Chapter 17 #2
I can’t see him because I’m facing away, bound to the cross, but I feel him.
Every inch of him. With every steady breath he takes, each calm, measured exhale, the warmth of his presence fills the room.
My heart pounds with every second that drags by, but he remains quiet, letting me stew in the tension he’s created.
Finally, the tension uncoils as he steps closer, and I can feel his breath ghosting over the back of my neck. His hand grazes my shoulder, just the lightest touch, and it’s enough to make me bite down hard, fighting the urge to beg.
Without a word, he presses a slow, featherlight kiss just below my ear, the softness catching me off guard. I feel his lips curve into a smirk against my skin as if he knows exactly how much his dominance is unraveling me.
“Tell me, Blair. Why are you here?”
I swallow, hating that he is calling me by my name even as I whisper, “Because I was a brat.”
“And?”
Heat rises to my face. “Because I disrespected you.”
“That’s right. And because you don’t know when to stop talking, I’ll flog you twenty times,” he says before I feel him step away. “Safe word?”
“Velvet.”
“Count for me. If you lose count, we start over. Am I understood?”
I grit my teeth, wanting to tell him off but knowing better. “Yes, Sir.”
After what feels like an eternity, I feel the soft leather of the flogger graze my skin. My heart races, each teasing touch enough to set me on edge, and then, he begins.
The first strike lands, sharp and precise, sending a sting through me that blossoms into warmth, grounding me, pulling me under his spell. I let out a soft gasp, counting, “One.”
The strikes continue in a rhythm that’s both punishing and intoxicating, forcing me to stay present, to submit to the discipline I know I deserve.
By the time we reach twenty, my body is humming, every nerve raw and alive.
I feel a tear slip down my cheek and murmur soft apologies between shaky breaths.
Calvin gently caresses the raised, sensitive welts. “Beautiful,” he says. “You wear my marks so well.”
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me until they become something more than sound.
Then comes the sound, the slow slide of a zipper. For one breathless moment, it feels like being rescued, or chosen.
My breath catches. Every cell in me leans toward him, desperate, hungry for the mercy of his touch. I imagine his hands, his warmth, his absolution. I imagine him ending this exquisite ache he’s built in me.
But he doesn’t touch me.
Instead, silence descends. The kind that punishes. The kind that turns longing into need.
I shift, helpless to see that he is not doing what I think he is, but his voice halts me mid-breath.
“Don’t.”
My body obeys before my mind can even think to resist. The command roots me, humbles me.
“What are you doing?” My voice trembles. And that’s when I hear it, the faint, rhythmic sound of him stroking himself, just beyond my reach. Desperation rises. “Please, Sir… let me see you. Let me…”
“No.” His tone is soft, but it’s absolute. “You haven’t earned the privilege.”
The words slice through me.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice unrecognizable, frayed with want. “Let me… I’ll be good. I’ll be a good girl.”
The silence that follows is unbearable. And then I understand, this is the lesson. The denial. The not-touching. The not-being-allowed. And I hate it… God, I hate it, because I want.
I want to be the one who pleases him.
I want to be the reason he makes those sounds, those low, ruined grunts that live somewhere between pleasure and possession. I want to be the one who earns them. I want, I want, I want, until wanting feels like all I am.
I can feel his eyes on me, watching me struggle with every ounce of restraint I have.
His breathing gets ragged, each sound he makes fueling the fire building within me, and I’m right on the edge of begging again when he finally groans, the sound raw and unrestrained, leaving me trembling, yearning, as he takes his time putting himself back together.
At last, he steps forward, undoing the restraints and catching me as I sag against him.
His touch shifts immediately from commanding to gentle as he brings me over to the bed and lowers me onto it.
I try to push him away, but I’m too weak, and he doesn’t let me.
Every part of me is trembling and hollowed out from wanting him so much.
There’s a sting behind my eyes, a soft ache that has nothing to do with pain.
I don’t even mean to speak; it just slips out. “I hated that.”
He exhales, and for a moment, I think he might laugh. But he doesn’t. Instead, he cups the back of my neck and pulls me closer until my forehead rests against his. “I know,” he says. “I know, Peach.”
We spend a few minutes like that, forehead to forehead, sharing air, neither of us speaking because words aren’t needed. It’s enough just to breathe him in, to feel his chest rise against my palm.
He pulls back and disappears for a moment. When he returns, he’s holding a small bottle of ointment and twisting open the cap. He kneels beside me.
“Lean forward,” he says. I do. My body obeys without thought, surrendering to his gentleness. His hands, once so commanding, are now worshipful as he spreads the cool balm over my skin.
He traces the marks he’s left with aching care, his fingertips lingering over each one as if committing them to memory. Each touch feels like heaven.
