Chapter 15
“Please tell me you’re not cooped up in the house by yourself,” Abby’s voice filters through the phone, filled with concern. “Go out or something.”
I sigh, lying back on Calvin’s bed. “Abby,” I groan. Calvin’s downstairs, making himself scarce since Abby called, leaving me alone with my guilt.
“What? I’m just saying, go on a date. Do something fun, it’ll make me feel less guilty for leaving you all alone.
I’m really sorry again for ditching you, but I’ll be back soon, I promise.
” How do I tell her that I went on a date…
with her fiancé? Though, was it really a date?
I know Calvin only came with me to the movies to pacify me.
He’s not interested in dating me, and I shouldn’t be interested in dating him either.
This is so fucked up.
“Abby, I’m fine, really,” I say, swallowing the wave of guilt. “You don’t need to worry about me. What about you? Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
Calvin walks back into the room, carrying a tray of breakfast from his personal chef.
His muscular body is on full display, only wearing pajama pants that hang low on his hips.
He sets the tray on the nightstand, leans down to kiss the top of my head, and mouths, Eat.
I roll my eyes because ever since our first night together, he’s been obsessively making sure I never skip a meal.
I glance at the spread: croissants, eggs, sausage, fruit, and a glass of orange juice, and reluctantly pop a grape into my mouth.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Abby replies, oblivious to what’s happening on my side. “I just feel so bad. I promise I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” As I listen to her, Calvin walks to his closet.
“It’s really fine, Abby.”
“You’re too sweet. You know, I have a friend who’s single—” she starts, but I cut her off.
“Abby, no. Look, I have to go,”
“Okay, okay! But hey, do me a favor, if you see Calvin, tell him to call me back. I’ve been trying to reach him.”
“Sure, I’ll let him know when I see him,” I say, catching sight of the man in question as he steps out of the closet.
He’s back in his usual armor: navy slacks, a crisp white dress shirt, fingers working the buttons before he straightens his tie with practiced ease.
No jacket, just rolled-up sleeves and that composed, effortless confidence that shouldn’t look as good as it does.
I swallow hard, forcing my gaze away before it lingers too long.
“Have you gone shopping for a dress yet? The masquerade ball is in less than two weeks, Blair,” she says, and I roll my eyes.
“I already told you, Abby, I’m fine skipping it, really it’s not ness—” I’m cut off by the sound of a man’s voice on the other end.
“Is mango-flavored ice cream still your favorite?” an unfamiliar voice asks, making me pause, but I quickly take my phone off speaker, so her fiancé doesn’t catch on.
“Abby?” I call.
“Okay, thanks, Blair, I’ll talk to you soon. Bye,” she says quickly before hanging up.
I stare at my phone, confused and unsettled. Who the hell was that?
“Finish your food, please,” Calvin orders, startling me. I comply, hoping he didn’t hear what I heard. He sits beside me, making sure I eat until I’m full. Once I’m done, he kisses my temple softly. “Good girl,” he praises, and I swear, I’m getting obsessed with hearing him say that.
He stands, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his wallet. Without a word, he slips out a sleek black card and holds it out to me.
Instinct takes over. I accept it without thinking.
“For whatever you need for the masquerade ball,” he says simply, already walking toward his dresser. He opens the top drawer, pulls out his briefcase, and flips it open like this is just another Tuesday.
But my mind is spinning.
So… he did hear me and Abby talking. He heard a man’s voice. That means he knows.
So why isn’t he freaking out?
This is the same man who punched Dylan for making out with me. The same man who’s shown time and time again how possessive he is.
I don’t get it.
I don’t understand him. I don’t understand their relationship.
I look down at the card. I don’t need to be a millionaire to know what this is: an American Express Centurion. I’ve read enough billionaire romance novels to recognize it. But holding it in my hand is a whole different feeling.
“I wasn’t planning on going,” I say, voice softer now.
He doesn’t look up from whatever he’s doing in his briefcase. But when he finally does turn to face me… Fuck. That face.
I already know I’m going. If he asks, if he wants me there? I’m going.
“I want you to come,” he says.
“Okay, but this isn’t necessary,” I say, holding the card between my fingers. “Abby gave me hers before she left, so I can just use that…”
“I know.”
