Chapter 16
“You ready?” he asks, one hand resting on the door handle.
I can’t help but tease, needing to cut through the tension coiling in my stomach. “I’m at the edge of my seat here, Calvin. Open it.”
After his shower, he came back shirtless, his hair still damp and curling at the edges as it dried.
The sight of him, clean, bare, and impossibly composed, sends a jolt of heat through me.
Without a word, he takes my hand and leads me to the only locked door in the penthouse.
I remember Abigail mentioning during the tour that this was the one place I didn’t have access to. Until now.
Calvin enters a long code. A soft click echoes, and then he pushes the door open, stepping aside for me to go first.
The lights flicker on automatically.
Half the room is glass, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering sprawl of the city below, a world I feel like I’m leaving behind the moment I cross the threshold.
The opposite wall is painted a deep, seductive red, the color wrapping the room in a slow, pulsing warmth.
Built-in shelves line one side, each one perfectly organized: whips, floggers, paddles, restraints… and a few things I can’t even name.
A large bed sits in the far corner, lush and inviting in stark contrast to everything else. At the center of the room stands a St. Andrew’s Cross. I remember it from the club. Beside it, a bench and several other pieces of intimidating-looking furniture I don’t recognize.
I step forward slowly, my pulse a steady drumbeat in my ears. Every inch of me feels awake, exposed.
This is where the rules will live.
Where I’ll bend and maybe break.
And where I might finally learn what it means to surrender.
“Do you still want this, Blair? You can change your mind…”
“I still want it,” I say, meeting his eyes with more confidence than I feel.
He hums, clearly pleased. “Safe word?”
“Velvet,” I breathe. My voice is soft, but the thrill behind it is anything but.
“Good girl,” he says, and just like that, I’m melting. Again. His praise should be illegal.
“Now strip. Any time you walk into this room, the first thing you’ll do is take everything off and fold it neatly. Then place it in that drawer.” He gestures to the one on my left.
I arch a brow but obey, slowly peeling off my clothes, dramatically, just because I can, and folding them with way more precision than I care for. I place them in the drawer, then turn to find him watching me like I’m art. Real art. The unframed, wild kind that demands attention.
“You are beautiful,” he says, and I hate how easily that makes me blush.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I say breezily, tossing my hair over one shoulder as I pretend not to melt.
“This is insane, Calvin,” I add, letting my gaze roam across the room like it’s some kind of dark museum.
My feet carry me toward the wall of implements: whips, paddles, things I don’t have names for. My body heats as I take in the collection, each piece more terrifyingly beautiful than the last. I reach out toward a black leather paddle, curiosity winning.
But before my fingers make contact, he clears his throat.
I glance back. The look on his face is new, stern, commanding. Delicious.
“When it’s just us like this,” he says, voice low but sharp, “especially in this room, you are to refer to me as ‘Sir’. Understood?”
A shiver dances down my spine. And I like it. Too much.
So, obviously, I cross my arms over my chest, pop a hip, and give him a sweet little smile. “And if I don’t?” I ask, head tilted. I’m completely naked, but somehow, I feel like the one holding the power.
He smirks that slow, knowing smirk I’m starting to recognize means You can try, but I will win. “Trust me, you don’t want to find out.”
“Oh, but now I’m curious,” I murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.
His eyes lock on mine. And for one long, breathless moment, the room crackles with tension.
“On your hands and knees,” he orders.
Every molecule in my body wants to obey. To drop right there on the floor for him, just because he said so… and maybe also because I’ve always been a little curious about what it would feel like to give in like that.
But of course, I can’t just make it easy for him.
Where’s the fun in that?
I cock my head, let a slow smile curl on my lips, and say sweetly, “Say please, Sir.” He doesn’t flinch. Not at my smirk or my challenge. Not even at the way I emphasize Sir like I’m daring him to correct me again.
Instead, Calvin straightens slowly, like he has all the time in the world to deal with my nonsense. His gaze sharpens with intent, quiet and lethal, like he’s already decided exactly how this will go.
“I see,” he says, voice calm, almost amused. “We’re testing limits already.”
I cock my head in mock innocence. “I’d never.”
