Chapter 14 #2
I keep watching the ridiculous film. Why? I don’t know, especially since I know she’s already seen it multiple times. You don’t know, really? You’re sitting here, fully invested in Barbie, and she’s asleep on you? Congratulations, genius. This is peak softboy energy.
I ignore my very loud, very wrong subconscious and keep watching the movie.
She’s still asleep, even as the credits roll, curled up against me like she plans to stay there forever. So I pull out my phone, figuring I might as well get some work done while I’m stuck here.
Thirty minutes later, I notice one of the theater staff members hesitantly approaching us. His steps are careful, and he looks like he’s trying not to breathe too loudly. I give him a curious smile, but I can already guess what he’s about to say.
“Excuse me, sir,” he whispers, wringing his hands nervously. “The movie’s over, and we need to prepare for the next show. You’ll have to—”
“Shh,” I cut him off gently, raising a finger to my lips before pointing to the sleeping beauty curled up on my shoulder. Her peaceful expression makes my heart feel like it might burst.
The staff member freezes, his eyes darting between us. “But we have a schedule, and—”
I shift slightly, careful not to jostle her, and lean closer to him, speaking in a low, earnest tone. “My credit card is on file. I’d like to reserve the theater for the rest of the day.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but before he can protest, I add with a friendly smile, “And please, make sure to tip yourself generously for the inconvenience.”
For a second, he just stares, clearly caught off guard by my request, and probably my grin, which I realize might be a little too enthusiastic. But then he nods, muttering something that sounds like “Of course, sir,” before scurrying off.
Satisfied, I turn my attention back to her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Her lips part slightly in sleep, and the softest little snores escape her. My chest tightens, but I push it down and return to my phone.
A few minutes later, she stirs, her nose wrinkling as she blinks awake. “What…” she mumbles, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She looks around, realizing the movie’s over and the theater is empty except for us. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” she asks, a cute little frown on her face.
“You looked comfortable,” I say, stretching my arm to get some feeling back. I glance down at her face, a smirk tugging at my lips. “The snoring gave you away.”
Her eyes widen in horror, and she gasps. “I do not snore!”
“Oh, but you do,” I tease, grinning. “You were sawing logs. And you were drooling a little, too.”
She smacks my arm, her cheeks flushed. “You take that back right now!”
“I can’t lie to you, Peach,” I say, chuckling. “It was cute. The drooling, not the snoring. That was just loud.”
Her mouth falls open in shock, “Oh my god, I hate you,” she says, but I can see a smile forming on her lips.
“Come on, sleepyhead,” I say, standing up and offering her my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
She takes my hand, and I pull her up, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders as we walk out of the theater. Her fingers are warm and small in mine, her body still loose from laughter, but the moment we reach the hallway, I let go.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. I shove both hands in my pockets like they’re better off there, like I haven’t spent the entire day touching her just because I could. She doesn’t ask why.
She doesn’t need to.
I see it in the way she straightens her spine, in the way her smile disappears without a sound. She hugs the blanket tighter, like it’s the only thing holding her together. And I hate myself for noticing that.
But what am I supposed to do if someone sees us? What the fuck am I supposed to say?
Hey, this is my fiancée’s little sister, and yeah, we’ve been fucking.
That’s a bomb I can’t afford to drop.
So, I stay quiet.
We walk in silence to the car, and I’m grateful when she lets me open the door for her. Blair slides and stares out the window like there’s something fascinating in the empty street.
The elevator opens into the penthouse, and the moment we step inside, the smell of roasted garlic, herbs, and something buttery and rich hits us.
Blair pauses in the doorway, blinking like the scent surprises her.
I glance at her, then back toward the dining area, where the chef’s done exactly what I asked, which is a dinner for two. It’s understated, nothing extravagant. But it feels… intentional, which honestly was not what I was going for, but what the hell, we need to eat, right?
I clear my throat. “Would you have dinner with me?”
Her eyes flick toward the stairs, where escape waits behind a locked door. I can see the battle in her expression. The guilt. The uncertainty. For a second, I think she might bolt. And I wouldn’t stop her this time.
But then she sighs tiredly, and her gaze returns to mine.
“Sure,” she says quietly. “Why not?”
Relief settles in my chest like a warm hand.
I pull out her chair. She gives me a look, half amusement, half suspicion, but sits. I round the table, uncork a bottle of red, and pour us each a glass, the liquid catching in the candlelight.
We clink glasses without a word. And then we eat.
It starts slow, small bites, little sips, quiet calm. She hums after her first taste, and I can’t help but smile at the sound.
“This is amazing,” she says, glancing down at the pasta and grilled vegetables. “When did you even have the time to ask… whoever you asked to do this?”
“I asked the chef to prep something light before we went out.” I pause, swirling the wine in my glass. “Figured if I don’t feed you, who would?” I tease, hoping to cut the lingering tension.
She rolls her eyes, but the smile she hides behind her wine glass tells me it worked. “How heroic of you.”