His chuckle isn’t amused, and he doesn’t move to take his card back. “That card may have your sister’s name on it, but it’s mine. Which means, technically, I’ve been funding your fun already.”
I blink. “Wait, so if that card’s yours, then that means…”
He lifts a brow, voice low and even. “You paid for your little booty call to fly down here with my money? Yeah, don’t do that again.”
My mouth falls open. “Well, in my defense, I didn’t know it was your money.”
He gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe a word of it.
“You knew,” he says. “Just don’t do it again.”
“Fine,” I mutter, because admitting he’s right feels like handing him a crown.
“And, Blair…” His voice softens just enough to make my pulse jump. “I want to buy the dress I’ll be taking off you.”
My throat goes dry.
“Okay,” I whisper, slipping the card into my pocket. “Thank you. What’s my budget?”
His mouth curves into that sinfully smug smile that should be illegal on a man this powerful.
“The world is your oyster, Peach. Don’t disappoint me.”
And then he fucking winks.
As if he’s not already irresistible enough.
Before I can say another word, he hands me an iPad.
I take it, curious, until I see what’s on the screen, and my breath catches.
It’s a document. No, the document. A BDSM contract.
My heart skips. Oh my God. Am I in one of those steamy romance novels I secretly devour like candy at 2 AM?
Because this feels exactly like one of those moments.
“I need to go into the office,” he says, voice smoothly, like this is just another part of his morning routine. “But take your time, read it over, and make sure you comprehend everything before you sign it.” He holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”
I unlock it and hand it over, watching curiously as his fingers glide over the screen with ease. A few taps later, he returns it to me, and I roll my eyes when I see the contact name he’s entered:
Sir.
“Really?”
He only smirks. “If you have any questions, feel free to call or text,” he adds casually, like he didn’t just label himself in my phone like that. “Otherwise, we’ll discuss it when I get back.”
I nod, but I barely hear him. My attention is caught by the contract displayed on the tablet in front of me, with stark words, a clear structure, and unmistakable seriousness.
My pulse quickens as I skim the sections: submission, discipline, safe words, and emotional aftercare.
Everything we discussed. But seeing it in black and white makes it feel real. Like a door has officially opened.
Suddenly, his fingers are under my chin, lifting my face gently. I meet his eyes, startled.
“Did you even hear what I said?” he asks, the edge of a knowing grin playing at his lips.
“Take my time, read it, and if I have questions, call or text; otherwise, we’ll talk when you get back,” I echo, a little breathless.
His smile deepens. Then, without warning, he leans down and kisses me, just a soft peck, but it lands like a thunderclap in my chest.
“You’re cute,” he murmurs against my lips, lingering for a beat. “Don’t overthink it, Peach. Just read. Listen to yourself. I’ll see you later.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving the door open and the contract glowing in front of me like a dare.
I sit cross-legged on his bed, the contract still in my hands. I run my fingers along the edge of the iPad, my mind swirling with excitement and nervousness. I make sure I have my phone next to me in case I need to text him or something.
This is real. This isn’t just a fantasy, not just something we talked about in the heat of the moment. This is an agreement, something I’ll be signing to give him control, to trust him with my body, my limits, and my desires.
I’m not scared, no, this is something I want to explore, something I’ve fantasized about for years. But now it’s no longer just a concept, something vague and undefined. It’s a commitment.
With a steadying breath, I start reading.
Introduction: “This agreement outlines the responsibilities and expectations between the Dominant (Calvin) and the Submissive (Blair). It is designed to foster trust, communication, and mutual understanding in the exploration of a consensual BDSM relationship.”
I swallow, my heart beating faster as I move on to the next section: Roles and Responsibilities.
Calvin’s role is described first. His responsibilities include ensuring my safety and well-being at all times, respecting my limits, and creating a safe environment for us to explore our dynamic.
I already know he would never hurt me or push me beyond what I’m comfortable with, but seeing it written out is reassuring.
Then, it lists my role. As the submissive, I am to trust him, communicate openly about my needs and boundaries, and submit to his guidance within the agreed-upon terms. The word “submit” sends a thrill through me, the idea of giving him control, of letting go, intoxicating and terrifying all at once.