“Let’s get a few things straight.” He turns and walks toward the black leather bench. Every movement is controlled as he runs his fingers over one of the cuffs, inspecting it like a craftsman checking his tools. Like he’s imagining me in them. Which he probably is.
“First,” he says without looking at me, “you follow directions the first time I give them. Not when you feel like it. Not after a cute little backtalk session. Immediately.”
I cross my arms over my chest but don’t interrupt.
“Second,” he continues, “your mouth may be smart, but mine decides when and how it’s allowed to run wild. If you want to act like a brat, that’s fine. I’m not scared of a little fire, but don’t expect to leave this room without feeling every bit of it.”
My thighs press together instinctively, but I keep my expression neutral. Mostly.
He turns back to me, eyes locked onto mine with quiet force.
“And third…” His voice softens, darkens. “When I give you an order, you don’t just do it. You do it like you mean it.”
Then he nods toward the floor.
“On your hands and knees.”
The room goes still.
This time, I don’t hesitate; I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
One second I’m standing facing him, the next I’m on my hands and knees.
The marble is cool beneath my palms and knees, but my skin feels feverish.
His eyes track every movement I make, and somehow, despite being completely bare and kneeling on the floor, I don’t feel small, but seen.
He waits. Watches.
“Now,” he says softly, “crawl to me.”
I swallow hard.
That one sentence hits harder than anything else so far. There’s no mockery in his voice, no ridicule. Just an order laced with the kind of dominance that makes my pulse spike.
I start crawling toward him.
The air feels thicker here, as if the space between us has turned into something I have to push through, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.
My palms meet the floor, my knees follow, and the world narrows until all that exists is the quiet sound of my movement and him—him—standing there, watching.
It should feel like degradation, but it feels like worship. Like peeling away everything I pretend to be until what’s left is only truth, bare and trembling and wanting. I don’t move slowly out of fear but because I’m learning how to feel each inch of surrender. How to mean it.
And then it happens.
A sound comes from him. Not a word, or command, but something deeper, pulled from the center of him.
It’s something holier than lust or approval. It’s recognition.
And God help me, the sound makes me proud that I could pull that from him. That I could be that for him. My heart thrums in my throat, my pulse echoing in the hush between us, and I keep moving, slower now, because I never want that sound to stop.
When I finally reach him, I stop and kneel at his feet, my hands still on the floor, head bowed in offering.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He only watches, and somehow that’s worse.
His stillness makes me aware of everything: the press of my knees, the heat that’s climbed up the back of my neck, the way my hair falls into my eyes; I don’t dare brush it away.
I want to be seen like this. Messy, unsure, but trying.
That sound comes again, softer this time, but no less consuming. It curls around me like smoke, settles under my skin. It’s a sound of ownership. As if he’s seeing something sacred.
It fills me up in ways I didn’t think were possible. There’s no shame here, only the dizzying ache of being known.
He cups my chin, tilting my face upward until my breath stumbles. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, a gesture so careful it feels almost ceremonial.
“You are…” A beat. “…Perfect.”
The words strike deeper than they should. It isn’t the compliment itself that undoes me, but the quiet conviction in his voice.
For a heartbeat, the air between us hums. He doesn’t have to touch me again for me to feel it, the pull, the gravity, the impossible awareness of being on the edge of something that can’t be taken back.
“Good girl.”
It’s barely a whisper, but it shatters through the quiet. My lungs forget how to work. I can’t look away from him.
He studies me, the way my breath falters, the way I can’t seem to stop trembling; he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Stand up,” he says, almost coaxingly.
I rise slowly, unsteady but unwilling to break eye contact. When I’m upright, he lifts his hand again, brushing against my throat, just the barest touch. His thumb lingers at the place where my pulse leaps under my skin.
“Your pulse’s racing,” he murmurs, gaze locked on mine. “You liked that. Being good for me.”
My lips part, but no sound comes out. I don’t need to say anything; he already knows.
He kisses me then.
It’s full. Intimate. Possessive in the way only Calvin can be… claiming without ever needing to raise his voice.
When he pulls back, his lips hover just over mine.
“You obeyed me like you were made to,” he says, his voice thick with heat and something that almost sounds like awe.
And God help me, I think he might be right.