“I do my best for the greater good.”
She snorts, and just like that, the heaviness between us shifts. It doesn’t vanish; nothing that complicated disappears so easily, but it settles, softer around the edges.
Conversation starts to flow again. She talks about a dress she worked on for her school final and Paris. Somewhere between bites of grilled vegetables and a refill of wine, she becomes hesitant.
“I… I wanted to ask you something,” she says, eyes flicking to mine, then quickly back to her plate. “But please feel free to say no. I don’t want to make things weird or…”
“Blair,” I cut in gently, “ask what you need to ask.”
She sets her silverware down, the clink of metal against porcelain breaking the flow of our conversation. Her eyes are serious as she looks at me, and my stomach tightens. I set down my fork, my attention fully on her now.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
She nods quickly, almost too quickly. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just…” She trails off, glancing down at her lap before meeting my gaze again. “I’ve been doing some research,” she finally says. She runs her fingers along the stem of her wine glass, avoiding my gaze.
“Research?” I repeat calmly, though my curiosity is piqued. “About what?”
She takes a deep breath, bracing, before lifting her eyes to meet mine. There’s a flicker of nerves in them, but also resolve. “About… you know… BDSM.”
The words hang in the air between us. I don’t react outwardly. Internally, though, a flicker of heat wakes beneath my skin, sharp and immediate. I keep my expression neutral, voice even. “You’ve been reading up on it?”
She nods. “Yes. And I…” Her fingers curl around the stem of her wine glass. “I want to try it.”
I pause, not because I’m surprised, but because I need to make sure I respond the right way. The responsible way. She’s looking at me, eyes wide but unwavering, and I can feel how serious this is for her.
“With me,” I say steady. Not a question. Just confirmation.
“Yes.” Her voice is clear, certain. “I want you to be the one to show me.”
My jaw flexes slightly as I exhale. I have to bite back the instinct to immediately reach for her.
“You’re serious about this.” It’s not doubt in my voice, but the kind of gravity that comes with knowing exactly what she’s asking.
“This isn’t just sex, Blair,” I say firmly.
“BDSM, done right, is about trust, safety, and boundaries. It requires emotional responsibility, not just physical control.”
“I know,” she says. “I just want to try it, to find out if it’s the lifestyle for me. And there’s no one else I know, let alone trust, who’s an actual dom.”
Her voice is soft but sure, and I can hear the plea buried beneath the statement. She’s asking me to guide her into a world that requires absolute trust. I don’t take that lightly.
I study her, letting the silence stretch long enough for the gravity of her words to settle between us. She doesn’t flinch under my gaze, and that earns my respect.
“And what is it exactly that you want to try, Blair?” I ask carefully.
She hesitates, visibly gathering herself. I don’t rush her. This part matters.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I liked it. When you tied me up last night.”
My mind flashes back to last night, to the way she allowed me to bind her wrists, her body open and trusting, the way her eyes locked on mine like she wanted to be consumed. My dick stirs at the memory, but I force myself to breathe through it. This is about her, not me.
“Bondage,” I say evenly, my voice low. “That’s a start. What else?”
Her cheeks flush as she looks away, fingers twisting at the base of her wine glass. “I liked the control… the way you told me what to do. I didn’t have to think, just feel. I want more of that.”
I nod slowly, still watching her. “You liked the structure. The surrender.”
“Yes,” she admits, exhaling. “It was freeing… letting you take control.”
Her voice trembles with honesty, and I feel the weight of what she’s giving me, her vulnerability, her curiosity, her trust.
I hold her gaze. “I want you to understand something, Blair,” I say. “Submission isn’t passive. It’s a choice. It’s about trust even more than sex. It’s about surrendering power because you want to, not because you think it’s what I need.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but I continue, needing her to hear this.
“I need you to know that just because I’m a dom doesn’t mean I need the dynamic every time we’re intimate. What I need… is honesty. Intentionality. And consent. Always.”
Her lips part slightly, and her breath hitches, but she doesn’t look away.
“I know,” she whispers. “I’ve been reading. Thinking. I want to know what it really means to give up control. Not just in bed, but”—she pauses, gathering herself—“to really try it. The dynamic. The rules. I want to see if it fits me.”
The truth in her voice, in her eyes, is so raw it almost knocks the air from my lungs.
I nod slowly, stepping into the role I know she’s asking me to take, anchored, calm, firm.
“Alright,” I say after a long moment, my voice dropping into something lower. More commanding. “Then we’ll start slow. First, we talk about limits. Expectations. I’ll draw up a contract. You’ll review it before you agree to anything.”
She blinks. “A contract?”
“Yes.” My tone leaves no room for debate. “Consent isn’t just verbal in this lifestyle, it’s structured. Clear. It protects you. It protects me. And it gives us both a foundation to stand on.”
She swallows hard, but then… she smiles.
And damn if that doesn’t make something deep in my chest throb.