She takes a few sips of her soup, then sets it aside, already tired from the effort.
"How was your day?" I ask, digging into my food.
She sighs, "Same as always. Treatments are exhausting, but the doctors are hopeful. The new meds seem to be working."
Relief washes over me, and I nod. "That's good. I worry about you, you know."
She gives me a pointed look. "And I worry about you. You're burning the candle at both ends, Skye. School, work, and whatever else you're up to. It's a lot."
I shrug, stirring my soup with my spoon. "I like staying busy."
She takes a sip of her water, watching me closely. "You've always been like that. Even as a kid, always pushing yourself. But I don't want you to burn out."
Exhaling, I set my spoon down. "I know, Mom. I'm trying to find a balance."
A text comes in, and I check my phone.
Gage: What are you wearing?
I bite my lips, quickly typing back.
Me: Seriously? I'm at my mom's.
Gage: So? Doesn't mean I can't make you squirm.
I shake my head, trying to fight the heat creeping up my neck as I set the phone down.
When I look back up at my mom, her gaze softens. "And does this new person in your life help with that balance?"
I freeze mid-bite, then groan. "Mom."
She smirks. "Come on. I'm your mother. I know when you're seeing someone. Is he handsome?"
I roll my eyes but smile. "Yes, Mom. Very."
"Good. You deserve someone who makes your heart race." She reaches over to pat my hand. "Is it serious?"
"No," I say automatically, then hesitate. "I don't know. It's complicated."
She studies my face for a moment. "Because of me? Because of all this?" She gestures vaguely at herself, at the medication bottles lining the kitchen counter, at the hospital bed folded up in the corner for the days when she can't make it to the bedroom.
"No," I say firmly, though it's not entirely true. Mom's illness has made me even more reluctant to get involved with anyone. I can't imagine adding another emotional complication to my life right now. "It's just... I have goals, you know? School, the spa plan. I don't have time for serious."
Mom gives me a look I know well, the one that says she sees right through me. "There's always time for the right person, Skye. Don't use your ambitions as an excuse to keep people at arm's length."
I take a bite of a spring roll and text Gage back to avoid answering her.
Me: You're impossible. What are you doing?
Mom's always been able to read me too well.
"You're afraid of ending up like me," she says softly. "Abandoned with a child and stacking medical bills."
"Dad didn't leave because you got sick," I remind her. "He left because he's a selfish asshole who couldn't handle being a father."
"Language," she chides mildly. "And yes, your father made his choices. Bad ones. But that doesn't mean every man will make the same choices, Skye."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. "It doesn't matter. Like I said, it's new. Probably nothing."
Mom looks skeptical but lets it drop, turning the conversation to a new meditation app her oncologist recommended. We spend the rest of the evening watching a cooking show on Netflix, with Mom dozing off occasionally in her recliner.
While she watches TV, I text Gage back.
Gage: Working on some papers. Thinking about you.
The simple admission, thinking about you, shouldn't affect me the way it does.
Me: Careful. People might think you're getting soft.
Gage: Only around you, it seems.
I laugh despite myself. Even in text, he manages to sound both commanding and tender.
Me: I should let you work.
Gage: I'd rather talk to you. But yes, I have a stack of research to get through.
Me: What do you do?
Gage: We'll save that conversation for Tuesday.
I frown at the screen but don't push it. We all have our secrets, our private parts of our lives. If he needs to keep his professional life separate from whatever this is between us, I can respect that.
Me: Tuesday it is.
By the time I tuck my mom into bed, she's exhausted but smiling. "Love you, honey," she murmurs as I pull the covers up around her.
"Love you too, Mom. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
She nods, already drifting off. I stand in the doorway, watching her for a moment, my heart heavy. The doctors are optimistic about her prognosis, but the treatments are brutal. I hate seeing her like this. My strong, vibrant mother reduced to naps and soup and handful after handful of pills.
As I drive home, my mind circles back to Gage. To my reluctance to let anyone get close. To the walls I've built to protect myself from the possibility of loss and abandonment.
My phone buzzes at a stoplight. It's him.
Gage: Sweet dreams, Skye.
I set my phone aside as I pull into my apartment complex, trying to quiet the conflicting voices in my head. The one telling me to run before I get hurt. The one urging me to leap, to take a chance, to see where this might lead.
I've never been good at leaping. Or trusting. Life taught me early on that people leave, and depending on others leads to disappointment.
But as I crawl into bed that night, my body still bearing the faint marks of Gage's attention, I find myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, he might be different.
And that thought terrifies me more than any bondage ever could.