When he’s finished, we end up tangled together in bed, my body curved around his. His warmth seeps into me until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
His breath grazes my temple when he finally speaks. “You were perfect,” he murmurs. A pause, then softer, closer… “I’m so proud of you, Peach. So damn proud.”
The words settle deep, deeper than the ache, deeper than the want. I melt against him. His arms wrap around me, anchoring me while his thumb draws slow, absentminded circles over my spine. I close my eyes and breathe him in, and somewhere in that quiet, something inside me mends.
“Come to dinner with me,” he says casually. I tense and untangle myself from him, something my body hates instantly. Why do I get to meet his mother before his fiancée? None of this makes sense.
I swallow the question that’s stuck in my throat. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Cal… it’s…” I start, unsure of how to finish the sentence. It’s wrong? We shouldn’t? This will only complicate things? There are a hundred ways to finish it, but none seem to matter.
“Do this for me,” he says, and his eyes, God, those eyes, are locked on mine with an intensity that feels like he’s pushing straight through every wall I keep trying to build between us. “I want you to meet my mom.”
And just like that, every argument I’ve prepared falls apart.
I can’t say no, not when he looks at me like this, with that raw, unguarded honesty that he rarely lets me see.
“Fine,” I say, even though every instinct in me is screaming that this might be a bad idea.
“But on one condition…” A mischievous smile tugs at my lips. “You let me paint your nails. Pink.”
He rolls his eyes, scoffing. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on, please?” I give him my best pout. “It’ll be cute. We can have matching pink nails.” I hold back a laugh as his expression shifts, struggling between his usual stoic self and the tiniest twitch of a smile.
“I don’t do nail polish.”
“Are you telling me you’re not confident enough in your masculinity to wear nail polish?”
“Oh, I’m confident in my masculinity,” he says. “I can show you just how confident I am, I just don’t need pink nail polish to prove it.”
I tilt my head, batting my eyelashes with mock innocence. “Oh, come on… pretty please?”
He sighs, shaking his head like it’s some tremendous sacrifice, but I catch the softening in his gaze, the warmth he can’t quite hide. “Alright, alright. Enough. You need to rest.”
I blink at him, wide-eyed and innocent. “Is that a yes? You’ll let me paint your nails?”
He cringes, exasperation and amusement warring in his expression. “If I say yes, can we please stop talking about it?”
I nod eagerly, my smile too bright to conceal. “Deal.”
He sighs. Dramatically. “Fine. Yes. But…”
I don’t let him finish. I’m already out of bed before he can stop me.
“Blair…” he warns.
“Don’t move.”
He just chuckles.
I cross the room and pull open the dresser drawer where he leaves his things. I grab one of his white shirts, oversized, smelling like soap and him, and slip it on without thinking. It hangs off my frame, brushing the tops of my thighs.
I return thirty seconds later, slightly breathless, holding a tiny bottle of hot pink nail polish.
Calvin raises a brow. “Blair.”
“I won’t spill it.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
I crawl into his lap, settle there like it’s home. “Give me your hands.”
He groans but gives them to me anyway, palms down, fingers long and calloused.
I unscrew the cap and start with his left thumb. The contrast is almost too much to handle, his too-big, rough hand against the bright, pink polish. My tiny hand wrapped around his. His forearms flexing every time I paint too close to his skin.
And still, he lets me.
Lets me paint each nail carefully, one by one, while I sit in his lap with the kind of trust that only comes from things we won’t say out loud.
“I feel like you’re trying to humiliate me.”
I grin.
“I would never. Trust me, pink is so your color.”
“Liar.”
Still, he doesn’t stop me.
I finish one hand and gently blow across his knuckles to help them dry. He watches the way my mouth shapes the air, his eyes dark with something I don’t dare name.
“You know,” I murmur, moving to his other hand, “you’re a really good canvas.”
“That supposed to be a compliment?”
“Mmhmm.” I drag the brush over his pinky. “You’re all hard edges and soft hearts. I like the contrast.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “You shouldn’t be saying shit like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m already yours more than I should be.”
My hand freezes.
Our eyes lock. Because again, with everything we do, we never mention the elephant in the room, that this is wrong and he is not mine.
But instead of retreating, I blow gently on his last nail, cap the bottle, and whisper, “Too late.”
He moves then. Fast. One arm around my waist, the other catching the back of my neck as he pulls me flush against him.
“Peach,” he says, voice a wrecked whisper, “you have no fucking idea what you’re doing to me.”
“Maybe I do,” I whisper back.
His forehead presses to mine. “Then stop.”
“I wish I could.” That right there is the absolute truth. I would stop if I knew how, if I were brave enough to even want to know.